The night was like ink-soaked cotton, casting a grim and chilly pall over the upturned eaves of the Holy Monarch Cult’s headquarters.
Pi Yanlin sprawled lazily atop a high wall, gazing down at the dense sea of believers kneeling in the square below. The scent of heavy incense clung to his nostrils—mingled with reverence, obsession, and a faint, lingering trace of fear, as sticky as a spiderweb.
"They’re planning something big," he muttered, his chin resting against his knuckles as he squinted.
Chapter 142