Chapter Ninety-One: I Have a Unique Way of Praying.

Putt had just emerged from his place of prayer, feeling invigorated and eager to rush outside and tear those cultists of the evil gods to pieces. Rumor had it that the Pontiff had reestablished contact with the Lord; indeed, the Lord had not forsaken them. If only the Lord would answer his prayers as well.

Lost in these hopeful thoughts, Putt turned into an alleyway and had barely taken a few steps when he heard someone calling, "Friend, friend..."

Looking up, he saw not far ahead a figure dressed in a white robe, head hidden beneath a hood, the shadow of which revealed the glint of a Judgement Saint mask upon his face.

Putt glanced behind—there was no one else. Clearly, the masked man was calling out to him.

"Are you calling me?"

"Yes, you, friend."

The masked stranger stepped briskly toward him. Though his expression was obscured, the warmth in his voice was unmistakable.

Putt frowned, retreating two steps, his face tense with caution. He barked, "Who are you? Why are you dressed like that? Are you one of those evil god cultists?!"

This was the path he took home after every prayer, and never before had he encountered someone so strangely attired. With the recent surge in cultist activity, could it be that today was his day to fight for the Lord?

"Friend, don't be nervous. How could I be one of those damned cultists? I have here a unique method of prayer—are you interested?"

The voice, deep and resonant, echoed from beneath the mask.

Putt remained wary, yet suspicion prompted him to ask, "A unique method of prayer?"

"Exactly. By using this method, the chance of the Lord responding triples!"

The voice beneath the mask was enticing, like a demon luring him step by step.

"Is that true?" Putt asked, half in doubt.

"Of course—everyone who’s tried it swears by it!"

"Then why tell me? Why not keep such a good method to yourself?"

Putt posed another question. As a devout believer, he knew well that most would prefer their faith to be singular and favored—if he discovered such a method, he wouldn’t share it either.

"My purpose is to spread the Lord's glory, to lead more souls to believe in Him!"

The masked man spoke with conviction, his words resounding as if he might sacrifice himself for his faith at any moment.

"So, do you want it or not? If not, I’ll pass it to someone else—let more people bask in the Lord’s radiance!"

Impatience crept into the masked man's voice.

"I want it, I want it," Putt replied hastily, ashamed for having doubted a saint so devoted to the Lord—his suspicion seemed unforgivable.

"You want it? Come closer; it's hard to explain this method verbally."

The masked man beckoned, and Putt hurried over.

"This method requires not only reciting the Lord's holy name in your heart, but also visualizing His heroic form. Let me show you..."

He opened his cloak, revealing several scraps of paper, covered in chaotic drawings. Putt leaned in to take a look.

The moment he glanced at them, his pupils contracted, his body trembled uncontrollably, blood flushed his cheeks, and his eyes reddened.

"This... this... is your method?" Putt stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the papers in the masked man's arms.

On the papers were two figures: one humanoid, brandishing a rod as thick as a thigh, and beneath him kneeled a creature with six pairs of wings—the rod thrust into its rear. The sequence of drawings formed a moving tableau.

To make the depiction unmistakable, the creator had helpfully written "Lord" in bold red letters on the humanoid, and "Judgement Saint" on the winged creature. The entire scene was titled "Lord #* Judgement Saint %@ Unrelenting."

"Yes, impressive, isn't it? I assure you, pray with these images in mind and your Lord will surely respond," the masked man boasted gleefully.

Putt could bear it no longer. His eyes glowed white, white flames ignited in his hands, morphing into a holy sword blazing with white fire.

"Blasphemer—die!" Putt shouted. The holy sword pierced the masked man's body; flames erupted, consuming his organs. The masked man’s eyes rolled back, he twitched twice, and then life left him.

Breathing heavily to calm his rage, Putt collected the scattered papers from the ground, resisting the urge to destroy them. They were evidence.

No killing was allowed within the Holy City—this was the rule. Of course, if the victim was a cultist of the evil gods, that was another matter, and these papers were proof. Without them, suspicion would fall heavily upon him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Putt suddenly turned—astonished to see the masked man he had just skewered now standing upright again. He was certain the man had just been lifeless.

The masked man waved, and were it not for the hole in his chest and the incriminating papers in Putt’s hand, Putt might have believed the whole incident had never happened.

Before he could react, the masked man vanished, leaving no trace. Wind rustled, making the papers in Putt’s hand flutter noisily.

Face dark as iron, Putt summoned white flames, reducing the papers to ash—now that the masked man was gone, the papers would only endanger him.

How would he explain this to the Pontiff? There was no way to clarify; Putt did not want to die, he still wished to devote his body to the Lord.

Elsewhere, in a silent alley, a figure suddenly appeared, masked, glancing around. Finding it empty, he removed the mask, revealing a handsome face—none other than Zhou Tian.

"That was far from clean," he muttered, grimacing as he rubbed his chest, still feeling as if his organs were burning. Perhaps because his opponent's power was weak, the blow was not swift, leaving him alive for a while—enough to suffer considerable pain.

In this Holy City, to court death one had to provoke their revered Lord; otherwise, these people would never strike with full force. Zhou Tian bore no trace of evil god’s aura—there was no way to fabricate one.

Their paths diverged; Zhou Tian felt no guilt using such methods, for he was an adversary to their faith.

He adjusted his clothing to conceal the hole—after all, he’d spent a white crystal coin on this robe.

Zhou Tian returned to his inn; today's goal was accomplished. He would wait for his resurrection counter to refresh before seeking out Mu Xu again—only Mu Xu could divulge where Zhang Yi was being suppressed; Zhou Tian had no means of finding out himself.

In the Land Forsaken by the Gods, Zhou Tian could only rely on the Undying System to measure time; when his resurrection counter refreshed, another day had passed.