The ground undulated as vines slithered, dragging corpse fragments deep underground. Wayne wiped away nonexistent sweat from his forehead. The Book of Greed shifted its gaze from the eye of Nature, and the knowledge of Nature retreated from his body, returning his mana to its original pure white.
He only knew basic magic—the most fundamental kind. He had never studied the spells of the Church of Nature, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to cast them.
Silvia had said that the more advanced spells were marked by faith, belonging exclusively to the Church of Nature. Only those who followed the Goddess of Nature could use them. Without faith in the goddess, he had used natural magic through the Book of Greed without the established incantations. Through pure thought—the self in the hexagram—he had manifested the magical effects he desired.
His vast mana accelerated the plants’ wild growth, then his mind shaped the plants. Simple and effective. In the process, the Book of Greed was the cheat code, his thought was the core guiding the magic, and his mana was the lever that moved reality. All three parts were indispensable. Without any one of them, he wouldn’t have been able to cast nature magic at such a large scale.
Ultimately, the Book of Greed played the most crucial part.
First, it granted Wayne the permission to cast nature magic without faith. Second, it pushed his life essence to a height beyond imagination, allowing him to capture the four elements nonstop, and with the massive amount of elements, both his mana reserve and mental strength had reached astounding levels.
“Cheating feels great!” he muttered, looking at the devastated front yard. After pondering a moment, he asked, “Veryl, how many more consumer goods that look suspiciously like mines do we have? If there’s any left, please bury more.”
“The Molotov cocktails, too. Fire is particularly effective against the evil beings of the Geocentrism Sect. The more the merrier.”
Veryl confirmed that it wouldn’t be a problem. There were many more in the storage. He immediately set two maids to work. The maid on the rooftop continued her watch duty with the sniper rifle, ready to sound a warning the moment any strangers approached.
Wayne took out his binoculars and looked at the giant tentacle above the town. He prepared for the worst-case scenario: with Isabella fallen, the townspeople all parasitized, and a wave of infected mutants approaching the manor.
“Goddess blesses me. Please don’t let it be so...” he murmured. His kind heart couldn’t bear the sight of bloodshed, which was why he had dragged Bishop Kent underground before crushing him. What he couldn’t see, he could crush without concern, while what he could see would traumatize him and haunt him. Similarly, he didn’t look forward to facing waves of infected people. Life wasn’t a game. Every one of them would be a living being.
He agonized over whether to offer his help in town. Perhaps Isabella just needed someone to deliver the final blow, and his arrival could turn out crucial. In the end, he decided against it. Isabella and the Geocentrism Sect might be evenly matched, or she could even have a slight advantage. But if he went, he could end up tipping the balance in the sect’s favor.
After careful consideration, he abandoned the idea of providing support. The manor was his home turf, and he had Veryl and the three maids on his side. They were all combat veterans, allowing him to take the offensive or the defensive as needed. There was no reason to abandon the advantages and risk his life running into someone else’s territory.
At the Geocentrism Sect headquarters, the cross formation had suppressed the hexagram.
By disrupting the hexagram from within, the cross had prevented the earth, fire, water, and wind elements from taking shape, evident in the dimming hexagram projection in the sky and the tentacle that had faded back into a phantom.
The five mages accomplished their mission, but rather than immediately going to Isabella’s aid, they held their positions in case the Underground King fought back. They were experienced professionals when it came to battling cults. They eliminated all risks and would not give cultists a chance to strike back.
They never doubted that Isabella could complete her part.
The chicken farm represented the void component of the hexagram. Blue light pulsed in tandem with the fire within the dark abyss. The continuous explosions and flames tormented the Underground King. Fire was its nemesis—the slightest contact would set its body ablaze. To survive, it could only cut off the burning parts like a lizard dropping its tail, and thus, it was decreasing in size at a visible rate.
The main body that should have descended did not come, and its children failed to respond to its calls. Cutting off its own parts only delayed its death rather than extinguishing the flames. Before long, it would be unable to divide further and burn to ash.
The Underground King struggled, but it was futile. It was evident from its terrifying reproductive ability that it wasn’t built for combat, relying on numbers to ensure the survival of its species. The only one who could save it, Archbishop Ivor, was currently trapped in a stalemate.
In terms of magical proficiency, Ivor was a self-taught mage without formal education, not even worthy of being Isabella’s understudy, but he barely managed to match her in this fight with his Cthulhu-like indestructible body.
Isabella was on the offense, while Ivor was on the defense, absorbing the damage. The former lost mana but not hit points, while the latter lost neither mana nor hit points. From this perspective, Ivor had the better odds and advantage.
But Ivor was in a poor condition. Possibly due to his brain being removed and shattered, his judgment was severely compromised, and his reactions were much slower than before. His thoughts had managed to survive by transferring to the mass of tentacles—well, barely alive—but that was all.
His thoughts' severe corruption deprived him of his speech and his knowledge of magic. His attacks were purely driven by physical instinct as he charged around in an attempt to get close to Isabella and devour her. Unless she suddenly developed a death wish, he would be chasing her for a lifetime without even touching a hair.
A low, anguished cry echoed through the dark abyss. The Underground King was consumed by flames, dying without ever seeing its children. The sacrificial ritual had failed, and the Geocentrism Sect’s plan was completely ruined.
Ivor raged. His white flesh split to reveal a large pale maw filled with writhing tentacle fangs. He howled at the sky, unwilling to yield, but helpless to do anything. By contrast, Isabella remained composed. The rotund lady’s cold expression never broke. Her weight didn’t slow her down, and she moved so agilely it was as if she had springs under her feet.
Vines interlaced into nets and restrained Ivor. White flesh oozed out, going through the gaps of the vines before reassembling. The mass roared unintelligibly, charging straight at a wall.
Ivor’s consciousness had been assimilated by the tentacles, his sanity completely lost. He was acting on pure instincts now. He didn’t even know to attack Isabella, fixated on the wall ahead as if it were his mortal enemy.
Isabella watched quietly, waiting for the white mass to self-destruct.
Just then, golden light flared. The golden statue in the heart of the courtyard dissolved suddenly, and a great consciousness streamed into the white mass, taking control of the empty shell. The flesh writhed, gradually taking the form of a two-meter humanoid tentacle monster.
The legendary mage returned. His consciousness had escaped the Astral Plane and come back to the Chosen Land!
Shocked, Isabella conjured a magical tide in preparation for battle. She didn’t understand why the mad mage would defy his instincts and return to the Chosen Land. The sacrificial ritual had already failed. What else in Enrod could capture his attention?
“What made the mad legendary mage regain sanity?”