Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Cancer of All Realms

Lin Jicang let out a furious roar, his two black pupils taking on a rounded, glossy sheen as they began to split, and split again, until in an instant they became a dense, beehive-like cluster of unsettling eyes. Tiny eyeballs filled his sockets, while his skin began to reveal rows of fine cracks.

The Slayer Buddha uttered a surprised “Oh?” and his descending palm suddenly accelerated, yet just as he touched Lin Jicang, he withdrew, his robe tearing open in a jagged breach.

The weapon Lin Jicang wielded was now a mass of muscle tendrils, each razor-sharp at the tip, writhing in the air.

At this moment, half of Lin Jicang’s body had separated into a fan of undulating tentacles, resembling beef tripe, their ends gleaming like polished blades.

Even his cheeks unfurled like a predatory sundew, sending out sharp, blade-like shoots.

The Slayer Buddha understood at last. “So that’s it. You’ve awakened memories of past lives and reincarnations. No wonder you broke free of my illusion.”

The Slayer Buddha’s martial prowess relied on Deltawaves to interfere with the brainwaves of his victims, weaving illusions so real that his prey would unknowingly be struck down in an instant.

But now, Lin Jicang’s Deltawaves were in utter chaos—at once singular and yet seemingly composed of dozens of discordant frequencies.

Within his beehive eyes, countless flickers of light and darkness suggested dozens of people blinking in unison.

This was the unique power he had awakened in agony and despair: the partition of consciousness.

Strictly speaking, this wasn’t a particularly remarkable ability. It was, rather, a desperate compromise—a concession to the fact that no ordinary human mind could command such an intricately evolved body.

A superorganism’s body was vastly more complex than what a normal human brain could govern, involving intricate networks of nerves, sensations, autonomous regulation, even microscopic changes within cells. Not even Adonsa relied entirely on computational power; control came from an innate, instinctive talent.

For a superbeing, Lin Jicang’s brute-force muscle expansion was a waste of potential.

Through repeated failures, he had finally and hazily evolved this grotesque form of control.

Dividing his consciousness into dozens of fragments allowed him to meet the minimum threshold for operating his body, but at the cost of losing coherent thought. Animalistic instinct now reigned.

All Lin Jicang’s muscles were composed of unique, shapeshifting cells, able to slide past each other at will, yet interlock like wedges when needed, instantly solidifying into tissue as strong as wrought iron.

Only by partitioning his consciousness could Lin Jicang command such an unimaginably potent form.

Half his body maintained basic mobility, while the other half transformed into an array of slashing blades—countless serpentine knives writhing toward the Slayer Buddha as he growled, “Unforgivable…”

In the remnants of his awareness, Lin Jicang seethed with hatred for the twisted madman before him, who cloaked his atrocities in the guise of righteous cause.

Perhaps, deep down, he sensed that his own path of slaughter was not so different from the Slayer Buddha’s—one killed in the Buddha’s name, the other for vengeance.

It was precisely this resemblance that bred such bitter hatred.

Extending his bladed limbs, Lin Jicang widened his attack and hurled himself forward.

Seeing Lin Jicang, now little more than a wild beast, the Slayer Buddha pressed his palms together and intoned, “All beings are equal; all are bound to the cycle of six realms. Whether you are man or demon, I shall deliver you to transcendence.”

His words rang with righteous fervor, but his face twisted into a demonic grimace, his body bulging with dark veins—a wrathful demon from the depths of hell, even his toenails piercing through his monk’s shoes.

The net of Lin Jicang’s tentacles was forced back by the Slayer Buddha’s charge, yet the coils tenaciously clung to him, refusing to be shaken off.

Lin Jicang’s myriad blades jabbed at the Slayer Buddha’s supple skin, yet even with all his might, he could not pierce more than a millimeter—like carving a car tire with a blunt knife.

Likewise, the Slayer Buddha’s techniques, honed against human opponents, now proved useless. Even if he locked joints or broke bones, it was meaningless.

The Slayer Buddha’s heavy fists pummeled Lin Jicang’s body, blasting wounds as wide as rice bowls, but the shapeshifting cells miraculously healed each gash with speed. Some wounds, not vital, he didn’t even bother to dodge or repair, continuing his relentless assault.

Suddenly, the chanting of Buddhist mantras arose. The illusory sea of blood slowly reemerged, and Lin Jicang again felt that nauseating, suffocating oppression.

The Deltawave’s amplitude swelled tenfold. If visible, it would resemble tidal waves crashing outward, even causing nearby plants to wither and fade, draining all life in a deadly hush.

The Slayer Buddha’s eyes were bloodshot, the veins on his bald head bulging darkly; he was clearly giving his all.

Lin Jicang summoned what little focus he had left, stabbing his blades toward every vital point—eyes, ears, mouth, nose, even the most vulnerable parts below the waist.

But the Pulse Adepts, after thousands of years of brutal combat, had developed specialized training against all manner of dirty tricks, making their vital points as tough—or tougher—than the rest of their bodies.

A master of body refinement like Zhang Liaoyuan would be called a “Body of No Leaks,” with not a single weakness remaining.

Even for the half-crazed Slayer Buddha, Lin Jicang could not break through.

At that moment, Adonsa’s voice rang out.

“This is how this body should be used.”

In an instant, Lin Jicang realized he had lost all control, reduced to a mere spectator as events unfolded.

The Adonsa fragment lurking within him seized command of his body.

Under Adonsa’s control, dormant combat organs were activated in succession, and Lin Jicang’s form morphed endlessly like a ball of yarn unraveling. He lost all semblance of humanity, metallic bones tossed aside like scrap.

The Slayer Buddha immediately sensed the change and decisively turned to flee.

But Adonsa’s body, entwined with his, split open down the middle, enveloping the Slayer Buddha like a sack.

The writhing muscles contracted and coiled, layer upon layer binding the Slayer Buddha, while hidden killing organs in the flesh shredded at his tough hide like a meat grinder.

The next moment, the Slayer Buddha braced his legs in a horse stance, body shrinking, about to explode outward. But Adonsa’s sack-like body pulsed and compressed like a stomach wall, dispersing the force he tried to unleash.

The muscular bands, contracting rhythmically like pythons, targeted every pause in the Slayer Buddha’s breathing, steadily limiting his movement.

Even though a Pulse Adept could hold his breath for long periods, he could not overcome the natural contraction of muscle. Adonsa seized each fleeting instant when Slayer Buddha’s muscles relaxed to constrict him so tightly that not even a single breath could pass.

Yet, even with all his might, Adonsa could not inflict a decisive wound—his shapeshifting cells, for all their toughness and flexibility, lacked overwhelming force and could only passively constrict.

Suddenly, the Slayer Buddha ceased all resistance. His last breath of energy dissipated naturally, and he let Adonsa snap and crush each bone in his body, one by one.

Perhaps he was truly exhausted, or perhaps the madman had sensed some omen of karma and destiny.

With a peaceful expression, he softly recited, “Amitabha.”