Extraordinary Pedigree.

Chapter 1059 A Lonely Lamp in the Long Night
St. Cuthbert's Synagogue, Seat of Truth.

The platinum dome hangs high in the deep, silent sky, while four twisted serpent pillars silently support the crown of this divine throne. The aura of holiness and order is solidified here, as if time itself is sealed within this magnificent stone palace.

Xia Xiu stood on the geometric stone slab in the center of the hall, gazing up at the unreachable Throne of Truth. His thoughts surged like a tide, but his eyes were calm and deep.

His gaze slowly returned from the void.

That was the direction of the North, the future where Mount Clangerdin was crumbling, and the coordinates where Lupercal would complete his mission.

"It seems he succeeded..." Xia Xiu muttered to himself, but his tone carried a subtle uncertainty. "However... he didn't even use the Spirit Legion?"
He had thought that the spiritual legions, which were already prepared, would be deployed to the North as a decisive factor in the battle, delivering the final blow to an overwhelming victory. However, judging from the current situation, Lupercal's victory was almost a one-sided affair—relying on the [Sword of Abelio] he had given him, the avatar [Horus], and the computational advantage of the [Horus Program] itself.

This efficiency, which should have been commendable, made Xia Xiu frown.

"Too easy... Krangdin Silverbeard, the dwarven war god, as one of the chief war gods of the Moradin pantheon, was once a mid-level deity of faith, wielding the Starbreaker and the Primordial Forge... He should have more than this much power."

“But his combat condition this time…” Xia Xiu gently closed his eyes, sensing the information on the battlefield, “is only within the realm of a Void Crown.”

He slowly opened his eyes, and in that instant, a cold light rippled slightly deep within his pupils.

That was not a temporary decline—it was a drop in the fundamental level of power.

"...That's too strange."

This abnormality did not originate from Crankudin himself.

His gaze fell upon the unattainable throne before him.

Saint Cuthbert.

That was once the god of faith, the [Lord of Planes], the judge wielding the staff of order, who made the Demon King bow down and Hell tremble in the war of justice across multiple dimensions. He should have been a pillar of the pantheon, one of the core adjudicators of the Order faction, and an indispensable central axis in the war of the gods.

Now, he is silent.

Since the sealing of the crystal system triggered by the [Dead Light], this deity has ceased to respond to any spiritual calls or project divine pronouncements. His Throne of Truth is empty, devoid even of divine remnants.

“Crangedin… is the god of war in the Moradin pantheon… and Saint Cuthbert is an old ally of the Moradin pantheon.”

Xia Xiu lowered his gaze slightly.

"If Clangedin's divine power was sealed before this, who was responsible? And why, specifically after Saint Cuthbert's long silence?"

He seemed to have a vague feeling that something was sleeping beneath that eerily quiet Seat of Truth.

It is not power, nor divine power, but a buried existence itself, which is being withdrawn from the network of gods in a strange way, yet has not died completely.

Saint Cuthbert's silence may not be forgetting.

Perhaps it is a deliberate self-imposed isolation and severance, like a kind of preventative seal.

But who is sealed away?

The pollution of the Fifth Church?
Tentacles of a cosmic starfish?
"I need to go in and see what's going on." Filled with curiosity, he slowly walked into the hall.

Under the continuous coverage of the mitochondrial essence, Xia Xiu has almost completely disappeared from existence.

He was like a figure erased from the world's information, his footsteps echoing not even on the ground. But he did not conceal his presence; instead, he swaggered through the stone doors of the Hall of Saint Cuthbert and walked step by step toward the deepest seat of truth.

The throne was empty, with only four pillars, adorned with serpentine reliefs, supporting the dome, which closed high in the sky like an inverted crown, signifying the end of the reign of order.

Xia Xiu stood beneath the celestial emblem in the center of the hall, his figure motionless amidst the interplay of light and shadow, as if awaiting some kind of response. But no response came.

His brows immediately furrowed.

A sudden, sharp pain appeared on the back of his right hand. He subconsciously raised his hand, and there, as if seared by a hot iron, appeared a closed-loop serpentine mark made of blood lines—the [Mark of Arn].

Like an ouroboros biting its own tail, the blood-red spiral mark wriggled gently, emanating whispering magical fluctuations.

"Asia Pacific Perth...this is a trigger on the genealogy's underlying firewall..."

Xia Xiu whispered, and the mark on the back of his hand began to tremble. An old, tattered parchment appeared out of thin air, spreading out in the air before him. It was as if it had been forcibly pulled into reality from another dimension. One corner was still wrapped with an ethereal ribbon, and countless twisted and bizarre blood-red veins were engraved on the paper, which were the manifestations of the consciousness of the flesh-and-lust lineage.

But what captivated him even more were the two names that appeared in the center of the parchment:

Second Consul Sabaos

[Fourth Consul, Eleos]

These two ancient beings, who had been suppressed and imprisoned within the lineage by Xia Xiu, now simultaneously emitted hostile responses.

The incantations writhing on the paper were like flesh and blood, and a blood-red arrow suddenly appeared, pointing to an indescribable direction in the deepest part of the hall—as if reminding, warning, or growling.

Like a wild beast whose instincts have been awakened.

The moment he first encountered the true manifestation of the lust lineage, he felt a long-lost sense of vigilance and hostility, as if a cat had encountered its natural predator, and even hissed silently.

"This is... a warning from the carnal lineage. It seems that Saint Cuthbert has indeed been entangled by something unclean."

His tone was calm, yet it carried a rare hint of solemnity.

Deep within the St. Cuthbert's Cathedral, the stone corridors are as silent as a passageway to the underworld, with holy light permeating the heights but unable to reach the shadows beneath the walls.

Xia Xiu followed the crimson arrow on the lineage of lust and flesh, walking slowly forward. The mark of Ouroboros throbbed slightly on the back of his right hand, as if urging him on, or perhaps warning him.

The arrow points directly at the huge mirror in front, which is almost touching the ceiling.

The ancient mirror, over ten meters tall, is embedded in a serpentine niche inside the hall. The frame is carved with intricate multi-world runes, and at its center is a mirror surface so complete it is unimaginable. Its surface is free of dust and reflection, and you can't even see Xia Xiu's reflection.

Xia Xiu stopped, his brows slightly furrowed. He slowly raised his right arm, his palm tightly gripping the weapon of power—[The Lever of Heaven].

The silver cane is sharp and elegant, as if some mathematical configuration has been cast into reality. It represents the power to leverage and symbolizes one of the highest authorities for dimensional interference.

And then he slowly extended it toward the mirror.

"Boom."

The end of the cane tapped gently on the mirror.

At that moment, the air in the entire hall seemed to vibrate.

It wasn't a sound, but a heavy pressure from the level of reality, as if a huge authority of order was slumbering behind that mirror, being awakened by his strike.

"...!"

Xia Xiu frowned slightly, feeling a sudden weight on his wrist. The silver staff seemed to weigh a ton, as if an invisible force was coming from deep within the mirror, pressing directly on his central nervous system.

He sensed that the core of the [Lever of Heaven], the authority that represented the lever that could move everything, was trembling, causing the staff to vibrate in response.

"This weight..."

He took a slow breath, his fingers gripping his cane tightly, his voice carrying an indescribable heaviness:

"Comparable to... Ganymede."

This isn't just an adjective; Ganymede, the fourth sword-wielder of Heaven who once used it like a billiard ball, is another unit of measurement besides Mr. Night. Therefore, this mirror hides a complete small world's unit of mass.

"Behind the mirror is more than just a cubicle."

He stared at the mirror that reflected nothing, his tone calm yet already having made his judgment.

"This is a locked-down inner world hub."

The next second, he no longer hesitated.

[The Lever of Heaven - Taking Action]

The silver cane streaked through the air with a cold light before piercing the mirror.

"Om-"

Ripples spread out from the point of contact, like water rippling, extending across the entire mirror surface. The once still and imageless mirror suddenly revealed a blurred sense of layering, like a lake reflecting another world.

Xia Xiu slowly pulled back the lever, no longer hesitating.

He lifted his foot and stepped out.

The instant his toes touched the ripples on the mirror, his figure was swallowed up like ink falling into water, silently swallowed by the distorted ripples of the world, along with all the aura on his body dissipating.

The next second, the St. Cuthbert's Hall was completely empty.

The mirror returned to its calm state, as if nothing had ever happened.

……

……

Xia Xiu opened his eyes again, and for a moment the illusion almost made him think that he had not yet woken up from the dream.

The surrounding area was an exceptionally quiet town.

But this town had no sunlight, no sky. The whole world seemed to float in an eternal abyss, gravity barely held together, time seemed to stand still, and the air was filled with the smell of rust and unburnt candles.

The only source of light for the entire town hangs above the town square in the center.

A cold, eerie light slowly shone down from some unknown device, barely etching a faint dividing line between light and shadow on the edge of this desolate world.

Xia Xiu slowly raised his head and saw it.

That was not an ordinary street lamp.

It was an enormous bio-mechanical complex, shaped like a divine beacon left behind by some ancient civilization. Its base was rooted in the empty void, and its torso was composed of an intertwined metal skeleton and fleshy veins, slowly writhing like a living thing. Countless eye-like sensors were distributed on its outer shell like the gaze of a priest, occasionally flashing with crimson or deep blue light.

But what truly made Xia Xiu's pupils shrink was not the mechanical lighthouse itself.

Rather, it is the being hanging under the lamp.

That was not a mortal, that was a god... nailed down.

He appeared with white hair and a white beard, with a dignified appearance and a robust physique, his muscles imbued with the divine forging of an anvil. He was suspended from his wrists by heavy chains, strung like a cross on the main pillar of the lighthouse, his bare upper body covered in scars, each wound emitting a faint yet pure light—not the glow of flesh, but the slow burning of his divine essence.

He is the source of that light.

It was he who illuminated the logic of existence for the entire town.

His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted, as if he were murmuring some divine oracle that no one could understand. And that faint murmuring transformed into a rhythm of light, spreading out in circles from his chest, enveloping this town made of the unknown, like a divine eardrum gently trembling at the edge of reality.

Xia Xiu stood motionless, gazing at the figure for a long time.

His body remained still, but in that instant, something deep within him snapped gently.

Because he recognized the identity of this god—Saint Cuthbert.

A symbol of law and order.

Under the grey-blue sky, Xia Xiu stood silently in the middle of the deserted street. Above him, the enormous object—a street lamp—composed of intertwined metal skeletons and biological nerves, slowly rotated, casting layers of soft light.

The light, like divine ripples, shimmered slightly, illuminating this otherworldly town, which deviated from the boundaries of reality and was composed of unknown matter.

Saint Cuthbert was both a beacon and a prisoner.

The core that radiates a stable light of reality is not some kind of divine instrument, but rather his own divine light—the last vestige of its afterglow after being nailed, extracted, and bound.

Xia Xiu's eyes reflected this strange scene, his expression dark and brooding.

Beneath the deity, a group of people were already kneeling in submission.

They wore old-fashioned priestly robes stained with mud and ash, while others wore ancient knightly armor, its runes mottled and rusty. They stood silently in rows, holding shepherd's staffs or longswords, their expressions a mixture of piety and sorrow, like loyal dogs who, after countless ages, still refused to forget their gods.

Suddenly, in the silence, a priest wearing a white cloak spoke in a low voice.

What followed was a collective low chanting, like a lament, or perhaps a dream:

"I dug a door between the mountains, and buried you between the door."

The tides whispered, and the remaining ashes surged down.

Your laughter and dance once echoed here, but now only our bitterness and sorrow remain.

Their voices were low and intermittent, yet they sounded exceptionally clear in this extremely quiet space. Xia Xiu remained motionless, simply gazing at them.

"I gaze at the mirror of nothingness and darkness at the boundary of all things and light."

Nothing else is reflected in the mirror except myself and the ruins of the world.

The broken bones gleamed brightly, and the shattered dreams shone brilliantly.

The verses flowed slowly from their lips, like ashes scattering in silence, revealing a powerless yet inextinguishable faith.

Countless writers and poets have sought this dream, resorting to medicine or pain and grief.

I have broken free from the mundane world, which has rewarded me with quiet, bitter cold.

As the chanting continued, the light and shadow trembled slightly, as if the lament itself were a ritual, a sacrifice.

"In the still night, only the hearth fire and the singing could be heard; like moths drawn to the flames, they perished."

The crowd sang joyful tunes, while the ancient dirge dissolved into a thick fog, and I alone wandered through it.

The ground bathed in light rippled gently, a rhythm that was almost mournful. Xia Xiu saw tears streaming down the faces of several of the elders; they were not tears of fear or guilt, but rather a nameless mourning born of a deep understanding that God was dead, yet a steadfast commitment to worship.

"I distanced myself from the ever-repeating songs and stepped into the embrace of the flying snow and the earth."
Here there are neither enemies nor close friends, neither chanting nor mourning.

I questioned the falling snow, and it withered and died; I questioned the long night, and it remained silent.

In this world corrupted by darkness, the gods become solitary lamps, illuminating the sorrowful believers in the long night.