Chapter 179: Black Snow.
Chapter 179: Black Snow.
Chapter 179 The Black Snowfall.
The spectators would never forget the scene before them for the rest of their lives.
Amid the violent clash of two forces, the River of Fate—rarely revealing itself to ability users unaffiliated with its Domain—manifested its vast, silver expanse.
Countless black butterflies flapped their wings, stirring towering waves upon the river's surface, like gleaming blades erupting from the ground, merging into an awe-inspiring, sky-scraping wall of water.
The swarm of butterflies skimmed low, nearly grazing the colossal waves, their wings patterned with emerald motifs undulating with the surging tides.
In that fleeting moment, silver, deep black, and dark green hues swirled together, churning into a surreal yet beautiful sea of butterflies.
The countless wave peaks gradually converged, like innumerable palms pressing together, slowly closing in, encircling a central point as the butterflies spiraled, forming a massive, turbulent whirlpool that inexorably dragged the black goat's phantom into its depths.
With a plaintive cry, the black goat pawed frantically at the air, struggling to break free.
Yet one after another, the black butterflies settled upon it—seemingly light and fragile, yet tightly wrapping and restraining it, delivering an embrace heavy with death.
Wave upon wave of butterflies covered the black goat entirely, leaving no gaps, until only countless wings, studded like emeralds, quivered faintly—resembling the witch's inscrutable gaze.
The ripples of the River of Fate intertwined with the destinies of all living beings, but the countless butterfly wings formed a curtain, shielding the struggle's impact on those fates.
In the lesser worlds, those whose threads of fate were grazed by the conflict only glimpsed, for a fleeting moment, a beautiful, deep-black butterfly—
A butterfly that did not exist in the material world fluttered its wings, its body dissolving into fine dust, drifting down upon the people like gentle snowfall, brushing the brows of innocent children with a touch cool as black snow.
Like a silent farewell.
Some onlookers couldn’t help reaching out from the void, trying to catch a single exhausted butterfly or a handful of cool, black ashes.
Yet they grasped nothing, fated only to remain silent spectators.
...After all, how could "spectators" ever alter the course of a performance on stage?
Amid the waves and the swarm of butterflies, the witch thus became entangled with the ancient god who had controlled her, embracing as they sank together into the depths of the River of Fate’s whirlpool.
Witnessing the two beings swallowed by the vortex, most spectators still clutched at hope, hoping one might emerge victorious from the river’s surface.
But they waited and waited—only for the River of Fate’s waves to calm, gradually returning to its usual serenity.
All that remained was a single tattered butterfly wing, drifting down lightly, spinning slowly upon the silvery water before sinking beneath the surface.
Like a closing punctuation mark, or an actor’s closing dance step as the curtain fell.
The delicate wing bobbed for mere seconds before vanishing into the depths.
To those outside the Fate Domain, the River of Fate once again faded into obscurity.
Though burning with endless curiosity about the story’s end, the onlookers could only disperse, their hearts heavy with regret.
One could easily foresee that, for at least the next month—
Every ability user and divine being would obsess over discussing this battle.
Whether it was the tragic irony of "the witch who vowed to bring endless chaos and misfortune to the world, only to bury both herself and her enemy in disaster,"
Or the poetic justice of "the lofty ancient god, so certain of its control, only to perish at the hands of its own puppet"—
It was all shocking enough to take one's breath away.
Enough to somewhat rehabilitate the Ill Fate Witch’s infamy, to enshrine her legend in countless writers’ works, flowing endlessly like ink onto pages countless as snowflakes, drifting into the dreams of readers.
In any case, this performance seemed to have reached its temporary conclusion.
Yet the clock ticked onward, and the stories of others continued.
......
In a premier hospital suite of a high-tech world—
The King of Metal and Stone lay utterly still on the bed. In just a few days, he had aged decades, like a blighted tree clinging to life through the most advanced medical equipment.
His decline was not only due to the devastating blow of his organization’s sudden collapse, but also because—
There was no longer a leader to provide him with new, healthy vessels.
The King of Metal and Stone was born into a multiversal financial dynasty, his kin all high-ranking ability users wielding immense power, who doted on him excessively.
From birth, wealth, resources, and connections beyond ordinary imagination were all his for the grasping, things to be casually discarded.
Only one thing remained beyond his grasp—health.
Whether due to some mysterious influence or not, he was born frail, spending most of his life bedridden. Even the most precious Life Domain elixirs could not stem the relentless drain of his vitality.
His life was like a tiny hourglass, its sands slipping away grain by grain.
By his early twenties, the hourglass was nearly empty.
His medical team sighed over his test results, concluding with a single suggestion:
Upload his consciousness to the cloud, abandoning his body to live in a virtual world—or, using similar methods, pair mechanical simulation technology to inhabit an artificial body.
But the King of Metal and Stone could not accept this.
He wanted a living, vibrant body like any ordinary person. He wanted to remain in the real world, to cling tightly to everything he was born with—not lose himself in a fabricated existence.
It was at his most desperate moment that he met the leader of Longinus.
"What they dare not do for you, I can achieve."
The uninvited stranger spoke arrogantly, drawing back the curtains to reveal people running outside the floor-to-ceiling window. "Whatever body you desire, I can obtain it for you. Jumping, running—even extreme sports you’ve never dared imagine—will no longer be out of reach."
"Like property, land, and money—these healthy bodies are just another resource you can acquire."
"If you work with me."
The temptation was too great.
In truth, the King of Metal and Stone had long sought out Life Domain ability users, probing discreetly for ways to exchange bodies through mystical means.
But low-level ability users lacked the power, while mid-to-high-level ones were monopolized by the three great sects of the Tree of Life, who held firm to their beliefs, insisting his fading vitality was divine will—unwilling to defy natural order.
Only the leader promised him:
Those vibrant lives could be his to choose from, like commodities.
At the same time, the leader revealed that the organization housed a massive research institute, overseen by the Rank 8 Fallen Knowledge, which could dedicate an independent lab solely to studying his condition.
Unsurprisingly, the King of Metal and Stone was swayed.
From then on, he changed one young and vigorous body after another, just like swapping favored garments, finally experiencing a life without illness or pain.
Due to the mismatch between his soul and these bodies, they aged several times faster than normal... but it didn’t matter—it was merely a matter of consuming more disposable tools.
Every decade, the King of Metal and Stone would grow white-haired, sending people to find the next age-appropriate body. Legal procedures like adoption and inheritance were meticulously arranged, preparing thoroughly for the next phase of his life.
Those young men, deceived into believing they had hit the jackpot, either grinned like fools while eagerly planning their futures or wept with gratitude, clasping their "adoptive father’s" hand, hovering anxiously around his sickbed, praising his generosity and kindness—just like the ignorant media outside.
In the past, the King of Metal and Stone would always smile at such moments.
Yes, these young men would inherit his wealth—but only their bodies.
Yet today, the King of Metal and Stone had lost his calm demeanor.
He stared in terror at the clock across from his sickbed, his clouded eyes burning with obsessive desperation and resentment.
"Tick, tock..."
The second hand turned, emitting faint, crisp sounds, each passing second sending chills down the old man’s spine...
He had a premonition: the leader would not appear again.
With the fall of Longinus, he would sink forever into the embrace of death.
The door creaked open. The King of Metal and Stone turned his head, his eyes wide with rage as he glared at his adopted son striding in. His gnarled fingers trembled as he pointed at this infuriatingly fortunate young man.
His wealth, his health, his youth—they should have all been his!
"My... my..."
The piercing, frantic beeps of medical equipment rang in his ears. The King of Metal and Stone watched as a swarm of doctors and nurses swarmed in, crowding around his bed in a dizzying whirl. Yet, with his last shred of defiance, he gasped out a few words: "My... wealth..."
His pre-appointed heir sat closest, firmly gripping his trembling hand, soothing him ignorantly:
"Father, rest assured. I will safeguard your assets and legacy with care—just as you devoted your life to charity, I will carry on your spirit, allocating funds annually to build schools and hospitals, helping those in need..."
No, this was not what he wanted at all!
The King of Metal and Stone’s heart seared with fury, but he could no longer utter a single word. His gaze toward the ceiling glazed over.
The lights and the figures leaning over him swayed and blurred—growing indistinct and distant.
In his haze, the faces pressing close began to twist, morphing into familiar visages—the faces of the young men whose bodies he had stolen!
Ghostly pale, they stretched out hands as soft and boneless like slugs, seizing the King of Metal and Stone with a deathly grip.
As they drew near, an icy aura coiled around the old man, like wraiths eagerly dragging him to hell...
"Aaahhh! Let go of me!!"
The King of Metal and Stone let out a guttural shriek, thrashing weakly—his frail body only capable of convulsing on the bed, startling the medical staff into restraining his limbs.
Just before the cold hands fully smothered his face, he faintly sensed his soul detaching from his body, leaving the hospital, dragged by these specters into a bizarre, blank white abyss.
A slit opened at the top of the space, revealing a shadowed half-face beyond.
The figure outside appeared colossal, rendering the King of Metal and Stone pitifully small. A single glance sent uncontrollable shivers through him.
Dark green eyes glanced downward. The being beyond the void seemed to smirk in satisfaction before sealing the slit shut once more.
*Creak—*
Under the old man’s despairing, horrified gaze, the light from the outside world vanished completely.
No one escapes the Witch’s Box.