Chapter 86: Absolute Power

At this moment, Leng Bingyan had no choice but to intervene. Philores was a great archangel, his power equivalent to a cultivator at the Tribulation Crossing stage. As for Ruth, he was a golden emperor-level vampire, whose strength at most matched a cultivator of the Nascent Soul stage. The difference in power was undeniable, with an insurmountable gap between them—their realms so vastly apart that Ruth stood no chance of defeating Philores.

Philores, enraged by Leng Bingyan’s words, thundered, “How dare you slander the mighty Archangel Michael!” He no longer cared about his fear of Leng Bingyan’s formidable strength.

Leng Bingyan shrugged indifferently, “Why wouldn’t I dare? Not only do I dare say it in front of you, but even if Michael himself were here, I’d still say it!”

“You misguided Easterner, I, Philores, will surely make you regret this.” He waved his gleaming sword, its golden tip pointed at Bingyan from midair.

“Don’t speak too soon.” Leng Bingyan’s eyes narrowed, a faint fire flickering within—they were now ablaze with anger. In a flash faster than lightning, he appeared before Philores, fist flashing with radiant energy as it struck Philores’s chest. A thunderous boom echoed—never had such a sound been heard before. Philores, wings semi-folded, was blasted away like a bolt of lightning. Leng Bingyan shook his fist and apologized, “I went too hard,” but his expression betrayed no hint of remorse; instead, his anger only deepened.

Philores spun gracefully in midair, wiped golden blood from his lips, and stared in awe at the Eastern man’s power. Sword raised, he prepared to fight.

“There are words you aren’t qualified to speak,” Leng Bingyan continued, reaching out to grasp Philores’s pure white wings—at some point, he was already beside the angel. “I’ve heard angels’ power is stored in their wings. I wonder, what becomes of an angel who loses them?”

Philores shuddered at Leng Bingyan’s words, a foreboding dread welling up within. Moments later, agonizing pain tore through his back as Leng Bingyan gripped his wings and wrenched fiercely. With a sickening rip, one wing was torn clean off.

Golden blood gushed forth, soaking the once-white feathers. The broken wing hung limp in Bingyan’s hand.

Sweat poured in cold rivulets as terror filled Philores’s eyes. “There’s still one left,” Leng Bingyan said slyly, “Let me help you with that.” Another brutal tear, and the remaining wing was ripped off. Philores let out a long, anguished cry and fell unconscious.

Seeing Philores limp and defeated, Leng Bingyan glanced at the broken wings with disinterest. A burst of golden light transformed them into scattered stardust, slowly fading away in his palm. “Oh?” he murmured in surprise, but said nothing more. He kicked the unconscious Philores, sending him flying.

He then turned to the crowd, especially the Pope and the clergy whose faces had turned pale. Clearly, his actions had dealt them a devastating blow. Apologies… No, I wasn’t accidental—I meant every bit of it.

Yet the matter was far from over. Just as Leng Bingyan had dispatched an archangel, the gate of space opened again—not the one the Pope had summoned, which had vanished when Philores arrived, but a new portal from another plane, from Eden.

At the instant the portal opened, a sublime hymn rang out, and dazzling white light shone forth—no matter the angle, it radiated unrivaled sanctity. An angel emerged, bearing two pairs of wings—a four-winged angel. This time, it was a female, her wings pure and white. So angels have genders after all! Leng Bingyan muttered to himself.

The female four-winged angel glanced about and spotted Leng Bingyan floating in midair. Among the angels, four-winged ones were mid-rank, occupying the middle of the heavenly hierarchy. She cast a proud gaze at Bingyan, already certain he was the culprit who injured Philores.

“You—you hurt him,” she said, pointing at Philores who lay fallen in the distance. Leng Bingyan nodded wordlessly; these angels, he mused, all acted as if the world couldn’t function without them—so unlike their legendary image.

Seeing him admit it, the angel raised her pristine hand—quite beautiful, Bingyan noted, though compared to his own feathered form, it fell just a bit short.

“I am the Radiant Angel of Light, Medefei. Worthless Easterner, you shall pay for your foolish deeds.” Her hand lifted overhead, and a massive orb of light appeared, easily the size of a dozen basketballs.

“Tsk, tsk…” Leng Bingyan clicked his tongue. This angel, arrogant though she was, possessed real power. A cultivator at the Great Ascension stage would be about the same. If she unleashed that light orb, the entire Hermon Valley might vanish from the face of the earth, and all life below would be obliterated.

“Go ahead, then. Don’t think that flashy ball of light will do much,” Bingyan replied with utter nonchalance, the very picture of indifference. To him, the Radiant Angel’s ultimate move—the blazing holy orb—was nothing more than a “little ball.”

Medefei trembled with rage, silently reminding herself, “You are God’s messenger. Do not lose your composure. Hold on, hold on.”

Watching her trembling hand, Bingyan knew she was furious and secretly chuckled, “Let’s see how long you can endure.”

Sure enough, Medefei did not disappoint. She waved her slender fingers, sending the blazing holy orb hurtling toward Bingyan with precision. As the orb drew closer, Leng Bingyan tilted his head, making no attempt to dodge or resist.

Medefei sneered coldly. Did he think his mortal flesh could withstand her holy orb? Such arrogance! She could already picture Bingyan’s gruesome death beneath the radiant sphere, a smile curling her lips.

But would things go as she wished? Of course not. As the light orb approached, Leng Bingyan’s body remained motionless, but in the instant it struck, a surge of brilliant light erupted from within. After the glare faded, the Crescent Star Wheel shot forth, slicing straight toward the orb.

A muffled impact resounded—the holy orb was cleaved in two by the Crescent Star Wheel without the slightest pause. The split orb exploded violently, its power immense, sending a wave of heat outward. Leng Bingyan was close to the blast’s center, but with a few casual gestures, he conjured a barrier that shielded him from the explosion.

After the blast, Medefei’s pupils contracted sharply—she could not accept that Leng Bingyan was still floating unharmed.

The Crescent Star Wheel whirled joyously around Bingyan, its silver crescent and star-studded rim a dazzling sight. He hadn’t used it in ages. Mo Wuxie had told him the Crescent Star Wheel had two faces, and he held only one. Though it served both offense and defense, this side favored defense.

He extended his finger, pointing skyward, and the Crescent Star Wheel shrank to encircle his fingertip, rotating nimbly. Leng Bingyan smiled faintly, flicked his finger, and sent the miniature wheel streaking toward Medefei, a gleaming silver arc slicing through the air.

Medefei dared not confront it head-on and desperately tried to evade, but to her surprise, the Crescent Star Wheel veered after her, relentlessly pursuing as if it must strike her.

Terrified, Medefei lost all her former pride and fled in utter disgrace.

The clergy’s expressions were now exceedingly strange. Life brings its share of storms and blessings, but never had they experienced such wild swings. They’d entered the holy war with absolute confidence, only to be stunned by the Dark Council’s unexpected strength. After a period of stalemate, summoning an angel gave them renewed hope, victory seemed assured—until a sudden twist, the divine messenger was defeated.

Then came a mid-rank four-winged angel; surely this time they’d prevail. Yet the outcome was beyond imagining. Now, victory was no longer even considered—they merely hoped to survive.

Angels had descended, yet were powerless against this mysterious Easterner. Their faith had sustained them thus far, but it was at its limits. Even if they gave up, God would not blame them—this was the silent sentiment of most believers.

“A heavy blow for you,” Bingyan declared, appearing before Medefei and blocking her escape. She tried to dodge, but to her horror found she could not change direction.

“Give up, it’s useless,” Bingyan said, his voice almost hypnotic. He smiled, and his small fist struck with force. The angel vanished like a meteor streaking across the night sky—save that it was daylight now.

“This world is too peaceful,” Leng Bingyan chuckled, dusting his hands in a relaxed manner, then turned to look at the Pope.

He also glanced at Cardinal Lan Omans, who had long recognized Bingyan as the mysterious master who spared him that day. He’d already feared Bingyan somewhat, but seeing him dispatch a four-winged angel with ease deepened his terror.

“What are you planning?” the Pope asked, a touch of panic in his voice, though he tried to maintain composure—after all, he was the highest authority and could not show fear.

“Nothing much, just thought I’d let some of your blood out.”

That was hardly an act of compassion for the elderly or the young, Leng Bingyan thought with mild contempt for himself. He merely wanted to frighten the clergy, not act upon the threat.

The Pope involuntarily stepped back half a pace—ha, he was scared.

Leng Bingyan squinted, his aura menacing as he approached, like a wolf stalking a lamb. One advanced steadily, the other smiled bitterly, unable to retreat.