Chapter 2: The Reckoning

I tore off the church's binding headband and hurled it to the ground, re-hanging the skulls of nine generations of Golden Soul around my neck. My twelve-foot-tall frame towered over the countless corpses of church disciples. The eighteen Faith-Guardians had long since been slaughtered. Five hundred Saints and three thousand Acolytes scattered in terror. Only Reverend Mansfield, breathless and glaring, stood atop Mount Providence, too afraid to approach.

The headband slapped the stone floor with a finality that echoed through the cathedral. The skulls clinked together, a grim necklace—each one a chapter of betrayal and ambition, chilling as a cold wind through a graveyard.

Behind me stood Leonard King, the Beacon-Bearing Heavenly Marshal, leading a hundred thousand heavenly soldiers and generals. The Heavenly Court stormed Mount Providence just as the saints were weakened by the backlash of merit. The saints of the West underestimated my ruthlessness—and the President's iron will.

The distant rumble of marching boots and the metallic clang of weapons filled the air—Leonard's army was the sound of reckoning, like the thunderous approach of Union troops on a battlefield. The President's orders had turned old allies into enemies overnight, and the tension was palpable.

The Dragon-Breaker Saint thought he could defeat me in one move, but he didn't anticipate that ten generations of Golden Soul would grant me the power of a perfected Divine Immortal. I battered him within an inch of his life, forcing him to retreat to Mount Providence, his pride shattered.

Blood splattered across the flagstones, mingling with the rain that began to fall, as if the heavens themselves mourned the fallen. The metallic scent mixed with the earthy aroma of wet stone.

"Shaw! Mount Providence has not treated you poorly. The Eight-Treasure Golden-Body Saint is a generous reward from the Supreme Reverend. Why do you serve as a lackey for the President?" Mansfield called out, voice cracking.

I sneered, my tone sharp as broken glass:

"Saint, you forget too easily. Have you forgotten I was originally the Curtain-Lifting General of the Celestial Capitol? But I am no longer among the immortals—Jack Bailey can no longer command me."

The old titles meant nothing now—loyalty was a memory, lost in the scramble for power. The bitterness in my voice was as raw as a wound.

With a surge of energy, I suppressed the Dragon-Breaker Saint, plunging my Demon-Breaker Staff straight into his chest.

The staff thudded home with a sickening crack, and the Dragon-Breaker Saint gasped, clutching his wound, his eyes wide with disbelief and betrayal.

"Why?" he gasped, his final breath escaping like steam on a cold morning.

"The church enslaves all beings. Now I reclaim my freedom."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, I simply refuse to serve your filthy golden halos any longer."

My elder brother’s eyes were bloodshot; he hefted his club and strode up to me. "Little Brother, enough talk. To be a slave and a dog, to endure the eighty-one tribulations—wasn't it all for this day? To topple Mount Providence and destroy all saints!"

The monkey’s rage was volcanic, surpassing even mine.

His knuckles whitened around the club, veins bulging in his arms. The air seemed to crackle with his fury—a wild, untamed energy, like a tornado tearing through a quiet town.

Purcell’s mount, the six-tusked white bull, charged at the front of the formation.

The ground shook beneath its hooves, sending tremors through the ruined cathedral. Its breath steamed in the cold air, nostrils flaring, muscles rippling beneath its snowy hide.

"Second Brother! Take care of these church lackeys first," I called to Grant Baxter.

Grant Baxter hefted his pitchfork and charged up Mount Providence, colliding with Purcell’s six-tusked white bull. At Lion Ridge, neither had ever emerged victorious. If their masters hadn’t separated them, neither would have survived. This time, the backlash of merit weakened the mounts as well. Grant Baxter’s nine-pronged pitchfork whipped up the wind, and his three-foot-wide mouth was as ferocious as the bull’s horns.

The clash echoed like thunder, pitchfork against horn, as Baxter’s wild laughter rang out. The bull’s eyes rolled, foam flecking its lips, the sound of battle filling the cathedral.

"Your master is always troublesome. Rules, rules my foot!" Baxter spat, swinging his pitchfork in a wild arc, sending chips of marble flying. The six tusks of the white bull represented the six virtues, one of which is rule-keeping. Baxter hated the word "rule" more than anything.

He grumbled with irreverence, chewing the word and spitting it out as if it tasted foul.

Grant Baxter battered eighty-one holes into Purcell’s six-tusked white bull, hung the corpse on his pitchfork, and muttered, "Having tasted human flesh, this bull probably tastes a bit sour."

He tore a strip of flesh from the bull’s flank, chewing thoughtfully, then spat it out with a grimace. "Needs salt," he grumbled, a touch of dark humor breaking the tension.