Chapter 382: The World Behind the Wall

At the Aimier Cathedral, the Highest Sanctuary.

“The spring tea from the Holy City is as fragrant as ever—its scent clears the mind and refreshes the soul. One might almost feel twenty years younger.”

Clad in a wide, ornate ceremonial robe, a white-haired old man set down his delicate teacup and smiled toward another elder seated not far away.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Your Holiness?”

“If you like it that much, you may as well take some with you this time.”

Seated cross-legged above the projection of the voided ruins, the Pope finally lowered his head. The porcelain cup filled with steaming tea floated up on its own and landed in his palm.

As his hand turned slowly, the cup rotated with it. The painted patterns were exquisite—a cluster of pale blue blossoms unfurling as if alive.

He took a slow sip, his expression neither pleased nor cold.

“You are Archbishop Locaster, after all. Even if you take some precious tea with you, I won’t accuse you of embezzlement or bribery.”

“Your Holiness truly is merciful.”

Archbishop Locaster showed no restraint; he poured himself another cup and downed it in one gulp, drinking with all the refinement of a cow chewing peonies.

“Hah... but still... best not. At my age, I might drop dead any day. If I die before finishing tea bestowed by the Goddess, that would be an unforgivable sin.”

“You’ll live longer yet.”

The Pope gave the old man a long, deep look.

“At least long enough to see several more rounds of spring tea.”

“Heh-heh, thank you for your blessing, Your Holiness. But to return to the Goddess’s embrace early would also be a fortune for me.”

With a casual wave, Locaster sent his cup back to its saucer with precise motion, then rose and lifted his gaze toward the artificial heavens—sun, moon, and stars gliding along their ordained orbits.

“No matter how many times I see it, this Highest Sanctuary is still magnificent.”

“Of course.”

The Pope stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Beneath this vast artificial sky, his figure seemed small, yet the aura he exuded made it feel as though the entire world revolved around him.

He extended a hand, as though to grasp all the sun, moon, and stars within his palm.

“These are our ‘Laws,’ our own... ‘World.’ Of course it is magnificent.”

“Pity that it’s false,” the Archbishop sighed.

“Yes. A pity that it’s false...”

The Pope paused suddenly, as if someone had whispered in his ear.

He no longer looked upward. Instead, he lowered his head toward the ruins’ projection beneath his feet. A rare solemnity appeared on his face.

Seeing this, the older-looking Archbishop’s expression turned grave as well.

“Your Holiness... has the Gate opened?”

“Yes. The Gate has opened.”

“Faster than I expected.”

“This generation’s children are quite remarkable.”

“Yes.”

Locaster’s face turned bitter. “Then I can already imagine the enormous pressure those old fossils will bring once they learn the truth.”

“Do you really need to worry about that?”

The Pope’s gaze flicked toward him. “After all, such pressure won’t fall on an externally dispatched Archbishop like you.”

“I’m merely sharing Your Holiness’s burden.”

Locaster’s tone was utterly sincere.

“Heh-heh.”

The Pope gave a soft laugh. “No need. In this world, there’s hardly anyone left who can make me feel pressure.”

He trailed off, eyelid twitching slightly as though remembering something unpleasant; the wrinkles at his eyes seemed to deepen.

“All right... {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} perhaps there is one old creature who can make me feel pressured.”

He admitted it with resignation.

Thinking of a certain shameless white-haired old loli, the Pope forcefully turned his head and flicked his sleeve.

“Hmph. Anyway, you needn’t worry about that one. That old monster throws her disciples into pits faster—and happier—than anyone else.”

“Compared to that, have all sides finished their preparations?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

Archbishop Locaster ceased his jokes, placed a hand to his chest, and bowed with solemn reverence.

“Everything is ready.”

“Good.”

The Pope stood in dignity, overlooking the phantom of the ruins below.

“Then let it begin—this gamble... great enough to change the destiny of all humankind.”

“Yes.”

The reply came—and not from Locaster alone.

A deep, resonant hum spread throughout the Highest Sanctuary.

The sun, moon, and stars followed their predetermined tracks, as though this order itself were the truth of the world.

Finally, above the Pope’s head, a newborn moon hung at the very center of the firmament—

casting its radiance, sacred and pure.

“For the Goddess...”

The Pope pressed one hand to his chest and whispered devoutly.

“For humanity...”

...

...

“Mr. Muen, the people you said we were supposed to save... where are they?”

In the deathlike silence, Margarita was the first to recover, turning to look at Muen.

But Muen could not answer.

Because he didn’t know either. The ones he had spoken of earlier to Freya—those who might embody another meaning of becoming a Saintess, the native inhabitants resisting the Evil God’s invasion behind this wall, waiting to be saved—he had no idea where they were.

Above their heads stretched a crimson sky.

Unlike the blue of day or the jeweled night of the outer zones, the heavens here were covered by a thick, burning dusk cloud—soaked in a blood-red hue so dense it seemed to congeal.

And beneath their feet lay not ground but some grotesque living construct, a mass of flesh-like matter. Thick vascular cords pulsed outward from its surface, sheathed in pink membranes that occasionally twitched as if alive.

All around grew “plants” of various shapes—each one an abomination resembling a tumor. Beneath their crowns, formed by countless infant-sized hands fused together, hung fruits like flayed cattle and sheep—packed densely together, twitching faintly as though still alive.

Beyond that, even to the horizon, there was nothing that could be called normal—certainly no sign of any “natives.” Only far off, behind a veil of blood-red mist, stood the shadow of a tall tower.

“Ugh... that’s fucking disgusting.”

Someone immediately retched; the sight brought back memories of that foul, rotting plain they had crossed under nightfall not long ago.

“This place... has it already been corrupted by the Evil God? That fast? Weren’t the walls supposed to resist the corruption?”

Muen swept his gaze across the scene, frowning slightly.

The diary had stated that the second wall existed precisely to block the so-called “Outer God’s” invasion. Yet what lay before them could make anyone suspect that the wall’s only real function was to trap and ruin innocent outsiders like themselves.

“Muen.”

Liya, too, seemed shaken by the unexpected horror of the sight. She gently tugged at Muen’s sleeve.

“It’s fine,” Muen reassured her.

“At least it doesn’t stink.”

Hm? Doesn’t stink?

At that, a spark lit in his mind—as if he had caught something.

His eyes swept the repulsive landscape again, a place so vile one could hardly stand to look twice, and he murmured softly to himself:

“Something... feels off.”