There was no time for fear. The featureless tendril of white logic descended, a blade of absolute order aimed at the chaotic, stolen power boiling within him. It did not seek to destroy Li Fan, but to correct him. To surgically remove the corruption of unlogged potential and return Asset 734 to its proper, balanced state in the ledger. It was the universe's auto-correct function, and it had deemed him a critical error.
Instinct, honed by cycles of deception and a lifetime of mortal survival, took over. Li Fan did not meet the tendril with a shield of force. A direct confrontation with the system's root-level defense mechanism was instant annihilation. Instead, he did the only thing he could: he offered it data.
He slammed the metaphorical floodgates shut. The torrent of stolen potential flowing into his reservoir ceased instantly. At the same time, he unleashed the full, raging torrent of the cognitive chaos he had cultivated in his Prayer collective. He fed the white tendril a firehose of contradictory data—the jagged entropy graphs, the volatile yield reports, the screaming statistical noise that was his smokescreen.
For a fraction of a nanosecond, the tendril hesitated. Its purpose was to excise a specific anomaly, a clean, definable tumor. Li Fan had just presented it with a body riddled with fever, conflicting symptoms, and systemic inflammation. It analyzed the data deluge, its pure logic struggling to find a clean surgical path through the self-inflicted chaos.
That hesitation was the opening he needed.
His consciousness, supercharged by the vast reservoir of stolen potential he had already accumulated, moved at a speed beyond divinity. While the white tendril processed the noise, Li Fan focused on the cloak he had been weaving—the shield of anonymity made from unlogged possibility.
It was only half-formed, a fragile, shimmering web around his Divine Spark. It wouldn't hold. Not against this.
A new thought, cold and ruthless, crystallized in his mind. A patchwork cloak won't hide you from God. But a shroud of someone else's making might.
He looked not inward, but outward, to the roiling storm of the Abyss. The ancient presence was there, watching, waiting. It had offered him a storm for cover. He would now take it.
With a final, desperate act of will, Li Fan did not try to finish weaving the cloak. Instead, he threw the half-finished construct, along with a sizable chunk of his stolen potential, directly into the path of the Abyssal storm.
It was a bribe. A payment. A offering tossed to a beast to draw its attention away from the hunter.
The effect was instantaneous and cataclysmic.
The half-formed cloak of anonymity, woven from the system's own stolen substance, unraveled as it hit the Abyssal front. The raw potential detonated in a silent, metaphysical explosion that stained the void with colors that didn't exist. The orderly pressure of the system and the chaotic hunger of the Abyss clashed directly over the source of the disturbance—the discarded shroud.
The white tendril of logic shuddered. Its target—the "anomaly" it was sent to correct—had seemingly just been obliterated by an external, catastrophic force. Its internal mandate was thrown into confusion. The massive energy signature from the Abyssal detonation overwrote the lingering traces of Li Fan's theft.
The tendril hung in the air for another moment, scanning, recalculating. Finding no clear, internal anomaly to correct—only the massive, external damage from an Abyssal attack—it retracted. The patch of null-space above Li Fan's throne stitched itself back together as if it had never been.
The direct assault was over.
Li Fan collapsed against his throne, his form flickering, his Divine Spark feeling hollowed out and scorched. He had sacrificed most of his hard-stolen potential. The glorious reservoir was nearly empty. But he was alive. He had used the Abyss as a cosmic trash can, disposing of the evidence of his crime by making it look like enemy action.
He had survived the inquisition by framing a greater devil for his sins.
As the adrenaline faded, a profound emptiness took its place. He was back to almost zero, his kingdom was in a state of artificially induced turmoil, and he had just voluntarily attracted the focused attention of both the system's immune system and a primordial horror.
He had won the battle by the slimmest of margins, but the war had escalated beyond his comprehension.
And then, a hand fell on his shoulder.
It was not a metaphysical sensation. It was a physical, solid, human hand. The touch sent a jolt through his divine form, a sensation so alien and forgotten it was almost painful.
Li Fan's head snapped around.
Standing beside his throne was a man. He was dressed in simple, travel-worn mortal clothes, stained with dust and what looked like old blood. His face was hardened, etched with lines of grief and a relentless purpose, but his eyes… his eyes held the same stubborn light he remembered from a lifetime ago.
"Xiao Fan," the man said, his voice rough with disuse, but utterly familiar. "You've been busy."
Li Chen, his brother, had not just sent a message. He had found a way inside. He was here.
The thief, the god, the king of a broken paradise, looked into the eyes of his mortal brother and for the first time in an eternity, had no words. The path had just split open, and a ghost from his past had stepped onto it, holding a key he didn't yet know he needed.