Chapter 60 · The Vacant Throne of God

  City Hall · Morning Conference

  The tip of Mayor Carter’s pen bled a slow bloom of ink across the page.

  It had been three days since YiChen left the city.

  Across every public screen, the same footage looped endlessly—

  YiChen’s fingers brushing over a stalk of Moonshadow Wheat,

  the silver-gray grains gleaming like pearls beneath the sun.

  And each time the clip reached the line,

  “So your children may eat a warm meal,”

  soft sobs rippled through the crowds gathered in the plaza.

  A perfect tool for stability, Carter thought, watching the ripples in his untouched coffee.

  And a ticking bomb.

  “—First harvest of Moonshadow Wheat has reached maturity,” reported Whitman, pulling him back to the present.

  “The citizens’ collective prayers exceeded projections. Current yield can sustain the city for at least three months.”

  The projector cast vast fields of silver-blue wheat across the wall.

  Each head was swollen, luminous—nearly bursting from the hologram.

  Carter stared at the illusion of abundance. His face gave nothing away.

  In the corner, Leo’s mouth curved with faint amusement.

  He leaned in close, the scent of ink and cologne brushing Carter’s ear.

  “Divine appeal works wonders,” he murmured.

  “Refugees are lined thirty kilometers deep at the eastern border. Shall we—?”

  “No.”

  Deputy Mayor David Coleman slammed a palm against the table.

  “We logged two more parasitic Fiend cases in East District last week.

  Our screening protocols are already stretched to breaking.”

  “So what then?” Whitman snapped.

  “Let the women and children die out there?

  Temporary shelters were hit again last night. Do you even know how many bodies are floating in the moat?”

  “Enough!”

  Carter’s shout cracked through the room—

  and the porcelain coffee cup shattered in his hand.

  Silence.

  Only the slow drip of spilled coffee striking tile broke the stillness.

  He uncurled his fingers.

  Red crescents scored his palm.

  Wordlessly, he turned toward the window.

  Outside, the massive plaza screen flickered—

  YiChen demonstrating Spirit-based cultivation of Moonshadow Wheat.

  Thousands of citizens stood below, mimicking his gestures in eerie unison—

  like puppets pulled by invisible strings.

  Leo chuckled softly.

  “You see? They don’t even need the man anymore.”

  ?

  The Church of Radiant Grace · Midnight

  Since witnessing YiChen cleave the Demon at the hydro plant,

  Patriarch Satian Gray had not slept a single night.

  He had fasted.

  He had scoured scripture until the ink blurred.

  He had prayed until his knees bled.

  But that moment—

  that blinding arc of divine light—

  still burned through his mind like fire.

  That strike had split more than bone.

  It had split the shape of his faith.

  Now, kneeling before the altar, he whispered through trembling lips:

  “Holy Lord… was he Your vessel?

  No mortal could wield such power.

  That was a miracle—Your miracle.

  Please… answer Your servant.”

  “Patriarch Gray.”

  The voice behind him was soft—

  a young acolyte, barely more than a boy.

  “Bishop Branden Wood requests your presence in the study.”

  ?

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  The Bishop’s Study · Candlelight Faint

  Bishop Branden Wood stood with his back to the fire.

  His robe was the color of deep sapphire.

  Pale blue eyes studied Gray with a stillness colder than silence.

  “You truly believe that was a miracle?”

  Gray bowed his head. His voice trembled.

  “What else could it be?

  He—he halted time.

  The Demon’s claws were inches from the soldier’s face.

  Then in the next breath—he was there.

  Axe raised. And the creature’s head was gone.”

  Wood turned back to his desk.

  “And his techniques?

  Anything resembling the Church’s doctrine?”

  Gray hesitated.

  Then—quietly—

  “No. Nothing.

  If anything, his movements resembled Canglan forms—martial systems from the Jiuxia Federation.”

  “Then he’s not one of us,” Wood said calmly.

  “And yet public sentiment is elevating him to something beyond us.”

  He paused.

  “That makes him a threat.”

  Gray looked up, desperate.

  “But Bishop—we’ve saved so many.

  The faithful won’t turn away that easily.”

  “Won’t they?” Wood’s tone barely shifted.

  He turned toward the rain-drenched window.

  Beyond the hazed glass, the city pulsed with pale, holy light.

  On wall after wall, the same image played—

  YiChen’s calm face, teaching Spirit cultivation.

  The faithful crowded the squares.

  Their eyes shone not with reverence for God—

  but for him.

  Wood turned back.

  His voice was cool as polished steel.

  “So your proposal is… what?

  Embrace him?

  Name him the Chosen Son of Radiance?”

  Gray straightened.

  “Yes.

  If we define the miracle, we control it.

  We channel belief through him—rather than against him.”

  “You’re playing with fire.”

  Wood’s voice remained soft, but the air grew cold.

  “And if he returns—

  and denies us publicly?”

  He raised one brow. Lowered his tone.

  “The backlash will burn this Church to ash.”

  Gray’s words faltered.

  “…According to my sources… he’s in seclusion. Training.”

  Wood’s brow twitched—barely.

  He turned, gaze sharpening with calculation.

  “Seclusion,” he repeated.

  “So he won’t be seen in public for a while.”

  A slow smile touched his lips as he sank into his chair.

  “Then we have time.”

  He folded his hands.

  “To fill the vacant throne of God he’s left behind—

  and rewrite the miracle

  in the Church’s own language.”

  —————

  At the edge of the swamp, YiChen knelt on one knee.

  With a small trowel, he lifted a crimson herb from the wet soil—roots intact—

  and placed it into a protective vial lined with faint runes.

  A shimmer pulsed at the mouth of the bottle, sealing in its Spirit Energy before it could leak.

  The forest teemed with abundance—

  more than they could ever carry.

  Every glade brimmed with rare herbs, potent minerals, living reagents.

  But they had to be selective.

  Only the most volatile, research-worthy specimens would return to the city.

  And just ahead, YiChen knew, lay the place where—

  in his previous life—

  he had forged the contract with Shadowfang.

  ?

  Over the past few days he had led the squad deeper into the wild,

  teaching them survival one breath at a time:

  Which terrain would collapse beneath their feet.

  Which herbs could heal—and which would kill.

  Which moss signaled Spirit decay, and which meant instant death with a single misstep.

  He taught them to read scent trails.

  To set snares.

  To skin what they killed.

  To listen—

  not with ears,

  but with Spirit.

  Even at night, rest was a myth.

  They practiced Small Spirit Circulation,

  YiChen explaining how clear meridians could extend a technique’s duration,

  deepen its force,

  and delay backlash.

  As for himself—

  he hadn’t paused for a single breath,

  grinding his body again and again through the brutal furnace of the Taiwei Guiyuan Art.

  In his last life, his master had made him train for an entire year

  before setting foot in the Spirit Forest to attempt a contract.

  The Patriarch of Taiwei had seen it coming—

  the Light beast destined for him was no ordinary creature.

  Had YiChen stepped into that ritual without forged Spirit channels,

  his body would have shattered the instant the pact was sealed.

  But now—

  He had trained barely a dozen days.

  Even with a second life’s memories,

  his current body was nowhere near what it had once been.

  Back then, Shadowfang had appeared already dying—

  its aura cracked, its body broken—

  and still, its power had nearly split him in half.

  This time, it would not be dying.

  It would be whole.

  Unbound.

  Unrestrained.

  If he tried to form the pact too early—

  He should wait.

  But he couldn’t.

  He was no longer a man fighting only for his own survival.

  He was the spine of a city.

  And millions of lives balanced on his shoulders like a blade’s edge.

  By day, he led them through peril.

  By night, he pushed himself past exhaustion—

  chasing one desperate, flickering hope:

  That he might be fast enough this time.

  Strong enough.

  Because the calamity they could not yet see

  was already moving.

  And even with Shixi’s gift of time-stopping,

  it wasn’t enough.

  And time…

  was running out.

  ?

  A ripple of Spirit Energy brushed through the forest.

  YiChen’s brow twitched.

  He felt it—

  and almost simultaneously, so did Han Yue.

  “Stop.”

  Soulwhisper leapt from his Pact Mark,

  violet eyes flaring like twin stars—locked ten o’clock.

  Han Yue moved fast.

  One motion—draw.

  One breath—release.

  Thwip.

  The arrow cut the air.

  The brush rippled like water—

  and dissolved.

  The illusion shattered.

  There, crouched low in the thorns,

  was a creature no larger than a man’s palm.

  Its body was pure white,

  save for a single blue glint embedded in its brow.

  It trembled—

  curled into itself.

  Pup-like. Soft. Fragile.

  One wing was torn,

  membrane soaked in blood.

  It tried to flutter—

  failed—

  and collapsed, dragging itself deeper into the underbrush in a panicked crawl.

  YiChen stepped forward, voice low.

  “A wounded Light beast.”

  His eyes narrowed—

  calm, deep,

  black as the memory of night.

  ?

  Not far behind, Max felt something stir.

  His Spirit Meridian pulsed—sharp and electric.

  He clenched the grip on his weapon—then froze.

  He didn’t know why his pulse had spiked.

  Didn’t know why every hair along his arms had risen.

  But the moment he saw that pale orb of light—

  its glow weak, its body trembling—

  a tremor passed through him.

  Not fear.

  Not recognition.

  But something older.

  A signal that bypassed language.

  As though…

  somewhere deep in the weave of destiny,

  a door was quietly—irrevocably—being pushed open.