musicians of old

Chapter 938 The Death of Pogrerich

This eerie stillness lasted for several seconds.

"No, no, you can't do it! It's pointless, it's meaningless!"

"You want to stop me from burying this lousy work? Fine! But it still won't reach the top! It just won't! You dictator! You've been infected by this stupidity! Your bet is meaningless! Because you bet at the wrong time! The only thing that matters now is for us to sit down and play another game, another gamble! Otherwise! This stupid thing, this stupid work of art! It will just hang in some stagnant, garbage time! No different from before! Absolutely no different from before!!!"

The man roared in a fit of rage, his vocal cords seeming to rip blood from them! Even greater, more monstrous waves, and even more twisted, indescribable things, surged forward like madmen!

But even the auras of "Noon Moon" and "Word of Truth" were firmly suppressed, so all of this was meaningless. Pogrerich's arm supporting the church was as steady as a rock, and even the destructive storm he unleashed by slashing around with his other hand did not diminish in the slightest!

The grout beneath the entire church was completely shredded into ash and vanished, forming a huge hemispherical "cavity"!
As the "fire of martyrdom" burned, a curtain of light bearing countless characters with controlling connotations began to solidify on the outer wall of the church.

Like the embers of a legacy left on the outer wall of a boiler after it has been calcined and hardened, a legacy that is now inseparable from the main body.

After the blue-black dress vanished into nothingness, the right arm followed, along with the "blade" held in its hand.

Even in its final moments, the arm and knife pointed defiantly toward a point far into the ocean of splattered liquid—directly toward the dangerous individual's throat.

Even if it were to vanish into ashes in an instant, it would be enough to make anyone who has this scene imprinted in their mind kneel in awe.

Pogorelich's harsh, cautionary words echoed across the heavens and poured into the church above from all directions!

"Fan Ning, show your hand and continue."

"Follow my bets."

"It has to go up."

Like a sharp blade or a storm, the "fire of martyrdom" engulfed his jaw and devoured his head, including those eyes that carried the cruel meaning of control.

He rebelled against himself, suppressed himself, and from this point onward, all the way to the world.

In the last second, the left hand, which had been supporting the entire position, was in that position.

The palm was deeply embedded in the base amidst the pale blue flames. Just as the flames were about to die out, the illusory image of the hand seemed to "rewind" and solidify for a moment, making a final, execution-like upward thrust.

The slurry that dissolved the old world solidified, like clotted blood.

The ocean below transformed into an endless land.

The earth possesses multiple interpretations or characteristics, varying according to the year, region, and the doctrines of later generations. However, all must adhere to the legacy of the "unsinkable" order. Even the occurrence of earthquakes, basins, or lakes is merely a small part of an attempt to rebel.

Below it, the "Criteria of Ashes" became the heaviest foundation and the coldest shackles, forever fixed in the earth's veins and magma; above it, the metaphorical regulations and characters, while lifting upwards, were also embedded like the strongest rivets of order into the bottom layer of stone in the church's foundation.

The moon and the snake trembled and swayed, and the "cavities" that had been dragging them along gave up the fight, but Mr. F himself was still laughing—his neurotic laughter came from some scattered "colorful puddles" left on this solidified, boundless land.

"Haha, hehe, hehe. Hahahaha, what is all this stuff? What kind of rubbish is this? Blasphemous works, stupid bets, mediocre garbage time."

Yes, the lifting power brought by the "fire of martyrdom" is incredibly strong, so strong that even the existing witnesses tremble before it. Moreover, the "boundless earth" solidified by it ensures that even if the church cannot rise, it will not fall into the abyss.

Yes, that's right, yes.

But the "Secret of the End" is also growing stronger, because it is approaching the "Gateway to the Dome," and it is getting closer to the destroyed "Gathering Point." As it gets closer, the "worm" grows fat; as it moves further away, it withers.

This is a paradoxical fact, a fact that will not change.

The lifting speed is slowing down, and at a certain point, a stalemate will inevitably form. If it continues, it will fall; if it stagnates, it will stagnate, and no one can do anything about it.

So it should just stay that way.

That's all there is to it.

Inside the church, Fanning stood on the altar, looking ahead with a calm expression, and there was nothing particularly unusual about what he was looking at.

With each breath, his chest rose and fell noticeably.

"The principle of 'Ashes' is above all else, including mine."

"Show your cards. Follow the bets and you have to go all in."

Yes, finally, the great enemy is dead, the dictator is now dead.

But even at the very last moment, Fan Ning didn't know what he was expecting. He only understood what "greater cost" meant and what "another more appropriate form of payment had emerged" meant!
From the art control in the discussion group to the plan to collect the remains of the source god, from the countless deaths and injuries to the ten-day tower climbing operation after the Harvest Art Festival, it turns out that the Special Patrol Office's final plan was already predetermined, it was all fate.

This person either went to the top as originally planned, sacrificing himself with a so-called "40%" certainty, to "control" all the "corpses at the gathering point," or he was now—indeed, just "another form of payment," a form with a higher certainty after His cold-blooded calculations of martyrdom—Fanning now only felt that everything was becoming heavier, except for the church itself becoming a little "lighter." He not only clearly heard that sentence in the end, but could even fully imagine the unspoken meaning of Pogrerich's cold admonition, "What do these things matter? Even I can die, so why can't those people before me die!"

Control is paramount; what does it matter if someone is dead? How can the dead reflect on their actions, repent for their past, or pay the price for the deaths of others? Besides, what is there to pay for anyway?

The only thing that must be fulfilled, that there is no turning back, and that is beyond discussion, is the so-called "revealing our cards" and the so-called "following the bet"!

"Hidden cards, hehe, betting, hehe." Fanning smiled inexplicably, his hands moving wearily into the racket.

He looked up at the high dome of the church, gazing at the "Our Lady of Glory" whom he had created and led out, and instructed the hymns to erupt in the chorus of "thousands".

Apart from the still sick and throbbing "tricuspid valve", there was nothing else tangible in front, behind, left, and right.

But Our Lady of Glory has provided a continuous source of lift, creating such a magnificent sight as the church extends outwards, allowing the seeds of this new world to sprout delightful new shoots. He must be proven effective, and He must already exist mysteriously and truly.

Fanning still wanted to pray to Him devoutly.

He longed to confide in her.

"Look into the eyes of the Savior, all you repentant weaklings."
To accept this elevated destiny with gratitude, transcending the mundane world.
Every repentant soul is willing to serve you.

My goddess—who else could compare to you! Please protect me forever!

The tenors led this glorious chorus, and the theme of "Adoration of the Doctor of Mary" was developed to an almost sublime degree.

They kept repeating the word "look up," while the choir responded in counterpoint with "Come on," the melody being the same longing tune from "Father of the Abyss."

Although the pace of the church's ascent has slowed, what reason is there not to call it a great finale?
It's still possible.

"All the bets done? Hey, that's settled then." Even the dangerous element was about to applaud in tribute. This man's voice, besides becoming neurotic, also carried extreme exhaustion—it wasn't feigned. His exertion was immense, and he seemed to be under some kind of subtle, deep-seated constraint. "Stop here, just stop here. A great work, clumsy aesthetics, a sublime sacrifice, a laughable suspension, haha, haha, Master Fanning, if this were in a worldly concert hall, I'd pay at least a thousand pounds for a ticket and shout 'bravo' more than ten times, haha, haha."