"York, everyone is a child of God, and they all deserve God’s grace."
The familiar voice sounded by his ear, awakening York’s sleeping will. He, like a newborn baby, tried to reach out and grasp that voice in the hazy, blurred light.
"Don’t forget your original intentions, don’t forget our nature."
The voice gradually faded away, and York beca sowhat panicked. He wanted to grasp sothing, but all he held in his hand was emptiness.
At the sa ti, his blurred will gradually woke up, and the pervasive pain slowly enveloped him, replacing the radiance with a writhing and turbid darkness. It reached out countless arms, tightly gripping York’s body, dragging him into the Abyss.
"Ha..."
York suddenly opened his eyes; the fear brought by the nightmare hadn’t dissipated yet. The intense pain from his body was like a sharp knife, almost slicing through York’s sanity.
He began to convulse painfully, with blood surging in his throat, veins bulging, muscles tensing. Seeing his agonized look, the lofty figure crouched down and stabbed a syringe into York’s neck.
"I’ve been hunting the Night Race, never saved one before, but this thing should make you feel better."
Bologue spoke as he injected Mang Silver Soul into York’s body. With the supplent of blood and soul, the hunger and pain that almost tore York’s organs apart finally received so relief.
York lay flat on the ground, his chest heaving violently. Much of his body was still cracked, the flesh turned outward along the wound, with the internal structural texture clearly visible.
As ti passed, the strong Undying Power of the Night Race began to manifest gradually. These deadly wounds were healing at a visibly rapid pace, and York’s condition seed a lot better, though his face remained sickly pale.
"His Bloodline Tier is very high, at least higher than those Night Race mbers I’ve killed."
Bologue analyzed based on York’s self-healing speed. "It seems so distinguished Night Race has personally given him Blood Donation."
"A distinguished Night Race? Do you an High Tier Night Race?" Aimou asked.
"More or less, at least within three generations," Bologue’s expression turned solemn. "Why would a High Tier Night Race appear here and donate blood to him? This doesn’t make sense..."
"Maybe it was on a whim," Aimou said. "You’ve seen those High Tier Night Race individuals; when they live too long, they inevitably beco like devils, capricious."
"You an Serey?"
"Do we have any other familiar High Tier Night Race than him?"
"I’ve known a few," Bologue sighed deeply, "but before we got deeply acquainted and familiar, we sun-killed them."
Bologue added, "They were probably of the fourth generation, barely counting as High Tier Night Race."
Based on the hierarchy of bloodlines, the Night Race’s innate Undying Power exhibits varying degrees of strength. This is evident from their self-healing speed. Of course, a more direct thod of judgnt is to expose them to sunlight.
As the Night King’s son, the Night Race Lord, Serey possesses extrely pure Blood of the Night Race. Theoretically, his self-healing speed could match the scorching of sunlight, requiring exposure to the sun for days to completely kill him.
"Oh? He’s awake."
Aimou noticed York’s awakening, prompting Bologue.
York struggled to open his eyes, his scarlet pupils filled with pain. He tried to move his body, but the sharp pain rendered him completely immobile, only able to turn his head to gaze at the lofty Bologue.
"Priest, we et again. If I could, I would rather not et you in such a way."
Bologue spoke, with a glimr in his eyes. An invisible force enveloped York, slowly lifting him up.
Due to the pleasant conversation before and York’s seemingly benevolent nature, Bologue exercised great restraint toward York, refraining from using direct violence.
"It’s you... stranger."
York coughed heavily, recalling the scene before he lost consciousness. Bologue, like a Demon God, crushed those zealots effortlessly, compressing their bodies into one blood-ball after another.
What a blasphemous, frenzied scene this was. Recollecting it now, York still feels a chill down his spine. Now, he is in Bologue’s grasp.
Bologue pointed outward, signaling York to look.
"Your ti is running out, Priest."
Outside the window, at the end of the pitch-black night, a hazy light had risen. Unnoticed, the ti was nearing daybreak.
York understood Bologue’s aning well. If his answer didn’t satisfy him, he would soon see the warmth of sunlight again and die in a horrific manner.
"First question, how did you beco part of the Night Race?"
Bologue raised one finger, then a second.
"And this weapon, where did you get it from,"
The Thorny Pain Lock slowly floated up: the rust-covered chain had lost all extraordinary characteristics, under Bologue’s control, it appeared as ordinary as any mundane object. Yet, they all knew that when the weapon completely devours a person’s sanity, it would unleash unimaginable power.
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