{Chapter: 160: Ancient Evil}
If he couldn't gain access to the authentic power of collective faith, then perhaps there was a substitute. The will of all living beings was ultimately just thought—whether born of awe or fear. It represented collective emotion and directed belief. If worship created one kind of divine energy, why couldn't hatred and resentment create another?
Of course, Dex was well aware that he lacked any form of goodwill from others. People didn't adore him. No one offered him reverence or gentle prayers. He was a monster to most—feared, hated, despised. The only way he could generate worship was through forceful domination or perhaps brainwashing.
Yet, his inherited memories clearly warned: Brainwashed creatures are incapable of generating authentic faith. Even when they could, it was impure and weak—barely useful as divine fuel.
This explained why the gods of old and new did not rely solely on domination. Instead, they nurtured their mortal worshippers, slowly guiding them with policies of patience, grace, and reward. Genuine faith requires genuine emotion. The carrot and stick philosophy.
But Dex was not seeking faith. Not really.
He didn't need kindness. He didn't need admiration.
He had something else.
He had hatred.
He had despair.
The abyss is soaked in the malice of the dead. The caves and tunnels stank of suffering. The air was saturated with the lingering pain and cries of trillions of slaughtered souls In every layer of the endless abyss, there's so much pain. That negative energy—their last thoughts, their curses, their unresolved grief—clung to this place like a dark mist.
"That should work," Dex murmured. "After all, emotions are emotions. If positive feelings can fuel gods, maybe negative ones can do the same for me."
There was uncertainty in his heart, but also a kind of mad hope.
And then there was the issue of world authority.
Dex's Death Flower wasn't just a weapon—it was a parasitic concept. It fed on the world. It corrupted, invaded, and constructed its own domain from the decay and plague it left behind. So he wondered—could this "field" or "domain" substitute for godhood?
Could creating a false world be enough to claim a piece of authority?
The true formula was:
Will of All Living Beings + World Authority + Personal Willpower = Divine Power
But Dex had no faith and no divine priesthood.
So instead, he substituted:
Hatred and Resentment of the Dead + Death Flower Domain + Personal Willpower = ???
It was a gamble, but it was the only path forward.
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Dex whispered, "Only one way to find out."
Just in case, he cast dozens of emergency defensive spells on himself—layers upon layers of barriers, life-saving enchantments, and spatial displacements. The moment something went wrong, he'd either absorb it, neutralize it, or escape.
Then, he began the ritual.
Death Flowers bloomed in a burst of grotesque beauty, spilling open across the cave floor and walls, twisting into grotesque floral sculptures of crimson flowers. With each bloom, the surrounding environment fell further under his control. Within moments, the entire cavern had become an extension of his domain—an echo of his will.
A false world.
A corrupted Eden.
Then it began. The reading of pain.
Under the influence of his innate ability [Revelation-Awakening], the thoughts of the dead stirred. From every direction, a black tide of consciousness surged forward—silent screams, howls of agony, curses whispered through broken teeth. It was like standing beneath a thundercloud of hate and grief.
He was submerged in it.
This was not metaphorical. Dex felt his body and mind consumed by the dark wave. The pain, the memories, the betrayal, the longing for revenge—they washed over him in a storm of madness.
And yet, through it all, Dex stood firm.
A twisted smile crept across his face.
"This is... a lot," he muttered. "The quantity is absurd. And the purity… it's overwhelming."
Then a strange thought crept into his mind:
Could this hate-born power compare to that of the gods?
Could the love and devotion of humble mortals truly outweigh the wrath and sorrow of the fallen?
"Can love truly match the fury of betrayal? Can worship outweigh a soul's final scream?"
He didn't know. But he was willing to find out.
"Hahaha…"
The cave echoed with his laughter—a low, cold, but exhilarated sound that sent ripples through the field of Death Flowers.
The voices of the dead cried louder, as if answering his call.
"Hahaha..."
Listening to the ubiquitous calls of hatred, Dex laughed happily, his heart full of anticipation.
And then, Dex closed his eyes.
He stopped thinking.
He stopped calculating.
And he simply embraced it.
Slowly, methodically, he began to erode the massive tide of negative will, drawing it into himself—not just absorbing it, but intertwining with it, fusing their pain into his soul.
He immersed himself in it, eroding them bit by bit, making them blend into himself…
This wasn't divinity in the traditional sense.
But it was something new.
Something darker.
Something his own.
---
A few days later.
Although Dex had departed some time ago, the chaos he left behind had not yet settled. The demon tide had just finally subsided, and beyond the battered walls of the city, the aftermath was still being managed by weary soldiers. Their bodies were covered in wounds and dried blood, their faces expressionless as they moved among the fallen, collecting corpses of comrades, civilians, and monsters alike.
As the commander responsible for this stretch of the defense line, Henry Moore sat in a makeshift command tent, holding the freshly compiled casualty and material loss reports. The weight of these documents in his hands felt far heavier than mere paper—more like stones pressing on his chest.
The numbers on the parchment glared up at him like accusations. Hundreds of Thousands of lives lost. Supplies diminished. Critical defense assets destroyed. His hand trembled slightly as he turned the page.
He could barely bring himself to read further.
Each figure meant yet another difficult conversation. Another session of tense negotiations. He would have to face the representatives of many kingdoms and races—each with their own priorities, each demanding explanations or reparations. It would be an exhausting political dance of diplomacy, blame, and desperate pleas for cooperation.
To Henry, facing these powerful dignitaries from such diverse racial backgrounds all at once was far more draining than battling a middle-ranking demon on the frontlines. Physical wounds could heal—but dealing with egos, politics, and centuries-old grudges? That was a war of another kind.
Despite the unity enforced by the iron will of the gods, despite the merging of ancient secrets and the integration of racial technologies and magical traditions, the wounds of the past had not completely faded. The Mi Ling World, though still ravaged by war, was experiencing an era of unprecedented cooperation—perhaps even a fragile renaissance. For the first time in its long history, the many races had set aside their tribal animosities and learned to work together.
Yet beneath this thin veneer of harmony, the weight of endless war wore down every nation and people.
Hundreds of defensive lines acted like sutures holding back an ever-festering wound, and each line bled its own people and resources. Every time a demon tide struck, it left deep scars—requiring yet another injection of manpower, food, weapons, and medicine. These demands pushed even the most resourceful kingdoms to the brink.
As Henry sighed, mentally preparing himself for the round of requests he would need to send out, his thoughts were suddenly interrupted.
One of the magical artifacts he carried began to emit a low hum and faint pulses of light, reacting to something unseen. He blinked, startled, and instinctively gripped it tighter. His vision shifted—bending slightly with magic—and in that moment, he began to perceive things beyond the normal spectrum.
A swirling haze of black mist drifted all around him, barely visible at first, but now unmistakable. It seemed to emanate from the very earth, rising from fallen corpses, broken weapons, and even the blood-soaked soil itself. The gas did not have a single source; instead, it leaked from everything, as though the entire battlefield was exhaling darkness.
He didn't know what it was—but his gut reaction was one of deep revulsion. An instinctive, primal disgust rose within him. Without thinking, he drew his blade and slashed at a drifting wisp of the black mist.
"Boom!"
The strike passed cleanly through it, hitting nothing. The mist remained untouched, as if it existed on a different layer of reality. It didn't dodge, didn't react, and yet it was very much there.
Frowning, Henry lowered his sword. This wasn't normal. Whatever this was, it was beyond his understanding, and certainly beyond the natural laws of the world he knew.
"This isn't good," he muttered under his breath.
Realizing the gravity of the situation, he immediately activated a long-range communication spell and summoned the other high-ranking figures stationed along the defense line. Within minutes, numerous portals lit up one after another, depositing powerful individuals of various races and appearances beside him.
Among them was a thin, elderly human mage wrapped in a voluminous cloak of starlight threads. His skin was pale and almost translucent, stretched tight over a frame that looked brittle as dried bark. But the magic that swirled around him betrayed the immense power he held.
*****
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