Chapter Seventy-Seven: Divine Ordination

As the Ancestor God was suppressed, his soul was drawn into the branch, transformed into a pure essence that nourished this offshoot, making it appear even more verdant, as if it had just separated from the main trunk.

This was a branch from the true body of Attis, bestowed upon Pope Grama decades ago, becoming a sacred relic of the Church, now brought forth at this critical moment.

With the Ancestor God's demise, far away on the battlefield, Attis, who was commanding his grand army, paused in surprise. In his perception, the source energy that had always surrounded him suddenly shifted. A trace of source power, tinged with blood and slaughter, surged into the surroundings.

He gazed ahead, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. Across the battlefield, killing raged, flecks of red scattered through the air as if a rain of blood had begun to fall.

From a divine, transcendent perspective, as the warriors fought with valor, the land and sky were suffused with source energy of slaughter. Immersed in this environment, Attis sensed a blood-red divinity coalesce in the void, swelling rapidly as it drew in the pervasive energy of carnage at a speed that astonished him.

“This feeling… slaughter…” Attis murmured, sensing the faint tremors within his true spirit as the scarlet divinity quivered, strangely familiar.

It was reminiscent of the feeling when he first condensed his divine office of Nature, a faint, thrilling resonance.

He lifted his gaze to the heavens and saw, in the distance, a powerful fate laden with blood and resentment had finally snapped. Over his own head, a wisp of black energy began to ascend.

This was the aura of tribulation, the chain of causality—a mark of sin. Though it was faint for now, as Attis swept across the world and brought greater slaughter, it would deepen inexorably.

Yet beyond this fate, a star faintly flickered and a trace of destiny grew ever profound.

Witnessing this, a glimmer of understanding flashed through Attis’s mind.

“Yes, a divine office is a station formed only when a deity resonates with heaven and earth; it is not just rank, but also mission and duty,” he thought, recalling the world’s subtle response when he once condensed the office of Nature.

“The office of Nature, in a sense, means upholding the world’s order. This world, in essence, is already rotten to its core. On the verge of ruin, it longs for salvation—thus I could so easily, by virtue of my divine nature, form the office of Nature. This was the world’s own wish, and thus I was blessed by its will.

“If this world were whole and unbroken, condensing the office of Nature would have been far more difficult. But this time, my reincarnation’s very purpose is to destroy and begin anew, to eradicate all decay and bring redemption. This, too, aligns with the world’s greater trend, so I can again receive its blessing, even condense a new office.”

“If this were the cultivation tales of my previous life, this would be the ‘Calamity of Slaughter’—driving out chaos and granting the world new life, naturally aided by the power of the world itself.”

Such thoughts filled his mind, and the golden light in his eyes deepened, his bearing becoming all the more imposing.

Meanwhile, below, the battle was drawing to a close.

A figure strode forward and knelt before Attis. “Your Majesty, I have slain the Grand Prince of Brook!” The man’s voice was calm, though wounds laced his body.

With those words, he raised his hand, revealing a severed head—grisly and shocking. It was the Grand Prince’s, his face twisted in terror, eyes wide with disbelief, as if unable to accept the manner of his death.

“Kerkus, well done,” Attis nodded, a rare trace of praise on his otherwise placid face. Then he asked, “And the others?”

“Sir, the former Captain of Brook’s Knights, Coris, is still resisting at the front, but he’s been surrounded by our lords. The other knights are held back by our priests and encircled by our troops.” Kerkus replied without hesitation, meeting Attis’s gaze. “As for the Second Prince and the rest, they’re trapped inside the inner city, already surrounded.”

Even as he spoke, above his head a great light of faith trembled, and a priestly power near the third rank spread from him.

Attis looked on with appreciation in his eyes. “Come with me,” he ordered.

At the front, in the midst of the army, knights fought fiercely, waves of battle aura and divine power flashing and shattering the ground. They still held the city—this was their home turf. The knights, familiar with every corner, waged a close-quarters fight in the streets, inflicting heavy losses upon Attis’s own men.

Seeing this, Attis frowned and gazed ahead. There, a knight clad in armor, face set in grim determination, rampaged through the fray. With each swing of his greatsword, lives were cut down.

Beside him, several priests in yellow robes held him at bay, preventing his escape.

“Bazell!” Attis called out.

“Take the prince’s head to urge their surrender; if they refuse, kill them all with crossbows.”

Bazell complied, bearing the Grand Prince’s head to parley. The knights, seeing this, were stunned, disbelief written on their faces.

Yet, on seeing the severed head, many surrendered at once—though there were still those who, driven mad with grief, fought even harder, desperate to avenge their prince.

But to these, Bazell showed no mercy. At his command, a volley of crossbow bolts, gleaming with divine enchantment, flew forth and harvested a swath of lives.

Some, seeing this, fled into the deepest alleys, where crossbows were less effective, and street fighting continued.

As more surrendered or fled, the defenders dwindled, until only Coris and a handful of knights remained.

“Surrender or not!” came the repeated shouts, echoing through the streets.

With a clatter, Coris’s greatsword was wrenched from his grasp by a priest, and several blades were leveled at him, poised to strike at the slightest provocation.

Attis rode forward, gazing down at him.

“What a young lord…” Coris thought in disbelief.

But Attis lowered his head, his golden eyes growing cold as he looked upon Coris. “Will you surrender?”

At his words, an aura of slaughter—enough to lay waste to millions—swept over Coris, striking terror into his heart, as if he had glimpsed his most dreadful nightmare.

“I… I… am willing…” At last, under the gaze of all, Coris bowed his head, his face drained of blood, and yielded.

With Coris’s surrender, the efforts to secure the city advanced. Coris, once Captain of Brook’s Knights and more respected in the army than even the Grand Prince, brought many knights over as he capitulated, and Attis swiftly assigned them under his own command.

By the next day, order was gradually restored to the city. Under Attis’s iron rule, all those who had taken advantage of the chaos—thieves, thugs, and the like—were ruthlessly suppressed. Only a few knights still resisted in hiding, but under the search of the priests and followers of the God of Nature, they were powerless.

A few more days passed. After Attis had thoroughly cleansed the city, Kerkus once again made his way toward the royal palace.