Chapter 72
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Chapter 72: Title
Mamon, initially gripped by anxiety, felt his tension dissolve at these words. The speaker was none other than the Demon King himself—sovereign of the underworld and ruler of all hell’s denizens.
To distrust the king’s word would render one unworthy of dwelling in hell.
Demons revered strength, and their current monarch not only embodied power but had elevated their realm since his ascension. Where eternal gloom once smothered the skies, a crimson blood moon now phased in harmony with the human realm’s timeline, its hue deepening gradually with each passing hour.
As the Demon King proclaimed, the Abyss’s disturbances would not first strike hell.
Though proximity made hell the initial witness to these ominous signs, they remained mere portents.
Heaven loathed hell yet maintained vigilant watch, their celestial gates harboring a direct portal to the hell gate.
The two gateways stood unnervingly adjacent—so close that guardians at heaven’s threshold could instantly detect any anomaly at the hell gate.
Mid-ranking angels guarded heaven gate precisely because lower-ranking ones might succumb to hell’s corrupting whispers.
When strange phenomena manifested in hell, the sentinel angel promptly relayed the news. Matters concerning hell demanded urgency, and thus the report materialized instantly upon Michael’s desk.
"The hell gate’s wailing? Has it developed new theatrics?" Michael skimmed the document, his jest fading as uneasy recognition prickled his thoughts.
"What’s this about the hell gate wailing?" Raphael inquired, entering at that moment.
"The sentinel reported it just now," Michael answered, then froze—suddenly recalling the significance behind such occurrences.
"Don’t let this mean hell’s in peril…"
Raphael frowned at Michael’s distress. "Why agonize over hell’s troubles? Their misfortune should please us." Yet even as he spoke, the healer’s mind turned to hell’s current ruler—their lost Lord Lucifer, whose presence made hell’s stability preferable.
Michael withheld judgment. Had he not glimpsed hidden truths about the Fall, he too might relish hell’s distress. His true fear lay elsewhere—that humanity might bear this calamity.
"I must investigate. Since you’re here, handle these documents." Michael rose, steering Raphael into his seat.
"Where are you going?"
"To uncover the truth. This unease won’t settle otherwise." The archangel departed without elaboration.
Transforming into an unremarkable high-ranking angel—a guise easily lost among heaven’s multitudes—Michael approached the heaven gate. The sacred portal would tolerate his passage with a token’s presentation, all for a greater cause. My God would understand this subterfuge.
Beyond heaven’s borders, he reshaped himself—ebony locks and wings stained darkness, the perfect Fallen Angel disguise. Demons respected no edicts save their king’s, and through their chaotic exodus to the human realm, an opportunity emerged.
A swaggering mid-ranking demon had barely cleared the hell gate when shadow engulfed him—a swift strike, then silence. The unconscious figure vanished into the gloom, dragged away by wings of counterfeit corruption.
The Hell Gate sank into contemplation after witnessing the entire incident.
…The Hell Gate suddenly felt exasperated by the demons’ low intelligence – they’d approached a handsome Fallen Angel to provoke him, completely unaware this "fallen" being remained fundamentally angelic.
After thoroughly interrogating a captured demon through physical persuasion, Michael’s mood darkened upon confirming rumors of abyssal disturbances.
He abandoned the demon and prepared to return to Heaven, though not before purging the creature’s recent memories.
In Heaven’s luminous halls, Michael retrieved a divine mirror measuring half an arm’s length. As he channeled pure holy light into the artifact, its surface drank the radiance without residue.
"Show me the human realm. Seek the Chaotic Power," he commanded.
Ripples cascaded across the mirror’s surface, resolving into snow-draped mountain ranges… endless oceans… then a winter-defiant valley where an ancient Bronze Door stood sentinel.
The valley convulsed abruptly, seismic waves radiating from the Bronze Door’s location. Before observers could react, Ji Lang – meditating on a neighboring peak – flourished his sword in an aerial dance, tracing glowing patterns through the frosty air.
With casual precision, the ancient practitioner hurled the luminous sigil toward the trembling Door. His silhouette vanished before concerned shouts could form, reappearing atop the mountain ten minutes later. In three fluid leaps, Ji Lang descended to the quaking ground.
Though not catastrophic in magnitude, the prolonged tremors tested even the cultivators’ resolve. Zou Cheng approached the landing figure, steadying himself against residual vibrations. "Elder Ji Lang! Was that quake connected to the Bronze Door?"
"Abyssal disturbances," came the terse reply. Ji Lang’s troubled gaze remained locked on the ancient structure. "Chaotic surges from the depths have stressed the seals. The predicted fissure’s emergence may accelerate."
Zou Cheng paled. Their defensive installations – still four months from completion – suddenly seemed woefully inadequate. "Does this mean the abyssal creatures are breaking through?"
"These seals stem from antiquity, their lore distorted by time." Ji Lang’s voice held millennia of weariness. "Yet I sense… alterations in the abyssal entities. Focus on preparations – the fissure manifests within two hours."
"Where will it appear?"
"Unknowable." The practitioner’s thoughts turned to Blue Star’s global predicament. "Prioritize Zhongxia’s defenses."
When Zou Cheng tentatively requested assistance, Ji Lang’s refusal brooked no argument: "My vigil here cannot cease."
As the subordinate hurried to report, he noted the Kunlun Valley quake would already be lighting up monitors nationwide. To Zhongxia’s leaders, the Bronze Door had become a time bomb with a fast-eroding countdown.
Reclaiming his mountain perch, Ji Lang instructed attendants to avoid trivial interruptions. The command proved prescient when Special Bureau headquarters urgently patched through to his new phone – a modern concession the ancient practitioner tolerated with bemused courtesy.
"A colossal serpent emerged from gray cracks offshore," Lin Jing’s voice crackled through the device. "You mentioned these fissures…"
"Barriers grant Nine Provinces four hours’ grace." Ji Lang’s response held clinical detachment. "Beyond our protected borders, Fusang’s waters already birthed Yamata no Orochi – eight-headed scourge of their myths, now swimming shoreward with lethal intent."
"What’s its objective?" Lin Jing’s gravity mirrored the crashing waves in their satellite feeds.
