Chapter 87
Our Discord Server: https://discord.gg/PazjBDkTmW
Chapter 87: Title
Hein wasn’t just melancholic—no, he was deeply troubled.
Unable to devise a better strategy, he clenched his jaw and resorted to the only option left, praying the Son truly embodied the gentle compassion others praised.
A frail black cat tumbled out of a cardboard box nestled in a garbage pile. Though disheveled, its fur remained oddly pristine as obsidian eyes locked onto the distant figure who had just slain an abyssal creature.
Humans, it was said, couldn’t resist fluffy felines. The cat swiped a paw over its chin, certain its pitiful guise would stir sympathy. Surely no one would abandon such a delicate creature on the streets.
Its sole regret was the color scheme: coal-black fur paired with either onyx or crimson eyes. Red, it reasoned, might raise suspicion. Thanks to attention-seeking demons flaunting their black hair and scarlet irises, humans had grown wary of that combination.
Demons, however, weren’t confined to human or monstrous forms—they could mimic other creatures. Only upper-level demons mastered such disguises, though most considered the act beneath their dignity. Shameless exceptions like this cat were rare indeed.
Confident in its scheme, the feline had layered contingencies to ensure the Son wouldn’t leave it behind. That icy encounter still haunted its memory—would this cold-hearted holy man even recognize a wounded soul needing salvation?
From the Black Cat’s Perspective:
As Loral dispersed one abyssal creature, the magic binding its counterpart in the alleyway snapped.
The cat’s paw thumped the ground—a futile attempt to draw attention. Freed from constraints, the remaining beast lunged instinctively toward Loral standing in the street’s center.
To abyssal creatures, all life on Blue Star served as prey or adversaries. Though strength varied, few here posed real threats. This particular foe, however, exceeded Loral’s capabilities.
Even driven by primal instinct, the creature understood: eliminate this human obstacle or forfeit hunting rights. Cosmic laws governed native beings, merely suppressing outsiders rather than controlling them completely.
The battle commenced.
Retreat wasn’t an option for Loral. Witnesses surrounded them; fleeing would tarnish the church’s reputation… and infuriate his brother. Unhindered by concerns for collateral damage, the abyssal creature fought ruthlessly.
Loral’s odds? Fifty-fifty.
The monster roared, spewing gray fog that billowed outward—delayed containment would spell disaster. This assimilation mist, trademark of tier-three abyssal creatures or higher, rendered them notoriously dangerous.
Realizing his opponent had concealed its power, Loral’s smile—a mirror of his brother’s—flickered.
The cat groomed its whiskers. *Pathetic abyssal vermin. Good thing I triple-layered my plan. If I escape unscathed, I’ll eat my tail.*
Seeing the fog, Loral didn’t hesitate. A blade flashed across his palm, blood droplets hovering midair before scattering into the mist. Where crimson met gray, the fog dissolved instantly.
*Black Cat:* …Right. The Son’s not just a pretty title—his blood’s anything but ordinary.
The blood melted away vast swathes of gray fog, yet it remained insufficient.
Without hesitation, Loral slashed deeper wounds across his arm, each cut more vicious than the last. He wondered how long his body could endure such hemorrhage.
Though the bleeding seemed relentless, he’d measured the self-inflicted injuries carefully—dangerous only in their blood-draining severity, not in immediate threat to life. Clutching the holy light-blessed sword in his other hand, he plunged into the swirling gray mist.
The black cat gaped soundlessly at the spectacle.
_Such reckless martyrdom? Light-worshippers truly are deranged,_ it mused, conveniently forgetting its own blood sacrifice to contain the mid-tier three abyssal creature without exceeding Tier One power. The cloying stench of sanctified blood made its fur bristle, the once-dense fog now thinning to translucent wisps beneath crimson onslaught.
No strategy had accounted for this Son’s brutal exchange—eight hundred losses for a thousand gains. The cat’s tail lashed irritably as the mist dissolved, revealing only emptiness where the abyssal horror had been. A pale figure crumpled to the ground two meters away.
Even from this distance, the black cat sensed the Son’s condition: unconscious, yet breathing. Predictable outcome—any ordinary person would’ve perished from such blood loss combined with forced tier-surpassing purification.
Suppressing revulsion toward the glowing stains, the feline darted to Loral’s side. The Son’s white robe lay in tatters, sleeves drenched crimson where controlled wounds now sluggishly knit themselves, their master’s will no longer restraining the holy light’s mending glow.
Nearby, devout residents dialed emergency services with trembling fingers. Bolder souls crept closer, only to startle as the ink-furred kitten—round eyes glistening—vanished into the Son’s collar.
The black cat would’ve preferred sleeve concealment, but the Holy See’s battle-ready robes offered only narrow cuffs crusted with accursed sacred blood. The collar’s relative cleanliness became its grudging sanctuary against potential trash-bound exile.
"That stray’s hiding in the Son’s clothes!"
"Should we remove it?"
"Who dares touch Vatican City’s chosen?"
The crowd maintained a three-step radius of reverence as sirens approached. Upon hearing "dual holy sons" mentioned, dispatchers prioritized the ambulance with unusual haste.
News reached Hill mid-purification. Abandoning his post after securing the area, he raced toward the hospital.
Zhongxia Nation, Kunlun Mountains
Before the flickering communication screen, Ye Linlang’s blade rested easy in Ji Lang’s grip. Deputy Director Xi Ning’s holographic visage sharpened into focus.
Zhongxia’s entanglement with the abyss began and ended with Ji Lang—a truth the Sword Guardian had long anticipated. Previous crises had delayed this interrogation, but the Special Bureau’s patience had expired.
Their Analysis Department’s theory hung between them: alternative spatial passages to the abyss. Ji Lang’s pause stretched, armor clinking as he tilted his head. "The Bronze Door isn’t their origin."
"But could others exist?" Xi Ning pressed. "Ancient ones, perhaps?"
Ye Linlang let Ji Lang’s voice deepen. "The Door’s age escapes even my knowledge. If such passages exist…" A calculated hesitation. "Their makers predate living memory."
"Then we’re blind?"
Ji Lang’s gauntleted finger tapped sword hilt. "Not entirely. The Door itself remembers."
