Chapter 246: Anchors don’t fall Quietly!

The chanting of the Cultists began very low, and slowly slithered. A murmur that crawled along the ground and climbed the trunks of dead trees, vibrating through the cracked basin like a pulse trying to synchronize a dying heart.

The Abyssal anchor responded immediately, crimson veins brightening, the half-formed structure shuddering as if something inside had taken a breath.

Albedo felt it in his bones.

“That’s new,” he muttered, sensing something he hadn’t felt in his previous encounters with Abyssal Worshippers.

The cultists didn’t rush them, instead they spread out.

Figures slipped between warped trees and jagged rock formations, forming a loose, deliberate perimeter around the basin. Their movements weren’t frantic or fanatical the way Abyssal Worshippers usually were.

They were calm, obviously very prepared.

Raphaeline’s wings flexed slightly as she took a step forward, eyes narrowing, “They’re stalling.”

Lucian nodded, jaw tight. “They want time.”

“For what?” Albedo asked.

The answer came immediately.

The ground opened.

Not with an explosion, but with a wet, tearing sound, like flesh being peeled away. Several fissures split the earth near the anchor, and from within them, chains of Abyssal mana rose, coiling upward like living restraints.

Bound to those chains, Albedo’s breath hitched as he saw it.

People.

Men, women, and at least two children, bound in black-red sigils that ate into their skin without killing them. Their eyes were glassy, unfocused, not unconscious, but trapped in some kind of half-aware paralysis.

Human shields.

Lucian swore under his breath, radiant mana flaring involuntarily, “Bastards.”

The chanting shifted.

The cultists raised their arms in unison, Abyssal script igniting across their robes as the chains tightened slightly. One of the captives whimpered, blood trickling from their nose as the sigils pulsed.

A voice echoed from the basin.

“Advance further,” the voice said smoothly, distorted as though spoken through oil and bone, “and the anchors of flesh will rupture.”

Raphaeline’s expression went cold.

“New tactics,” she said quietly.

“Environmental corruption and moral coercion,” Albedo added flatly. “Efficient. Disgusting.”

Lucian’s knuckles whitened around his sword. “We can’t just rush them.”

“No,” Raphaeline agreed. “They’ve woven the captives directly into the anchor’s stabilization matrix. Killing the cultists too quickly could destabilize the bindings.”

Albedo stared down at the scene, eyes glowing faintly as his perception sharpened, mana flowing differently through his pupils.

Source Code flickered.

The world reassembled itself into layered patterns—mana flows, stress points, Abyssal logic structures overlapping like a grotesque schematic.

“…They’re clever,” he said slowly. “The hostages are components.”

Lucian looked at him sharply. “Can you see a way to free them?”

“Yes,” Albedo replied.

Then, after a beat, “But not fast.”

The anchor pulsed again. The land screamed. Black-red corruption surged outward in a wave, and where it touched the environment, it didn’t merely taint, it erased.

Grass dissolved into ash. Stone softened and sagged like wax. Trees collapsed inward, their insides hollowed out as Abyssal energy rewrote their structure.

Raphaeline snapped her hand upward.

A veil of silvery authority flared into existence, intercepting the wave just short of the trio. The corruption screamed as it hit her barrier, peeling away like rejected poison.

“Lucian,” she said sharply. “Containment and crowd control.”

“On it!”

Lucian surged forward, radiant mana blazing as he plunged into the outer ring of cultists. His blade carved through Abyssal constructs and warped beasts alike, holy light burning through corrosive mana and forcing it to recoil.

“Albedo,” Raphaeline continued, eyes never leaving the anchor. “You’re with me.”

He nodded once.

They moved.

The moment they crossed the basin’s threshold, the Abyss reacted violently.

The ground beneath Albedo’s feet turned semi-liquid, corrosive mana trying to dissolve his boots and legs at the molecular level. He snarled softly, Perfect Adaptation flaring as his mana hardened his body’s structure, repelling the effect.

Havoc and Ruin barked in alternating rhythm.

Graviton Mode.

Two shots struck the ground near a cluster of cultists, not killing them, but collapsing space itself. Gravity spiked violently, pinning them in place as the earth swallowed their legs.

Raphaeline advanced beside him, movements graceful and terrifying. Every step she took forced Abyssal mana to bow, her authority unraveling the corrupt structures that tried to resist her.

But the cultists immediately adapted. Several slammed blood-smeared hands into the ground, chanting sharply.

The environment turned hostile.

Abyss-corroded vines burst from the soil, tipped with barbs that hissed as they cut through the air. The ground erupted into spires of brittle black crystal that exploded on contact, releasing clouds of corrosive spores.

Albedo twisted, rolling through a collapsing section of terrain as a crystal spire detonated where his head had been. He came up firing, Mana-Drain Mode activating as his rounds siphoned corrupted energy directly from their targets, destabilizing Abyssal constructs mid-formation.

“Raphaeline!” he called. “They’re feeding the anchor through the terrain itself!”

“I see it,” she replied calmly.

She raised both hands.

The air shuddered.

Authority descended.

A massive sigil formed beneath the anchor, silver-gold lines overwriting Abyssal script as Raphaeline forcibly asserted control over the battlefield. The anchor screamed, not audibly, but spiritually, as its connection faltered.

The cultists panicked.

“Now!” one of them shrieked.

The chains tightened.

One of the captives screamed as Abyssal mana surged through their body, veins glowing crimson.

Albedo moved.

Execution Mode.

The pistols fused mid-stride, the super-sniper configuration snapping into place as time seemed to slow around him. His vision narrowed, not to the cultists, not to the anchor, but to the bindings.

Six shots.

Each round curved impossibly, tracking along mana lines only Albedo could see. They struck not flesh, but sigils, precise points where Abyssal logic intersected with human life.

The chains shattered.

The captives collapsed, freed but unconscious, bodies rolling safely away as the anchor howled in rage.

Lucian felt it immediately.

“The anchor’s destabilizing!” he shouted.

“Good,” Albedo said grimly. “Because now I don’t have to hold back.”

The cultists screamed in fury and desperation, abandoning formation as Abyssal energy poured into them directly. Flesh warped. Limbs elongated. Mouths split into screaming maws as they transformed into grotesque hybrids.

The battlefield erupted.

Infernal Mode ignited.

White-blue flames wrapped Albedo as he charged, punches shattering Abyssal beasts mid-transformation, kicks sending bodies flying into corrosive pits. He moved like an avatar of controlled destruction, adapting instantly to every new technique the Abyss threw at him.

Lucian joined him, radiant fire clashing violently with hellish corruption, the two carving a path straight toward the anchor.

Raphaeline hovered above them now, wings fully spread.

“This ends now,” she said softly.

She clenched her fist.

The anchor collapsed inward.

Abyssal matter screamed as it was compressed, folded, overwritten by divine authority and raw force. The structure imploded, dragging corrupted mana, terrain, and remaining cultists into a singularity of annihilation.

Then, silence.

The basin was gone. In its place was scorched earth, cracked but clean, Abyssal residue evaporating into nothingness as the world slowly reasserted itself.

Albedo stood amid the ruin, flames fading, breathing steady.

Lucian wiped blood from his cheek, laughing weakly. “That was… new.”

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