西西大胆扒开身体下部试看

A century ago, “he” had single-handedly destroyed the Death Church’s primary gathering spot by employing a horrifying technique that dragged it into subspace.

This act could be compared to annihilating Pland in front of Gomona, leaving no trace behind.

Duncan thought that if he revealed himself as “Captain Duncan” now, those outside the coffin might start fervently chanting and sacrificing themselves immediately. At that point, it would be too late to clarify anything.

He had witnessed the unwavering faith of followers before, like Vanna, who had no deep grudge against him but became agitated at his mere sight. The current Death Church devotees and the Vanished shared a century-old blood feud…

However, Duncan’s evasiveness took on a different meaning for Agatha and the elderly caretaker.

The young gatekeeper and the old cemetery caretaker shared a knowing look.

“It’s a form of protection,” whispered the former, “the names of higher transcendents carry power.”

The latter gently nodded, “A benevolent force, at least for now.”

Agatha then refocused, her eyes returning to the coffin, as an unconscious doubt arose: why did this visitor consistently use the deceased as a “medium” to interact with the real world? Could it be that the other party held power in the realm of death?

As a high-ranking priestess of the God of Death, she had never come across such an entity in the realm of death – a transcendent being capable of driving a seasoned cemetery caretaker into temporary madness after just one encounter should have left traces in various records.

Despite her doubts, Agatha hid her confusion and asked in a collected tone, “What brings you here?”

“I happened to be passing by and noticed that this city-state is shrouded in shadows,” Duncan casually provided his prepared explanation, “I don’t like those shadows.”

“Shadows?” Agatha furrowed her brow, quickly linking the recent cemetery disturbances to her thoughts, “You mean the Annihilation cultists? Their actions…”

“They aren’t the shadows; the real shadows lurk behind them,” Duncan calmly replied, knowing that the young woman’s voice outside represented the church’s influence in Frost. Guiding her served as an effective warning to Frost authorities, and he had already prepared a comprehensive set of accusations, “Haven’t you realized? The power of the Nether Lord is spreading beneath your city…”

“You mean… what?” Agatha’s composure faltered for the first time, as her various prepared responses did not cover this, “The Nether Lord?! His power is spreading beneath the city… what does that mean?”

The issue had escalated from the Annihilation cultists directly to the Nether Lord controlling them, signifying a drastically different level of severity!

“I suggest expanding your investigation,” Duncan didn’t answer Agatha’s question but continued, “The Annihilation cultists active in the city are merely minor disruptions preceding a massive upheaval. Something far more significant lies beneath the surface – concentrate on the deep sea, a nearly forgotten ancient deep-sea exploration project, and the recent emergence from the depths. All these aspects are interconnected.”

Agatha and the elderly caretaker exchanged glances.

The young gatekeeper was at a loss for words, but the old caretaker, having experienced a certain era, quickly made a connection.

“Are you referring to… the Abyss Project?” The old man asked, hesitating slightly when mentioning the term. “How do you know about…”

He halted mid-sentence.

It wasn’t too surprising that a higher being with a clearly elevated status would be privy to some secrets of the mortal world.

Agatha’s eyes widened, her gaze shifting between the old caretaker and the coffin several times before stopping. She hurriedly whispered to the old man beside her, “I need to inform City Hall… Dagger Island could be at risk.”

The old caretaker responded softly and urgently, “You should go immediately.”

As they whispered, Duncan’s voice came from the shadowy coffin again, “Well, I’ve delivered my warning, so I won’t stay any longer.”

Agatha, taken by surprise, instinctively inquired, “Are you leaving already?”

“I have other matters to address,” the voice from the coffin answered, seemingly pressed for time, “If the chance presents itself, I will visit again.”

With that, the coffin fell silent.

The visitor had left, rather abruptly, in fact. Agatha and the old caretaker were somewhat puzzled, not expecting the mysterious “guest” to arrive and depart so suddenly after giving a warning. This enigmatic behavior seemed even more perplexing to them.

As the two stood bewildered in the cemetery, Duncan had already returned to the dark, turbulent space.

His departure was indeed hasty. In his initial plan, Duncan intended to stay in the cemetery for a while. However, just moments before, he unexpectedly sensed something unusual while he was in the spirit world.

Amid the boundless darkness filled with starlight, Duncan looked up, his gaze focusing on a nearby spot.

The fine, dense stars representing the beings of Frost sparkled in the void, and one of those stars exhibited an irregular fluctuation, emanating a peculiar aura.

Duncan approached and examined that “star,” finding the light rapidly dimming as if signifying that a once-lively life was quickly fading. Yet, something stealthily drew near on the edge of the weakening light, attempting to entangle the starlight.

After a moment of consideration, Duncan reached for the starlight.

…

On the icy sea’s surface, shrouded in darkness, a few pieces of debris that had escaped the whirlpool’s clutches floated with the waves. They drifted toward the northern part of Frost, carried by the currents. Among these was a larger piece of the wreckage that resembled a solitary wooden boat. On it, a burly, barely recognizable body suddenly twitched twice.

The body was dressed in ragged military attire, with horrifying burn marks covering it. Its hair was singed away, its face utterly disfigured, its left hand unnaturally bent, evidently broken by a massive impact, and its legs twisted and misshapen, with torn skin and exposed flesh.

However, almost no blood seeped from the wounds – the explosion’s intense heat had sealed all the injuries.

These injuries were gruesome, but this body… was still alive.

Belazov tried to open his eyes, struggling several times. It felt as if he had ripped a part of his eyelid before finally seeing a faint, dim light.

A dull and disorienting pain spread throughout his body. His internal organs felt as though a rusty saw had torn them apart. Yet, all these sensations merged into an odd numbness, making it nearly impossible for him to distinguish the source of each pain – he couldn’t even tell if his limbs were still connected to his body.

Then, he realized his nervous system had likely collapsed, his internal organs rapidly deteriorating, and the last of his adrenaline was working as hard as it could to maintain brain function. He hadn’t survived – he just hadn’t died yet.

Memories slowly emerged in his mind. He remembered what had happened on Dagger Island and the moment he had detected something wrong on the ship and activated “Contingency 22.”

He was somewhat surprised – that he hadn’t perished instantly in such a colossal explosion but instead had been left with a final breath, able to recall parts of his life during his final moments.

Perhaps it was because the captain’s cabin was exceptionally sturdy, partially withstanding the explosion’s impact, or maybe it was because he had failed to save the potential 31 crew members on board, that he now had to suffer this punishment for his errors.

But none of that mattered anymore.

He could barely see the wreckage floating nearby on the sea, and from that, he inferred that the Seagull had been completely destroyed, and the ship’s main structure should have sunk into the ocean by now.

He had no time to contemplate whether the wreckage that had plunged into the ocean would trigger other unforeseen consequences – he had fulfilled his duty and had done everything in his power to honor his oath of loyalty. The rest was beyond his reach.

Belazov slowly exhaled, calmly waiting for the god of death, Bartok, to open his doors to him amidst the ripping sensation in his chest.

However, the first to arrive to guide him was not a messenger of death.

Under the cold light of the World Creation hanging in the night sky, a tall young man in a blue coat, holding a cane, materialized at the edge of the floating wreckage.

He could see the dark chain extending from the young man’s temple, hovering in the dust-filled air while connected to a peculiar creature with an outline resembling a jellyfish.