Chapter Seventy-One: Resurrection

Bang! Bang!

Thunder moved behind the defeated soldiers, who had lost all will to fight, firing his gun at a steady pace. He made no attempt to conceal himself; the enemy’s disorganized and aimless fire posed no threat to him. Two shots, two lives extinguished.

Yark Bevin realized that if things continued this way, he might never escape this jungle. He tore the "Carl-Sabo" 84mm rocket launcher from the lifeless body of a fallen rocket trooper, hastily loaded a B4 explosive round, and fired blindly behind him without aiming.

With a roar, the rocket spat flames and smoke, sending a long-range missile with six tail rotors screaming toward the enemy five hundred meters away. The rocket exploded midair, its pre-fragmented warhead bursting open, scattering a dense shower of deadly shards amid a blinding flash. Yark Bevin rapidly loaded and fired five more 3.3 kilogram rounds, unleashing a barrage over four hundred meters, creating a rain of fire and steel.

As Yark Bevin unleashed his rockets, the other assault team members joined the frenzy, pouring bullets backward. The distinctive thunder of thirty-two automatic rifles and eighty general-purpose machine guns filled the air, the fire sweeping across a fan of more than one hundred eighty degrees, a forest of bullets.

Three grenade launchers thumped, releasing smoke rounds that exploded behind them, billowing plumes rising and spreading through the sparse jungle.

“Run!” The barrage complete, Yark Bevin barked the order to retreat. Terror surged within him, an invincible dread; he hadn’t dared imagine hitting the enemy—his only hope was that the explosions and smoke might block their advance, or at least obscure their vision, even if only for a moment. That would give him the smallest chance of escaping the demon’s grasp.

But fate would only disappoint him.

Bang!

He hadn’t made it twenty meters when another soldier on the right flank was struck by a large-caliber sniper bullet, his body hitting the ground, dead.

Bang! Bang!

Two more shots rang out, and the last two soldiers beside Yark Bevin collapsed. Yet at that moment, Yark Bevin finally broke free from the dreadful, dark fog.

He’s out? Thunder was a little surprised.

The more he learned about the maze called “Dark Guardian,” the more he marveled at its mysteries. It drew upon the caster’s spiritual energy, connecting to the world’s aura and altering its flow, shrouding everything within its bounds. Its true power lay not only in confusing and masking human senses, but in partially disrupting communications and even affecting magnetic fields—a rare and formidable defensive tool.

Limited by Shui Yao’s cultivation, the maze’s range was not vast, covering only a section of the jungle. But even this modest area effectively concealed over two hundred hostages, preventing the Poseidon assault teams from ever approaching the slumbering core of the formation. Nearly an hour of combat saw the teams circling the perimeter, charging left and right, never penetrating the heart—misled by the maze into believing they’d traversed hundreds or thousands of meters.

In reality, when Yark Bevin finally ordered retreat, he and his soldiers were only a dozen meters from the maze’s edge—a fact even Thunder, focused on the fight, failed to notice.

Thunder had no idea that Yark Bevin, driven to desperation, had blindly charged straight ahead, accidentally breaking through the fog. As Yark Bevin emerged, he saw that dawn had broken; a red sun rose over the eastern sea, painting the water crimson, as if stained with blood.

But Yark Bevin had no time to admire the bleak autumn scenery of the southern hemisphere. He felt the demon was close behind, coldly watching him.

He activated satellite communications, running frantically and screaming hoarsely, “Massacre! Massacre! We’re being massacred! They’re all dead! Everyone’s dead…”

Bang! A bullet pierced the satellite transmitter, and the signal vanished instantly.

Yark Bevin turned, his face pale. On the edge of the jungle stood that shadowy figure he’d glimpsed before—like a demon.

Bathed in the rising sun, Yark Bevin finally saw his terrifying adversary. Not particularly tall or imposing, beneath the camouflage boonie hat, his face was smeared with paint, the features unclear. Only his eyes shone black and bright, like the depths of an abyss, drawing in even the soul. He held in one hand the newly issued 21 model 12.7mm sniper rifle from that mysterious red country, its dark muzzle aimed at Yark’s body.

Knowing escape was impossible, Yark Bevin gave up running and resistance. His knees buckled, and he knelt before the distant statue of the Holy Emperor, praying with all his grief, “Merciful Holy Emperor, save your faithful servant—punish that demon…”

Bang!

A bullet passed through his neck, exploding his skull. Yark Bevin’s body stiffened and collapsed.

Thunder dispatched the final enemy without the slightest hesitation. On the battlefield, any mercy toward the foe was a grave danger to oneself and comrades—something Thunder could never allow.

As he stepped from the jungle toward Yark Bevin’s corpse, Thunder suddenly sensed a subtle change in the spiritual energy around him. It was a faint shift, like a hint of chill in a spring breeze, or a gentle gust stirring a transparent veil. Had his nerves not been taut, it would have been almost imperceptible.

He looked up, frowning, scanning the sky. His spiritual sense detected a hazy beam of white light, glowing with sacred radiance. Though it seemed slow, it raced beyond human perception—like a bird darting through the woods—toward the massive statue of the Holy Emperor at the island’s southeastern tip.

Thunder was puzzled. Could it be the “Divine List,” where a soul’s light, upon death, flies to the consecration platform?

But in the next instant, his expression changed.

Within Thunder’s spiritual perception, the mangled corpse of James Sam, little more than a mass of pulp draped over the statue’s finger, was bleeding onto the statue, each drop absorbed without visible trace.

When the last drop of James Sam’s blood was absorbed, the white light from Yark Bevin reached the statue’s head, vanishing like a drop of water into the ocean or a ray of light into the sun.

Immediately, the statue of the Holy Emperor began to change violently.

A thin layer of white light, exuding sacred aura, sprouted from the statue’s palm, enveloping James Sam’s body, then the statue’s arm, torso, and base, until, in a blink, it covered the entire statue.

The light grew stronger and brighter as it spread, until it shone as dazzling as the sun—impossible to gaze upon.

A faint yet overwhelming power surged from the statue, soon filling the heavens and earth. Even Thunder, miles away, felt its pressure, struggling to breathe.

He noticed the shattered, broken form of James Sam—a limp heap—suddenly twitch a finger. Then violent convulsions wracked his body, as if enduring immense pain. Soon the spasms ceased, and James Sam’s form became resilient yet ethereal, radiating sacred white light and immense majesty.

A wild, fanatical, and commanding voice echoed through the world—James Sam’s own:

“The merciful Holy Emperor never abandons his people, and all heretical demons shall be judged…”