Nine Venoms Sect Founder - Chapter 161: The Heralds of Salvation

Of the many Landverses that composed the Devil’s world, the Ancestral Land was by far the largest. So large in fact that it accounted for one-third of the Omniverse. All other Landverses orbited the Ancestral Land, forever submissive to the Devil’s favorite playground. Each of those verses counted zillions of native lives, each except one: the Slaughter Feast Land. An infinitely large plateau of crystalline red stones, the Slaughter Feast Land had no diversity, no unique life forms, and only acted as a venue for the Omniverse’s most sinister game: the Festival of Skulls. Once every 3,600 years, the Omniverse’s factions dispatched legions of disciples on this battleground to fight in a grim war that wouldn’t end till only one team remained. That team and the victorious faction then received the Devil’s blessings, making its overall strength soar far beyond the rest.

Besides fixed team numbers and cultivation limits, there were no requirements, no restrictions, no rules. Anyone could come, anyone could die. And more often than not, death was the easy way out.

Devils thrived on debauchery, negativity and malevolence. The more perverse the Omniverse, the stronger they became. But while the world didn’t lack in perversion, few could harvest the negative energies scattered across the entire Omniverse. The Festival of Skulls was an ancient tradition enabling the Myriad Devil Palace’s disciple to refine pure malignant energies, and at the same time, an opportunity to receive the Devil’s attention. Some God-Emperors didn’t hesitate to personally lead their factions’ teams into this reckless war, and over the succeeding Cosmic Cycles, thousands of sects and houses established strongholds in this corpse-infested land.

Building shrines to the Devil’s glory, they often traded their disciples’ blood for lesser rewards–sending the bold and naive juniors to sure death.

Founded by unknown experts, the Truth Scrying Grotto was one such force. Rising shortly after the death of Golden Cicada, at first, this faction drew much attention for its unique cultivation bridge. But as they didn’t possess experts above the Emperor level, they quickly lost the public’s interest.

Needless to say, in the Festival of Skulls where even Emperor-level experts couldn’t guarantee their lives, the Truth Scrying Grotto faced disastrous results. Yet, they refused to leave the Slaughter Feast Land, and thanks to those misled, sacrificed disciples, received a steady supply of minor benefits. But little did the world know, that buried underneath the Truth Scrying Grotto’s headquarters was a shriveled old man with excessively long, gray eyebrows, and curly mustache whiskers.

Lifting his trembling right hand, the old man summoned an orb of magnificent light, from which limitless energies rippled. “Why? This is incomprehensible. We’ve all reached the peak of cultivation, so why is the gap this extreme? If even the full depth of our cultivation bases cannot resist the most casual of the Devil’s words, how can we claim to belong to the same realm? Master…did you deceive us? What is the Truth?” The shriveled old man muttered, dispatched a series of mental messages, then shut his eyes close.

…

Though the Mountain Edge World didn’t experience the Tantric Ancestor’s mind-shattering spiritual sense, many other worlds didn’t have the same luck. Overnight, myriads went insane, and entire civilizations collapsed. Perhaps Golden Cicada himself couldn’t imagine that his very first disciple would become the architect of such ruin. Or perhaps he did, for as soon as the Tantric Ancestor was forced back whence he came, a golden lotus bloomed above each of the afflicted words, sprinkling holy rain on the frenzied lifeforms. Instantly, they all regained their sanity, forgot about the previous event, and returned to their ordinary lives.

Meanwhile, the Mountain Edge World’s fate hung in the balance. The Plague Worshiping Cult’s ceremony reached a crescendo. Dark-green light wrapped the 2,400 mutants at the center of the ritual, trapping them in a maelstrom of noxious energies while their subordinates sang the same incomprehensible hymn.

Breaking down into atomic particles, the 2,400 mutants merged in one organic whole, becoming a 66 meters tall green egg marked with black, coiling worm patterns. Stretching across thousands of kilometers, the billions of mutants bowed toward the egg, singing their eldritch song with 100 times the fervor. At that time, from the Heavenly Dream Land’s Truth Scrying Grotto, 30 experts flew out, dropping from their concealed hideout in the Heavens to land on the mortal world.

In a breath, those 30 experts arrived before the masses of mutants. Each surrounded by swirling pink clouds that concealed their mysterious appearances, they radiated auras fit for venerable sages. Yet, at the same time, sharp cultivators could sense the eerie energies lacing their otherwise perfect auras.

“Immediately destroy that thing,” the leading expert ordered, and instantly, the 30 experts aimed at the egg. Ranking among the Truth Scrying Grotto’s Sage Kings, those Seers could each overpower the average Empyrean Monarch. Yet, when facing the egg, a terrible sense of foreboding welled up in their chests. It was almost as if their very cultivation bridge was warning them about the future the egg would push the Mountain-Edge World into.

Out of thin air, 30 platinum treasure bells appeared before the Sage Kings and shot at the egg. Turning into rays of pink-colored light, the bells each carried enough energy to blast an unprepared Monarch to pieces. Alas, as soon as they entered the egg’s territory, a thick-lipped mouth formed at its center. Spreading wide, that mouth released dark-purple clouds that stopped and broke the bells down into metallic particles. Struck hard by the bells’ destruction, the Sage Kings recoiled—suppressing a blood spurt. Terror replaced stupor, and their eyes widened to match their fright.

Oozing zeal, regardless of shape or form, the mutants arched their heads back, bending as far as they could and screaming for all to heard, “Rise, oh heralds of salvation! In Lord Birusk’s name, rise and purge this degraded world of its corrupt cultivation principles!”

The cacophony of synchronized voices pealed across the Second Range. Twenty-four emerald orbs shot out of the egg’s mouth, each carrying 1.7 meters tall, humanoid creatures of gray, grotesque and alien features.

The Sage Kings couldn’t appraise the so-called heralds’ strength, but the pressure of their horrifying presence was more info than they would ever need. Without hesitation, the Sage Kings turned tails and ran—or well, attempted to.

“Divine Power: Devouring,” waving their tendril-like hands, the Heralds released the World Devouring Serpent clan’s Divine Power. Boundless suction forces wrapped the 30 Sage Kings, dragging them toward the nightmarish mutants whose elastic mouths stretched to fit the incoming meal. In a single bite, the mutants devoured 24, and equally split the remaining six between themselves.

Without wasting time on digestion, the Heralds raised their hands, motioning for their hordes to advance. Thus, the Serpent Totem’s prophecy became reality. As they wasted time on how to best exploit the mutants’ appearance, the Mountain-Edge World’s top factions gave the Plague Worshiping Cult the time it needed to make the sixth Holy Land’s birth…a foregone conclusion.