Chapter 107: Vague Clues

Slit throats.

From the two corpses before the arched gate, Amy Ulysses confirmed their cause of death. Their wide eyes were filled with disbelief, and their throats bore clear marks of having been severed by a sharp weapon. Yet, suspiciously, the expressions frozen on their faces lacked the characteristic distortion of someone facing an imminent, agonizing death.

This was wrong—highly abnormal.

Although the throat is a vital point in human physiology, the notion that a "Glorified One" would perish instantly from a slit throat belongs only to the tales told to amuse the common folk. In reality, for a Glorified One whose physical constitution rivals that of a monster, even a piercing wound to the heart is often not enough to stop them; the more resilient ones can continue to fight for several rounds. To suggest that a mere slit throat would strip a Temple Guard—known for their iron will—of the power to resist in an instant was absurd. Ultimately, this could only be the result of an enemy’s ability or authority.

An instant-death ability? Perhaps coupled with an enhancement in speed?

The youth could not be certain. Two corpses were too small a sample size, and the intelligence provided was limited. At this point, there was no need to worry about potential enemies lurking nearby. Without hesitation or doubt, he dragged his uncooperative body toward the pile of scattered corpses. He crouched down to examine the fatal wounds on each one. As expected, every single body bore only a single incision at the throat—a strike meant to kill instantly.

No—perhaps not all of them.

When he reached the seventh corpse, he noticed the grimace of agony twisted onto the face of the young man who had lost his life. He sighed softly, closed the man's unblinking eyes, and carefully scrutinized this anomalous body. The wound itself revealed little, but it was clear that he had struggled for a considerable amount of time; in fact, the vast majority of the shocking pool of blood on the ground had come from him.

With this much blood loss, an ordinary person would have died several times over.

He must have possessed a self-healing ability.

Yet, this willpower alone, the refusal to succumb to death, was enough to command respect. Amy mused that the specific truth was now unknowable, but the most plausible deduction was that a self-healing ability could, to some extent, negate an instant-death effect. He had no intention of delving further—after all, since he lacked such an ability, this information held no value for him.

What mattered was whether this victim, who had fought so hard against death, had left anything behind.

As it stood, there was nothing. But he did not believe that someone who resisted death so stubbornly would leave no clues. The reason he hadn't found anything might be surprisingly simple: either the clue was hidden with extreme care, or it had been destroyed by the enemy. Based on the current situation, the former seemed more likely, as the arrogant Lords of Darkness would likely not deign to spare even a glance at the corpses on the ground.

So, what had been overlooked?

The youth stroked his chin, his gaze lingering on the pool of blood on the floor, before he narrowed his eyes.

No, perhaps it had merely been covered up.

The Glorified One lowered his body and swept his hand through the blood on the floor. Sure enough, there were faint carvings on the marble tiles.

"Do not look."

He read the words inscribed on the ground.

Do not look? Do not look at what? Was it an instruction not to focus on the true identity of the enemy? Or did it imply the enemy could manipulate illusions that affected vision, and that this very warning fell under the category of things one should not look at?

The lack of information made everything feel ominous once more.

This ambiguous, cryptic final message was as vague as could be. Amy Ulysses shook his head, pulling his focus away, and stood up. There was no need to overthink clues that could be interpreted in multiple ways; one only needed to remain vigilant. Becoming lost in thought would only lead to confusion, sinking deeper into a mire of indecision.

Therefore, he simply needed to act.

The youth had no reason to fear death. Things that should not be looked at? Even if he understood the enemy’s true nature and knew their weaknesses, what of it? His body, barely capable of movement, could not support him in a fight, let alone against an enemy on the level of the Lords of Darkness. An encounter would mean certain death.

His gaze dimmed slightly. His injuries would take at least three to five days to heal. In times of peace, that might be nothing, but now, with an unspeakable chaotic entity on the verge of awakening, he could not afford to lose even three to five hours. He had to race against time. This meant that for the foreseeable future, he would have to carry on while dragging his heavily wounded body.

Even so, there was no reason to give up.

He instinctively tried to clench his fist, but the pain of scabs and wounds tearing open jolted him awake.

Had he become this weak?

Without a word, the Glorified One merely glanced at the blood dripping from between his fingers and set off once more.

The Temple of Hephaestus was vast and almost entirely closed to the public. There were no signs to guide him, but finding the High Priest was not particularly difficult.

Because he was with the Spark.

And the Spark, as the source of order and the beginning of all light, naturally resonated with the descendants of the Glorified. To borrow Ignatus's explanation, it was easier to understand: the Spark was the burnt-out remains of the Ancestors, and the blood of order within the Glorified inherited the legacy of those first Ancestors who ignited the Spark on the chaotic plains. That a resonance existed between two creations made of the same ancestral flesh was only natural.

Thus, guided by the call of his bloodline, the Glorified One moved forward, unhurried, toward the place of danger.

Yes, the place of danger.

Since the enemy was likely the arrogant Lords of Darkness, their only target for infiltrating the Temple of Hephaestus could be the Spark enshrined within. High Priest Edgar Galsworthy would inevitably become the final obstacle standing in their way.

Although it was said that the High Priest who tended the Spark possessed unfathomable mysterious powers—and even the knights who had followed the royal banners to victory in the age of the Ancient Kings held these reclusive guardians who shared the fate of the Spark in the highest regard—whether he could withstand the siege of the Lords of Darkness or enemies of similar caliber remained unknown. The enemy had come prepared, and the power of the Spark had withered with the passage of time, no longer possessing the brilliance of the ancient era. It was hard to say how much strength the High Priest, whose own power was tied to the Spark, still retained.

But this was no reason to stand by and do nothing.

As the foundation of the entire city of Hermetica, the consequences of the Spark being interfered with by hostile forces were unimaginable. Amy even had reason to suspect that the chaotic entity which destroyed all of Hermetica in the Omen of Death was able to break free so easily because of the attack on the Temple of Hephaestus.

Of course, until confirmed, suspicion remained just that.

It was just... the suspicion was so logical, so perfectly reasonable, that he could find no flaw in it.

Tight and seamless, like a heavenly garment. Wait... what was a heavenly garment? Clothes from the sky?

He gave a bitter, self-deprecating shake of his head, amused by the nonsensical thoughts in his mind—in a way, this was finding joy amidst sorrow.

But fate seemed to be playing a cruel joke on him. Even that bitter smile did not last long. Only three steps later, a burst of fire erupted directly in front of him. Before he could even feel shock, the intuition that had saved his life many times over forced him to ignore the risk of his wounds tearing open again. He drew his sword and charged into the masonry and debris spewing out alongside the flames.

Slash! Slash! Slash!

There was no time to hesitate, no time to breathe. The shockwave of the explosion carried sand and stone, the searing heat nearly blinding him. The brick fragments, flying like bullets, were devastatingly powerful; in his current state, he could not have lasted more than a few breaths under such a barrage.

Fortunately, the impact lasted only a moment.

In the next instant, a heatwave blasted outward. Amy felt as if he had collided head-on with a city wall, and then his entire body was blown away by the violent air currents, crashing heavily to the ground an unknown amount of time later.

"Ugh—"

The moment he tried to get up, the youth coughed up a large mouthful of blood he could not hold back. Dark red blood dripped from his fingers; some of it spread along the scabs on his hands toward his arms, but most of it splattered onto the scorching ruins, sizzling upon impact.

"This time..." He barely managed to speak before he vomited another large pool of blood, in which fragments of internal organs were faintly visible. He then whispered weakly, "I've really overdone it."

Even with the robust physique of a Glorified One, the injuries he had sustained this time could be described as fatal. The wounds on his body had dried in the scorching wind, but the internal damage would not heal so easily. Without exaggeration, if he allowed the situation to deteriorate... he would die. No, he would certainly die.

Amy narrowed his eyes again, but he did not dwell on his own mortality. This composure, setting life and death aside, was not because he had truly transcended his ego and placed the survival of Hermetica above his own life; it was merely based on his trust in the Omen of Death.

Perhaps there was a hand manipulating his fate from the shadows, or perhaps it was simply the nature of his ability. Whenever the Omen of Death appeared, the path he foresaw was never a one-way street to destruction. Even in the most critical, desperate situations, he always had a chance to reverse the impending fate of death.

It was hard to explain as mere coincidence, and the Glorified One did not intend to dwell on this unanswerable question for now. Some might fight to the death to break the shackles fate had placed upon them, but Amy Ulysses did not intend to be such an egoist. Compared to the fate he carried on his shoulders, he cared more about survival. Only by living could he hold onto hope and pursue the freedom he craved.

And right now, he was fighting for survival.

Not just for himself, but for Yulia, and for all of Hermetica.

For this, he would not hesitate to die.