Chapter 109: Feels Like Eating Poop

Fang Cheng didn’t want Sato Hayato to take off his clothes for a fencing match. He just wanted to swap outfits. His combat suit offered better protection, and giving it to Sato would be more practical. If the kid got stabbed inside and turned from Sato Hayato into a corpse, that’d be a real joke.

After Fang Cheng explained, Sato Hayato sighed in relief, while Tsukikage Chuxia pouted, disappointed at missing potential drama. Clearly, both had dirty minds—hearing “take off clothes” sent their thoughts straight to the gutter. Pathetic.

Fang Cheng and Sato swapped clothes. Their builds differed: the combat suit hung loose on Sato, while Fang Cheng’s shirt clung tightly to his muscles. The pants were especially tight around the crotch, hardly fitting. Fang Cheng didn’t care—once fighting started, the clothes would probably get shredded anyway.

He asked Tsukikage Chuxia, “Planning to leave now or wait outside?”

“Delivery only, no pickup service.”

She checked her phone, grinning. “But I’ll slack here for two hours. Hurry up, okay?”

Fang Cheng guessed the catnip bribes worked. He nodded, called Sato—who was adjusting his belt—and headed into Yamatsumachi.

Once they disappeared, Tsukikage Chuxia slid into her sports car, pulled out a catnip packet, inhaled deeply, and melted into bliss.

In Japanese, “machi” means a market or town. Administratively, in Area 11, it’s between a city and village—a large community or small town. Yamatsumachi had been abandoned for over a decade. Nature reclaimed its buildings: weeds burst through cracks, fungi and vines smothered walls.

Walking the cracked roads, Sato Hayato glanced around curiously. Raised in the city, he’d only seen rural photos online. The real desolation dwarfed those images. If not for rescuing his sister, he’d explore more.

Fang Cheng studied his phone—Takeda Masumi had sent a decade-old map of Yamatsumachi. Tsukikage Hoshi had said the Blissful Faith’s hideout was Sadaigi Gym, dead center on the map.

“Quit dragging your feet like a girl,” Fang Cheng snapped, speeding up.

Sato gritted his teeth and followed.

Ten minutes later, they spotted Sadaigi Gym. Dozens of vehicles—even a double-decker bus—cluttered the entrance. Seven-eight cultists in black-and-white robes chatted by the door—guards or greeters.

Using stealth techniques from Takeda Masumi, Fang Cheng led a breathless Sato around the gym’s side. The back door was locked, but the crumbling second-floor windows offered entry. Fang Cheng hoisted Sato by the hips and flung him upward.

Sato paled, biting back a yelp. Using his new mental powers, he floated silently through the window. Fang Cheng sprinted, leaped, and landed beside him.

Inside the room stood many rusty shelves, likely used for storing equipment.

Fang Cheng gestured for Sato Hayato to stay silent before slowly pushing open the door.

They entered a hallway with cracked, peeling walls, but the spotless floor suggested long-term habitation.

Closing his eyes, Fang Cheng activated his Advanced Smell ability.

A flood of odors assaulted his nostrils—mold, rust, rotting food, sweat, perfume, saliva, foot stench, and…ugh, the sharp tang of human waste!

He clamped his hand over his nose, feeling like he’d accidentally licked a sewage pipe.

A dense cluster of human scents gathered in the lower-left direction, likely marking the divine descent ceremony’s location.

Distinguishing Asaka Akihime or Sato Mai proved impossible; their smells resembled ordinary people’s unless they carried strong identifiers like body odor.

Still, pinpointing the ritual location meant they could avoid wandering blindly.

*Clang! Clang! Clang!*

Sudden clock chimes reverberated through the air.

Fang Cheng detected movement—countless scents from across the gym now converged toward the ritual site.

He yanked Sato Hayato’s head back inside just as two believers rounded the corner, chatting while approaching.

When they passed the doorway, Fang Cheng sprang out.

*Thud! Thud!*

One punch knocked out each cultist.

Sato Hayato efficiently dragged the unconscious men inside and stripped off their robes.

Reemerging in stolen black-and-white cult garments, the pair hurried toward the ceremony site.

They passed numerous believers along the way—mostly middle-aged, with few under thirty.

The Blissful faith clearly struggled with member aging, its youth stolen by rival cults.

Believers clustered like chattering ducks, debating theological matters.

Fang Cheng and Sato Hayato kept silent, turtle-like at the group’s rear.

The procession inched forward until Bible chants echoed ahead.

…

The transformed basketball court retained only its audience area. Workers had demolished the hoops and built a concrete blood-pool connecting to a central altar.

Three hundred believers stood holding dark Bibles, their murmurs coalescing into droning prayer.

Behind the podium-like altar stood Archbishop Mizumata Doi—white-bearded Tokyo leader of Blissful faith—reading scripture through the loudspeaker. He’d abandoned his ninth young model wife in their Second Floor mansion to oversee tonight’s ritual.

Silence fell when he closed his Bible. “Present the Saintesses!” he boomed.

Side doors swung open to ceremonial music. Ten veiled women in wedding-style gowns emerged under searchlights’ glare—white and black robes flowing like bridal processional. With the atmospheric lighting, the scene resembled more a tacky wedding expo than a cult’s sacrificial ceremony.

Then an eleventh Saintess appeared: Sato Mai.