Chapter 45: False God

This time Mu couldn’t wait to restart the experiment.
Either she had no other concerns left—or huge profit drove her to pay any price for fallen-god power.
What happened back then must have hidden cause.
From her first memory a kind person found her and sent her straight to Wangshu Orphanage.
That message crystal had lain where she lived long—silent until now.
Just when she sensed something wrong and sought her origin—it appeared here.
Design—or coincidence?
Only guesswork. Inference stopped there—no further thread.
To find the rest of her consciousness—only through Mu and Jade Dust.
A day’s fatigue rose. Eyelids heavy. She sank into dream.
When awareness returned she opened her eyes slow—clear she was inside a dream.
Familiar altar. Familiar pillar. Another age entirely before her eyes.
Different this time—no one bound to the pillar. No firewood blaze below.
Timeline earlier—before the cult’s trial.
“Holy Maiden, why are you here?” A solemnly dressed woman ran over, panting. “The rite is about to start. Come quickly—we can’t miss the auspicious hour or anger the god.”
She was startled: “You… can see me?”
The woman frowned, hesitant. “Holy Maiden, are you unwell?”
“Holy Maiden?”
She looked down—grand clothes, elaborate silver headdress—noble’s dress.
Every gaze held respect and worship.
That devout look… like facing a god of faith.
The woman started to speak—closed her mouth, swallowed the words.
Another noble ran up: “High Priestess, Holy Maiden—the Descent Rite begins soon.”
The High Priestess’s face darkened. No more delay—she seized her wrist.
Rude grip—but voice utterly respectful: “Holy Maiden, the Descent Rite comes first. Questions after.”
Grip iron—couldn’t break free. Even in a dream it hurt.
After a long walk they reached a church-like building. At last she was released.
Believers in hoods, plain white, looked up devout and kowtowed: “Long live the High Priestess! Long live the Holy Maiden!”
She thought privately—which dynasty is this? Never heard of it. Felt less cult than some old empire.
The High Priestess whispered: “Holy Maiden, do what you must.”
“But—” Before she finished the High Priestess pushed her onto the high altar.
Fine—it was a dream. These people were phantoms a thousand years ago. Mistakes wouldn’t matter.
Standing on the altar facing countless believers—strange familiarity rose.
She reached forward—and summoned a pure white staff from empty air. The moment it landed it blazed blinding light.
Believers and High Priestess cried together: “Long live the Holy Maiden! Long live the god!”
Last dream she’d been bound to the pillar—same believers calling her the evil god’s witch.
This sect worshipped Milt. More precisely—Milt before demonization.
When light faded Milt’s figure appeared on the altar.
She knew at once—not real Milt, not a divine avatar—phantom faked by human ability users.
So this was the Descent Rite.
No real god—only humans in god’s skin, playing tricks.
Even as image Milt wore bright red finery.
Unlike antiquity Milt wore a fine silver mask hiding the beautiful face.
That dress overlapped Jade Dust in memory perfectly—even mask craft identical.
If Jade Dust was born after the ancient war she must have seen images of Milt—or couldn’t copy so perfectly.
She remembered entering the disordered space—Jade Dust guided her.
Jade Dust sent Yang Yufei to meet the open conditions—must have known what was inside.
But after the ancient war Diting had sealed all news.
Diting was cautious—wouldn’t mention it. Jade Dust wasn’t fallen god—how open a crystal only fallen gods could open and see Milt’s face?
Unless Jade Dust was born in the ancient age.
Milt’s phantom spread arms, perfect smile, voice high: “You called me—why?”
The High Priestess stepped forward, bowed: “Great god, we serve you with deathless loyalty—we beg eternal life.”
“Eternal life?” Milt’s face unchanged—tone light: “All things have law. Human life is a hundred years fixed. How would I grant eternity?”
Words done—Milt vanished.
The human ability users behind the show were skilled. Believers knelt afraid to rise. The High Priestess went white.
A long while the High Priestess looked at her like drowning grasping straw—knelt, forehead to ground: “Holy Maiden, guide us!”
Too real—pain on the wrist, the High Priestess kneeling now.
Less and less like a simple dream.
She signaled the High Priestess up. A look behind—believers rose heads down and left the church.
Door closed. The High Priestess frowned sudden: “Holy Maiden—you aren’t from our age, are you?”
Heart skipped—she didn’t move rash. If the cult revered the Holy Maiden she played the role: “What do you mean, High Priestess?”
“No ill intent. Even from another time—if you summon the staff and start the rite, you are our Holy Maiden.” The High Priestess asked, “I feel your breath isn’t of this era. You crossed time—has my church met calamity in the future?”
More than calamity—she’d never heard of this church.
They’d call their Holy Maiden a witch and burn her alive. Wouldn’t last a few years—no need to think centuries ahead.
If she told the High Priestess—or that their god was a fake—fanatics would call her mad and hurry the fire.
By the High Priestess’s tone she’d really crossed into this age.
She had to find a way out of this uncanny place fast.
Facing hopeful eyes she laughed dry: “High Priestess, I am from the future—but I don’t know the situation or why I’m here.”
“The god left word—if the Holy Maiden crosses time, calamity will come to our church.” The High Priestess’s eyes dimmed. “Your coming must be heaven’s will.”
Heaven’s will—meaning burned alive?
Calamity yes—but what did her crossing have to do with it?
She asked: “What was the previous Holy Maiden like? Tell me.”
“The Holy Maiden came from the immortal realm—carried the god’s divine consciousness—supreme power—the god’s eyes and ears among us.” The High Priestess grew excited. “The Holy Maiden came to the mortal world, found our church, became the bridge to the god. All we sought was long life.”
Tone earnest—but “just” long life wasn’t simple.
Milt as life-god followed the law of birth and death. Even a real god on the altar wouldn’t grant that mad prayer.
The High Priestess got no useful answer from her—but kept promise, treated her as Holy Maiden with highest rite.
Days in the old age passed easy besides daily prayer.
She searched long—still no way back.
One day after prayer she asked: “How often do you hold the Descent Rite?”
“Once a month.”
Close—the next rite was in three days.
The staff resonated with her. The rite might be real—only used by someone with intent, tool for a false god’s power.
No way back for now—wait for the next rite, find the false god behind it—maybe change the fate of burning alive.
Before the rite—many small rites, none skippable.
Tomorrow—the second Descent Rite.
The High Priestess had drilled the flow countless times. She knew it cold.
Grand dress, step by step to the high altar, drive inner power, summon the white staff.
Light again—the descent array opened at once.
In the gap before the false god appeared she caught wrong breath—couldn’t fix direction.
Maybe noticed—rite didn’t finish. When light faded no phantom appeared.