A surge of uncontrollable rage arose from the depths of the soul, nearly scorching all that was York.

At this moment, York’s mind was no longer occupied with so-called faith, law, or moral dilemma. His mind was filled only with unvented anger and Gami’s mockery of him.

"Tied-down justice."

Gami must be judged; he must confess to him.

In this moment, York finally recognized his mistake. He was indeed a kind and devout Priest, but sometimes he was too kind, and this extremity, in turn, fostered the birth of evil. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

This was his fault, a sin birthed from his piety, for which he must take responsibility.

Tears filled York’s eyes as he confessed his wrongs to his God, vowing to make amends, willing to give everything to the darkness.

Like a ravenous beast, York tore at the darkness, consuming large chunks of earth. Rainwater mixed with Blood of the Night Race poured into his mouth, the forbidden blood streaking down his throat, seeping into his body.

The powerful Undying Power surged through York’s body, swiftly healing the wounds that covered him. Torn muscle fibers reconnected, fractured bones mended and realigned, a more formidable strength was newly bestowed upon this body.

York reached out to the scarlet wickedness, his hand penetrating the darkness, through the heavy earth, breaking through the buried grave, reaching high.

The illusion vanished, like a soul returning to the body, York suddenly realized he had been buried alive, but before he could ponder further, he sensed another cold hand grasping his that had broken through the grave.

Seizing another dark fate.

The drizzling rain gradually turned fierce, and amidst the torrential downpour, a man yanked York out of the grave. The cold rain struck him face-on, washing away the mud on him, as if baptizing him into new life.

York gasped painfully as the Blood of the Night Race reformed his body, making him burn as if with fever. The rain striking his body even raised a faint white steam.

The man leaned down, smiling at York, "Congratulations, Priest, how does it feel to be reborn?"

York struggled to lift his head, first catching sight of a pair of Ruby-like eyes.

"You...who are you?"

"Me? That’s not important," the man said, "all you need to know is that it was I who gave you a second chance."

"Why?"

"Why?" The man thought carefully, "Interesting, it just seemed interesting."

"Interesting?"

It was an absurd answer, but York could not find words to counter it. Everything was already absurd as it was.

"I want to know, after all this, do you still keep faith in your God?" the man asked.

"Of course," York said firmly, "I remain loyal to Him."

"But you have now given your soul to the Devil," the man found York increasingly intriguing, "even if there is truly a God, you cannot enter His Celestial Kingdom."

"That doesn’t matter," York began to smile, his smile becoming twisted, mad, "this is a great sacrifice."

"I indeed offered my soul to the darkness to gain a second chance, but my will, my devotion, still belonged to Him. I will wield the power of darkness to act on His behalf."

Hearing such an answer, the man’s expression gradually turned cold. In the next instant, he grabbed York by the throat, lifting him forcefully up.

"Don’t you realize, Priest, there are no Gods in this world, your faith is just an empty shell of illusion."

The man was not very satisfied with York’s reaction. In his expectation, York should have been more desperate, like a beast in collapse.

"I know."

York painfully uttered this answer, tears welling up in his eyes, "He does not exist... but He also truly exists. He is my belief, my principle, my virtue."

The man was taken aback, he released York, letting him fall into the mud. As the third Thunder streaked across the rainy night, the man looked again at the filthy York, and this time, surprisingly, he knelt on one knee, reaching out to grab York’s hand.

"Forgive my offense, Priest, you truly possess a devout heart, even if its foundation comes from evil power."

Even if this devotion has been distorted under extreme will.

This time the man’s gaze towards York was filled with respect. He took out a chain from the darkness beneath his garment, covered in red rust and thorns like brambles, solemnly handing it to York.

"You need it more than I do."

York studied the chain in his hand, its luster faded, covered in red rust, intimidating, each link bore several spikes, appearing silver and sharp like rows of blades, any slight movement of the spikes would scrape against each other, producing a harsh screech.

For some reason, York felt a peculiar sense of life from this cold metal dead object, as though it were alive, crawling over his arm like a giant centipede.

"Who are you?"

York asked again. By this time, the man had walked a few steps away. He turned back, saying, "I told you, it doesn’t matter."

"No, it is important!"

York tightened his grip on the chain, the spikes easily piercing York’s palm, blood dripping onto the metal, coagulating on the rust.