CHAPTER 292: CHAPTER 134: TECHNIQUE OF SLAUGHTER, SEAHORSE EFFECT (5K)_2

"Get some good rest. Don’t think too much—it’s what you deserve."

Wen Yan chatted with Zhang Laoxi for a bit, and soon saw that Zhang Laoxi was drifting off to sleep. Watching him doze off, Wen Yan finally turned and left.

Along the way, he strolled over to the hospice care ward to have a look. There were quite a few unfamiliar faces here, and when Wen Yan walked in, some people didn’t recognize him at all.

The little girl by the entrance was especially stubborn, insisting Wen Yan sign in and note which patient he was visiting.

Helpless, Wen Yan just wrote down Gauss Weil.

After entering, he stopped at the doorway of a patient’s room and saw Gauss in a long black robe today, his face grave and saintly, both hands holding a patient’s hand, softly murmuring words of comfort—getting more and more professional at it.

"The Lord will forgive you. You must learn to let go, to relax, and embrace the Lord’s arms."

Wen Yan’s eyelids jumped wildly. This guy...

After waiting half an hour, the old man on the hospital bed smiled and closed his eyes. Only then did Gauss step outside, face full of sanctity, and lead Wen Yan into his personal office.

Once inside, Gauss took off his priestly robe and hung it in the wardrobe.

"You’re...?"

"That patient just now is a believer of the Church. Of course I’m going to follow what the patient wants."

"Lucky for you this is the Divine Land. Otherwise, you’d probably be in trouble."

"I’m a devil by nature—disguising myself to infiltrate other churches is part of the job."

"..."

Gauss seemed to be savoring the feeling from earlier. Clearly, as a Pain Demon, this was something he’d never done before.

...

In the western part of Nanwu County, on the edge bordering Luoyue County, the Scorching Sun Department’s excavation was ongoing.

Every time the Nether Soul Realm appears, it must be handled with great caution. This time was no exception.

Nether Souls are different from the living. Each Nether Soul, to some extent, carries defects—certain parts of their personality are left behind, while other parts are amplified.

Fierce Ghosts are the most typical—abnormally vicious, killing with more composure than a butcher slaughtering chickens.

If a Nether Soul Realm appeared, gathering vast numbers of Nether Souls, they’d start influencing each other, eroding any remaining sense of belonging or reason.

The nearby Island Country once had a Night Parade of Hundred Demons that was catastrophic—one small town almost reduced to ruins. Yet in the news, it was called a major earthquake, with many people going to aid the disaster.

The Scorching Sun Department even sent people for humanitarian rescue, using the chance to collect intel and learn hard lessons—then, back home, they prepared specifically in response.

The last time the Divine Land planted a sun inside a Nether Soul Realm, it was precisely because of the neighbor’s tragedy—they didn’t dare to risk it at all.

This time was the same—didn’t matter how many Nether Souls there were, they had to step in early.

Not far from the dig site, a man with a Little Mustache sat cradling a photo album.

He opened the album, paging through photo after photo of the excavation scene. He looked a long while, then closed it and opened it again; this time, there were new photos inside.

When he turned the next page, one picture had gone pitch black, as did the following few pages.

Turning to the next after that, he could just make out a blurred silhouette of mountain ridges in one photo.

Another page, and the hills loomed closer, figures moving within the blurry darkness—something seemed to be shifting.

One more page—this time it was clear: it was a hand.

A hand with long, neatly trimmed fingers reached right out from one of the photos, and in a flash, slapped the Little Mustache man squarely on the forehead.

Little Mustache’s eyes showed a flicker of astonishment, pupils dilating as his irises faded to gray-white. All sound from him ceased.

In the next moment, time itself seemed to freeze. In a blink, Little Mustache drew a deep breath—the scene around him had completely changed.

He now sat at a street-side breakfast shop, scanned his surroundings, and stood up to leave.

A clock hanging in the shop showed it was just after 9 a.m. He’d just finished breakfast, paid up, and was getting ready to go.

Stepping out, Little Mustache gazed off into the distance and let out a sigh.

"The technique of instant death, huh.

Such domineering power—one strike and the soul’s utterly gone. It was so fast, I hardly felt a thing.

Just as I thought. That place must be extremely interesting."

He opened the album for a look—the photos inside showed the dig site in full swing. With all the powerful machinery under blessing, the progress was rapid.

This time, he didn’t pry any deeper. He just glanced at the heavy machinery, then closed the album and climbed up the hill diagonally across from the construction site, crouching there to watch the newly delivered equipment—he squatted for quite a while.

...

In the darkness, a figure lay on his side on a stone bed, brows lowered, quietly asleep.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and stretched out his right hand.

His right thumb now bare, a palm line beneath it vanished into nothing.

And at that moment, a wave of fatigue welled up inside him.

He knit his brows, carefully sensing for a while, but didn’t pick up anything else out of the ordinary.

Still, he was certain—he had just made a move, and even used the Technique of Slaughter.

He got up and stepped outside, looked around, stretched out his left hand to divine, but came up with nothing.

Just in that moment before, he’d suddenly felt fatigued—and gained another trace left by the Technique of Slaughter.