Mystic Priestess!

Xiao Bayat flipped through the star maps of his memory; in the Origin World, there were never more than seven Mystic Priestesses.

In the Void Church, their rank towered above the Pope, like a moon above a lantern.

In raw power, a Mystic Priestess eclipsed the Pope, like noon burning away dawn.

Those above the Pope were called Mystic Priestesses or Witches, names like blades hung from the altar.

Count the vacant chairs and the occupied thrones: seven Priestesses, eight Witches, fifteen candles for fifteen pantheons.

In the Sequence, the front seven were named Mystic Priestess, while the back eight wore the title Witch, like night following dusk.

Priestess or Witch, she stood as a pantheon lord’s voice, a steward of inner rites, like a hand on the temple’s pulse.

Even the weakest Mystic Priestess had to be a Demigod, a mountain under cloud.

Once grown, a Mystic Priestess stood at god level, a sun behind a veil.

There were three ways to step down: first, the pantheon lord stripped the title, like wind snuffing a lamp.

Second, the Priestess or Witch fell in battle, like a star breaking in black water.

Third... he knew little; perhaps when their power crested, they shed the office, like a cicada leaving its shell.

Where a retired Priestess went was mist beyond his reach, like a path swallowed by fog.

As the legate of the Void Messenger, the Void’s Mystic Priestess hadn’t changed for centuries, like a pillar frozen in ice.

The Night Witch under the Eighth Seat, the Blood Nobility, was the second generation, a torch passed with smoke.

Because of that, the Night Witch was the weakest, said to have not yet ascended, like a blade still in scabbard.

By contrast, the Void’s Mystic Priestess was first generation, god level in truth, like thunder coiled in silk.

Once, Xiao Bayat asked his instructors why the Night Witch was second generation; where had the first gone, and what storm had struck.

They scolded him like hail on a tin roof, and banned the topic across the Panworld Alliance.

He wiped the cold sweat from his brow, like dew from stone, and dragged his drifting thoughts back from dark corners.

The Void Messenger was first in the Sequence, a Demon King seated like an eclipse.

And his Mystic Priestess was the first of her line, an ancient brand on iron.

So powerful a Mystic Priestess lay trapped here; the danger rang in Xiao Bayat’s bones like a bell.

A simple summer assignment had turned to god-stuff, like a creek suddenly dropping into a gorge.

With gods in the weave, even simple threads knot, like fishhooks in the net.

And this wasn’t any common god, but a pantheon lord’s proxy, a seal on the sky.

By rank, the Void’s Mystic Priestess was a giant of the Origin World, a mountain under a pale sun.

If such a giant was trapped here, even without Xia Zuo’s deep knowledge, he felt the weight; this wasn’t homework anymore.

“You came...” The voice rose like a breeze through dry reeds.

The sound was no longer a muddled murmur, but clear and thin, tired as winter light.

The Mystic Priestess, wrapped in countless black vines, slowly opened her eyes, like a lake cracking its ice.

“You’re the Void’s Mystic Priestess—Liuli?”

He’d seen her photograph in textbooks, but before that bloodless face he still asked, like a moth checking the flame.

The question was needless; her robe was the Priestess’s own, a moon-white taboo.

Outside certain festivals, no one else could wear it, or death would fall like an ax.

A wan smile touched her pale features; a sweep of black hair veiled her left eye, like night over half a moon.

She didn’t answer him; she let her eyes fall shut again, like a door closing on snow.

Silence pooled; he didn’t know how long, like sand slipping in a buried glass.

Alone, he dared not wander; his one hope sat with her, like a candle beside a storm window.

She had said only “You came...” and sank into stillness again, like a tide that refused the shore.

When he started to wonder if she had died, the Void’s Mystic Priestess finally spoke, like a chime in the fog.

“Boy... tell me why you came to this world, and what you seek here.”

He wanted to say no; the refusal pricked his tongue like a thorn.

She hadn’t answered him, though she matched the portraits like a seal to wax.

Still, he had asked first, and she’d slipped past it, like a fish under a boat.

If you won’t answer me, why must I answer you; and without that answer, how can I swear who you are, like a lock without a key.

But facing a Priestess so frail she looked ready to break, he swallowed the word no like a stone.

Before a god, he hid nothing, and told her everything about the summer assignment, like cards thrown face up.

He thought about it later; she was a god, and he had overrated his will, a paper shield in rain.

A god’s awe pressed down like a mountain; a Star Ring Level nobody couldn’t stand tall under that.

When he finished, he asked, small as a flame: “Your Highness... um... did you seal the monsters here?”

She sank into thought, chewing on the news like a slow river on stone, and didn’t answer the earlier question.

Silence crept back, and he went quiet to the edge of madness, like a drumhead stretched too tight.

At last she lifted her head and gave him a half-smile, like a knife that didn’t cut.

“These monsters... mm, I did it,” she said, like nails hammered into a coffin.

“When I found Gluttony among the Seven Deadly Sins, I meant to inform His Majesty the Void Messenger.”

“Then that thing trapped me, like a spider netting a moth.”

“I had no choice but to seal them, and wait for aid from outside, like frost waiting for sun... I didn’t expect three students.”

At Gluttony, she could not move her hands, but she tilted her head to the great skull above, like a pilgrim to a relic.

“Your line of thought is right. This world... must be destroyed!”

Her face went austere, iron under silk; this wasn’t small trouble but a storm.

“Then what do we do next?”

Seeing her bound by black vines, Xiao Bayat pulled a dagger from his pack, like a tooth for a wolf.

He meant to cut her free, but she shook her head, a bell denying midnight.

“It’s useless. Through these vines I’m keeping the seals fed, like roots drinking rain.”

“If the vines break, the seal loses its power source, and in that dimming, they’ll burst out like wolves.”

“In front of that swarm, you have no chance to live, not even a spark.”

She saw a last ember of wishful thinking in him and went on, like water dousing ash.

“Among those monsters, there are hundreds at god level!”

Hundreds... god level! The words fell like stones into his gut.

One could end them; hundreds left no suspense, like night swallowing lamps.

He couldn’t help wondering about her power; how strong must she be to seal hundreds of god-level monsters, like chains around a volcano.

“So, all you must do is live. Carry the intel back, the intel I’m buying with my life, like a message stitched in blood.”

“Remember, be fast. While I can still seal them, destroy this world!”

“This world is a vast ritual site. Destroy it, and the ritual breaks, like a drum with its skin torn.”

He didn’t know why, but sorrow rose for this stranger, like cold rain under a gray sky.

She had used her life to seal those monsters, just so later folk could bear out useful intel, like couriers through snow.

His throat hitched; he wanted to urge her otherwise, a leaf against the river.

It was hopeless. If she shed the vines, the monsters would crack the seal, like seeds splitting stone.

She had paid life for the seal; her strength had ebbed to a low tide.

Even at full flood, a Priestess could only seal, not slay, hundreds of god-level foes, like a net versus a sea.

Any way he ran it, the only road was this: take the intel back, then help the three shameless seniors blow this world sky high.

“I understand, Your Highness.”

He started to sprint, feet like arrows, then skidded back, conscience tugging like a snagged hook.

“Your Highness, how do I get out of here?”

She had thought he meant to stay; she had words sharpened to drive him away, like brooms for stray dogs.

She didn’t expect he just didn’t know the path, like a child lost at a gate.

“Made me cry for nothing...”

She muttered, then closed her eyes, like shutters against wind.

A gray vortex opened before him, like a whirlpool in air.

“Step through and you’ll appear on the surface.”

He asked the question that had itched at him: “Your Highness, were you the one who pulled me here at the start?”

From the moment he appeared here, the place had felt wrong, like a heartbeat under floorboards.

With the monster lair before him, he guessed it tied to the Void’s Mystic Priestess, a string from her hand.

She nodded, a snowflake falling.

That confirmed his guess; doubt cleared like mist, and he walked toward the vortex to leave.

As he neared the swirl, he darted back again, like a fox from a trap.

This time, was it real conscience?

“Brat... what now?”

“Uh... Your Highness, I... I lost the three seniors.”

“Can you place the exit before them instead? If I surface alone, I’m dead nine times out of ten!”

She narrowed her eyes, a dangerous gleam like a knife’s edge on glass.

She stared long enough for his skin to pebble, then she yielded, like ice cracking in thaw.

“Fine... move it. Go!”

The gray vortex twisted, and per her will its exit should open before Xia Zuo and the others, like a door swinging to a knock.

“Uh... Your Highness, I... I’ve got diarrhea. Sorry, let me, uh, take care of it first...”

“Mm... Your Highness, nothing’s coming out...”

“Your Highness, suddenly I don’t want to go. Leaving you here alone feels... lonely, right...”