Imprisoned for a Trillion Years, I Was Worshipped by All Gods!

At that moment, Fort was completely immobilized by the intense gravity magic. He couldn’t even lift his arms. All he could do was gesture with a slight nod of his chin, barely indicating a direction for Francis to follow.

Francis gave a nod of understanding and quickly made his way in the direction Fort had pointed.

The gravity field he had released didn’t discriminate between friend or foe and covered a wide area. Since that filthy man’s voice could still be heard clearly, it meant he hadn’t gone far.

And sure enough, after just a few steps, Francis spotted the filthy man sprawled awkwardly on the ground—just like Alan and the others had been earlier. The man was clearly caught in the same gravity spell.

Francis immediately retracted the gravity field, concentrating it solely on the filthy man. Then, with a look of disgust, he gave the man a swift kick, mocking him as he did so.

“Aren’t you the loudmouth who was so full of himself just a moment ago? What’s the matter now? Why so quiet? You dare to mouth off at my brother? I swear today I’ll—”

Before he could finish, a gust of wind swept past him. Alan had arrived, silent and swift.

Without a word, Alan stomped down with full force on the man’s hand, crushing it into pulp.

As the saying goes, the pain of broken fingers reaches straight to the heart. The agony of having one’s palm crushed was far worse than wounds elsewhere.

The filthy man let out a shriek of unbearable pain, his voice echoing across the clearing.

But Alan wasn’t done.

He summoned several long swords composed of pure metal element. These weren’t aimed at the man’s vital organs. No—Alan deliberately avoided those. One by one, he drove the blades through the man’s body, impaling him like a pincushion.

Blood spilled and spread across the sand, pooling into a small, crimson pond.

It was only after the twenty-seventh stab that Alan finally stopped.

Watching from the side, Francis winced visibly. He had thought Alan was trying to extract information, but he realized now that he had been completely mistaken.

After dispersing the metal swords, Alan hoisted the man up by the collar like a dead dog, completely unaffected by Francis’s gravity spell.

Francis immediately noticed something alarming in Alan’s demeanor. His state of mind was fluctuating again—erratic and dangerous.

With a sinking feeling, he quickly retreated to Blanche and Fort’s side and said anxiously, “This isn’t good. He’s starting to lose it again. Blanche, you need to contact Old Gayle right away. We can’t let Alan continue like this. It’s honestly terrifying!”

Blanche sighed. “I already tried using a mana projection to contact him, but for some reason… he hasn’t responded.”

“Damn it! I knew we couldn’t count on that old man when it really mattered!”

Francis ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Then, his expression turned serious as he addressed the others.

“Looks like we’re on our own from here.”

He turned to Fort. “Golden Boy, you’re the tankiest among us. You’re going with Alan. Whether it’s to draw fire, keep him grounded, or take a beating if he loses it again, I don’t care. Just don’t let him out of your sight—got it?”

Fort nodded resolutely, then sprinted off in the direction Alan had gone.

Next, Francis turned to Blanche.

“Senior, you’re staying out here. If I don’t come out for a long time, don’t hesitate. Just leave. And the farther you run, the better.”

Blanche stared at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his tone.

“What do you mean by that? Are you planning to go in alone to rescue Isabella?”

Francis turned his back to her, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“What else can I do? Out of all of us, I’m the best at infiltration. I can alter my own gravity field to move faster than anyone else, and I can shift the gravity of my surroundings to slow down any pursuers. No one’s more suited for this mission than I am.”

Blanche said nothing more. She understood from his tone—Francis had made up his mind. Any attempt to dissuade him would only insult his resolve.

———

“You son of a bitch! Let me go! If you’ve got any guts, fight me fair and square!”

The filthy man, now being dragged across the ground by Alan, continued his barrage of curses.

Each time Alan advanced, a long trail of blood followed in his wake—blood spilled from the very man he was hauling behind him like dead weight.

Anyone with eyes could see that the man was at the end of his rope.

Eventually, Alan dragged him to the back of the ruins, a barren desert stretch lined with dry sand dunes.

Overhead, a flock of vultures circled, their beady eyes locked onto the weakened man below.

They had sensed death and were simply waiting for the meal to be served.

Alan unceremoniously impaled the man upright into the sand.

He crouched down, his eyes glazed over.

“Being kind only gets you hurt. I used to be too young… too soft. I kept thinking that there were more good people in the world than bad. That kind of thinking… that’s what made Isabella suffer with me all this time.”

He paused, then broke into a dangerous grin.

“That kind of mistake… will never happen again.”

With that, he summoned Lumen Sancta.

But he didn’t behead the man.

No, Alan stood up straight, held the radiant sword like a golf club, and swung it with all his might.

Crack!

The man’s head was sent flying clean off, arcing beautifully through the air like a ball soaring over a green. It landed right beneath the circling vultures.

The birds descended immediately, like sharks drawn to blood.

Alan turned away, his expression vacant, his eyes hollow.

“I’m coming, Isabella… I’m on my way… just hold on a little longer… just a little longer…”

He staggered toward the ruins’ entrance like a soulless husk.

As he passed through a pothole-filled path, he tripped and nearly fell.

But Fort appeared just in time, catching him with a steady hand.

Alan turned to him, dazed, and managed to mumble, “Thanks.”

Fort looked into his eyes and saw clarity—Alan’s mind had steadied.

He nodded and said, “It’s okay. Let’s head into the ruins. We shouldn’t linger out here any longer.”

Alan didn’t argue. He let Fort guide him back to the entrance.

Blanche was already waiting for them.

Seeing Alan return, she quickly urged, “Let’s go in—quickly!”

“Wait… where’s Francis?”

Alan noticed something was off. The air was strangely quiet.

He glanced around and realized—Francis was nowhere to be seen.

“Francis… he…”

Blanche hesitated, glancing worriedly toward the ruins.

“He already went in.”

“That bastard! He went ahead without me?!”

Alan shoved Fort aside and charged into the ruins.

Fort could only shrug in resignation. He exchanged a glance with Blanche, then the two of them followed Alan inside.

But just moments after the trio entered the ruins, figures began to appear—hundreds of them.

From the ground, from the treetops, even from the air—they revealed themselves in waves and surged into the ruins.

All except for two.

They stood still, unmoving.

On the left was a man dressed in a robe of gold-embroidered silk—Stephen. He stroked his beard, his face dark with contemplation.

Beside him, a woman clad in white robes with a hood hiding her face watched with great interest.

“He’s quite impressive,” she said with a faint smile. “In my view, Alan’s talent exceeds all his peers. If properly trained, his future achievements may surpass even ours.”

Stephen spat on the ground, his tone bitter and full of envy.

“And that’s exactly why he has to die! If Lioncrest Academy can’t have him… then no one can!”

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