Secret World: I Became a God Through Lies

Chapter 330 Under the Sacrifice
"Fate doesn't always take lives with a knife."

Sometimes, it only targets those you can't protect.

—The Lower Bible: Prayer for the Nameless

There were no bells ringing on Pota Street late at night.

The clock tower stands silent like a tombstone, and even the air seems to have been polished into a kind of ritualistic silence.

The fog descended layer by layer, like a prayer whispered in someone's ear, entwining the eaves, street stones, and every corner of the wall.

The roof ridge slants, and a damp chill seeps out from between the tiles, like the fingertips of night gently caressing the shoulder of the mute.

The lamp on the street corner has been out for a long time; only a ring of undried gray shadow remains under the glass cover.

But on the other side—through the crack in the window of the Morning Star Evening Classroom—a sliver of warm yellow candlelight shone through, like a wick falling into a sea of ​​fog.

Alan Herwin stood in the shadow of a section of crumbling stone wall across the street, wearing an old sailor's cloak, the hem of which disappeared into the night.

His feet did not move, like a short blade yet to be drawn, hidden in the forgotten cracks of the city, waiting for a moment that was not allowed to appear.

The life line at the base of the index finger on the left palm faintly glowed with a blood-red light in the mist. Each beat was in sync with the heartbeat, but slightly slower—like a kind of "suppressed and delayed" fire.

In his hand, he held a card. The edges, still charred from the fire, were the only thing his sister had left behind.

That card is called "Daywalker".

Life-type, Mid-tier Mystic, Vampire Variant Card.

The image inside the card is a half-human, half-blood slayer, draped in the light of twilight, who was once the father's master mystery.

—Father, a mid-level officer and a member of the Whale Tomb military unit.

He died in that "numbered soldier erasure incident," and his body was not even recorded.

My mother made a living by sewing canvas at the dock. She would work through three layers of calluses to earn a few copper coins, and the foreman would deduct money from her for "sacred offerings."

My older sister signed up for the Morning Star Evening Class. She said, "You can't write your own destiny, but you can at least try to copy it."

She died after that class; her body was an empty shell, her life lines stripped away, and the church left only four words:

"The cards are out of control."

Alan looked at the church bell tower. The tower stood in the center of the block, crowned with the iron crown of the Virgin Mary, with doctrinal inscriptions carved at its base, and incense burning continuously throughout the day.

"They say the Virgin Mary is merciful."

“But she ripped out my sister’s dream, burned it to ashes, and called those ashes ‘redemption’.”

He murmured the words, his voice low and somber, as if reciting an inscription at a grave, each word deliberate and devoid of emotion.

The pulse of his life lines became more frequent, as if trying to break free from his skin. But he didn't activate it.

Because—it's not the right time yet.

He was the "unregistered guard" of this evening classroom.

The god of fate personally arranged for him to guard the street corner after classes ended each night;

Ian gave him the key and an emergency card, saying, "Some kids have just awakened their life runes; we can't afford any more accidents." Rex then patted him on the shoulder.
“You are better suited than us to be the lightkeeper.”

Alan didn't speak, he just nodded slightly.

It was as if I could hear the distant sound of the tide, and I was standing on the shore, not waiting for anyone, but just to prevent anything from being washed away.

The class had just ended.

Several children, carrying tattered schoolbags and wrapped in old shawls, filed out of the classroom. Some were laughing, while others still looked tired.

That was one of the few places in the city where there were no screams or commands.

A very young girl, carrying her textbooks, walked past him, timidly looking up and speaking in a very soft voice:
"Brother, thank you for bringing me back last time."

Alan looked down at her, a rare warmth appearing in his eyes.

"The way home... avoids the church."

The girl nodded and ran off quickly. Her figure faded into the mist, but Alan's gaze remained fixed there for a long time.

The life lines on his palm trembled again, the pulsation seeming to say:

"I remember."

He didn't move.

But the wind has changed.

From the direction of the church, a hidden side door opened and closed gently, and a blurry figure emerged from the depths of the dark alley, its footsteps so light that they barely stirred up any dust.

Alan's brow furrowed, his gaze instantly sharpening. He took a step to the left, pressing himself against the brick wall at the alley entrance, his footsteps as silent as mist.

A red glow shone between his knuckles, like a signal protruding from the tip of a needle.

The edge of the card has already entered my palm.

"That night... my sister didn't come back."

He murmured softly, like an echo of an old vow.

"Tonight—none of you will be able to touch them again."

In the mist, the wind on Broken Tower Street was like an old bell slowly drawing air, gently turned by an unseen hand.

But the bells that night will not ring in the tower, but will instead—

It resonates at the deepest point of people's hearts.

Church of Our Lady of Procreation, Diocese 19, late at night in the inner chapel.

The silver candles were still lit, their flames flickering quietly, casting slow, indistinct shadows between the stone walls and the dome.

Above the dome, a finely embroidered image of a goddess hangs.

The Virgin Mary bowed her head, her face serene and compassionate, one hand cradling the infant, the other resting on a yellowed prayer book, her eyes gazing tenderly at the silent night below, as if silently guarding the sleeping souls of the world.

Father Gaston sat quietly behind the pulpit, like a contemplative statue. His robes were so neat and wrinkle-free that even the cuffs looked as if they had just been ironed.

His slightly balding head gleamed, his chin was covered with a neatly trimmed, short, gray-white beard, and his eyes were deep-set but not sharp.

His gaze was as gentle as a still pond, and his tone remained steady and unhurried, as gentle and slow as an old record player.

He was the quintessential clergyman—making people unconsciously lower their guard, yet still不敢近近 (不敢近近 - a phrase implying a fear of getting close).

He opened an ancient book wrapped in deerskin—the Book of Proverbs—his movements slow and devout, as if each page carried a divine message.

Then, he read aloud softly, his voice deep and reassuringly magnetic:
"The breeder, out of compassion for the suffering people, bestows upon them life marks to guide them to the light."

As he finished speaking, he smiled slightly, as if trying to grasp some profound meaning in the proverb that only he could understand.

He then closed the book, raised his finger slightly, and gestured to the acolyte beside him.

The boy immediately bent down and stepped forward, lifting a painted brick from under the altar floor. A faint metallic clang rang out, and a long-forgotten iron spiral staircase slowly emerged from the ground.

Gaston stood up, smoothed the hem of his robe, and stepped steadily and lightly into the spiraling darkness.

Below the church is the "Church of Holy Blood," a feature found in every diocese of the Church of Our Lady of Procreation, but the one in the 19th diocese is the oldest.

It is said to have been built in the last pre-Saint-Chief era and was once the hermitage of the first Virgin Mary.

The walls still bear traces of incantations from that era. The white walls are mottled and the iron nails are rusted, yet they still firmly hold together fragments of scrolls with life patterns.

Embedded in the center of the ground is a semi-circular spellcasting disc, its patterns almost completely worn away; only the thick stone pillar in the center remains intact.
The top of the pillar is a gray-white, blank card slot, as if quietly waiting for the reactivation of some ancient contract.

Gaston stepped forward and took a blood-red card from his robe.

Intermediate Fate

Nominal Title: Blood Moon Sacrifice Decree

Real name: The Dancer Between Sacrifice and Sin

He looked down at the card, a cold, almost mysterious smile playing on his lips.

Then, he inserted the card into the slot of the stone pillar and slowly recited the incantation:
"I offer my birth mark—to the Holy Mother's thirst."

In an instant, a sliver of red light seeped from the cracks in the stone pillar, like blood seeping from broken bones; the faint light flickered...

The stone pillar trembled slightly and cracked, revealing a circular relief pedestal that slowly rose up. The pedestal was covered with unfilled blood-stained life lines, the lines intersecting to form a sacrificial array pattern, like a mouth that had not yet been fed.

Gaston turned to look at the deacon who had been waiting quietly behind him, his tone calm, yet carrying a chilling command:
"That's enough for one tonight."

He paused, a calculating glint flashing in his eyes:

"Find the youngest and cleanest one—the one in the Life System, those who are not yet bound to another should be given priority."

The assistant priest nodded respectfully, bowed deeply, and then quietly left.

Gaston looked down at the copy of the night class register in his hand. The paper was yellowed, the ink fresh, and one name was circled in red.

"Elph Moen, first encounter with the basic courses of the World System and Life System."

"Unbound life rune. No family protection."

His finger slowly drew a hook next to the name, his eyes showing no emotion, as if he were completing a routine inventory check.

—

On the table to the side lay the sealing commission issued by the Church of Our Lady of Procreation, its gold-embossed seal and black ink lettering gleaming faintly in the candlelight.

"With the Blood Moon approaching, the eldest princess will undergo a promotion assessment in the main hall of the royal palace."

"The Church of Our Lady of Propagation needs to receive seventy-three strands of 'pure life essence' from outside the area to aid the path of Our Lady of Propagation."

The signature at the bottom is the priest's own handwriting, with a long, thin, nail-like stroke that is elegant yet barbed, like a silver needle that could pierce the heart of a believer at any moment.

Gaston stared at the commission, a meaningful smile reappearing on his lips, and muttered to himself:
"Saintess Advances in Rank."

“We shepherds… can only leave this area and become bishops.”

He looked up at the statue of the goddess on the dome, his voice soft and gentle, almost a whisper:

"They say we slaughter sheep, but don't you eat them too?"

Then he slowly clasped his hands together, bowed his head in prayer, his voice as gentle as that of a true father willing to atone for sinners:

"May the Holy Mother have mercy and guide those who have gone astray."

He gently lit a red candle on the altar.

In the flickering candlelight, extremely fine engravings were faintly visible along the edge of the ritual plate—overlapping and densely packed, like some kind of pain that had been repeatedly recorded. This pedestal had drunk blood more than once.

At that moment, Elf Moen walked out of the evening class classroom.

She was always the last student to leave the classroom.

It wasn't because she was clumsy, but because she cared too much, being as careful as if she were drawing a line that determined her fate.

She was often slow to submit her assignments, and her life line drawing exercises always deviated from the grid lines. Teacher Ian kept her behind for extra lessons several times—not out of punishment, but out of pity.

She never dared to use too many spell paper. Because she knew that one spell paper could earn her mother half a day's worth of mending money.

She carefully tucked the completed homework card into her bosom, pressing it down as if hiding a piece of gold.

"This is the first spell I've ever written correctly in my life."

Her voice was soft, tinged with a hint of uncertain amusement, yet it couldn't conceal the radiance emanating from her newfound possession. That radiance didn't come from confidence, but from the joy of having it for the first time.

The soles of her shoes had been patched twice, old cloth was wrapped around her heels, and tape was wrapped around her knuckles to prevent abrasions.

A small metal piece hung from her earlobe, swaying like a pendant.

It wasn't decoration, but rather fragments of cards left by his father, remnants of a failed experiment.

She wore it as if it were an echo of her father.

She had never been to a church.

But she heard that the Virgin Mary there was very gentle.

She believes in the existence of gentleness.

She thought that perhaps she could be seen too—if she did well enough, if she really wrote it correctly today.

She walked out of the classroom and turned into the south alley of Pota Street.

The street corner is pitch black tonight, without a single light.

The dream lamp was not lit because it was a special order from the God of Fate: on the night of the lunar eclipse, no lamps should be lit, as too bright light would disturb the perception of the life lines and easily expose the target's trajectory.

There was a wind in the alley. It was an eerie wind, brushing against the walls like the breathing of a wild cat passing through an abandoned well.

As she walked, she pressed the homework card in her arms tightly, carefully preventing it from getting wrinkled.

Suddenly, she saw a figure not far ahead at the corner of the wall—wearing a church priest's robe.
The wind gently lifted his robe, making his silhouette seem otherworldly, as if he had stepped out of a stone relief.

He had his back to her, his body slightly turned to the side, as if he were waiting for someone, or perhaps he was hesitating about which direction to take.

Elf paused, instinctively slowing her breathing and shifting her heel slightly—but she was still a step too slow; the man suddenly turned around.

He was a middle-aged man with a gentle face and fine laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.

Her hair was neatly combed, and she held a gold-edged prayer book in her hand. Her posture was composed, as if she had just stepped out of a ceremony.

He looked at her, his eyes showing no surprise, but simply nodded gently, revealing a smile that was almost like that of a loving father.

"Little friend, it's not safe for you to be wandering around outside so late."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear, like warm water seeping into your ears from the very bones, so gentle it was almost suspicious.

Elf lowered her head, her fingers tightly gripping the spell card in her bosom, her voice barely a whisper:
"Are you...the church gentleman?"

The other person chuckled softly, as if they quite liked the nickname.

“I am a servant of the Church of Our Lady.” “I have just been transferred here from the 19th diocese. You may call me Father Caston.”

Elf bowed instinctively, her movements stiff, like a formulaic gesture learned in class.

Father Gaston took another step closer, his steps slow and silent, his words as gentle as stroking a child's hair:

Were you just attending... a night class?

Elf hesitated for a moment, but then nodded.

His smile deepened, a smile like the aroma of wine by a brazier on a winter night—seemingly warm, but actually intoxicating.

"That's wonderful... It's a sign of progress that young people are starting to learn about life lines. Life lines are an echo of divine grace on earth."

He paused, his voice suddenly lowering, yet becoming even closer to her ear, as if trying to penetrate her very bones:
"However... your life line is currently glowing."

Elf lowered her head, and sure enough, a faint blue light emanated from the edge of her palm, like a candle breathing in the night.

She suddenly panicked and quickly hid her hands behind her back.

"I'm sorry... I... I forgot to turn it off... I didn't mean to..."

Gaston smiled gently, as if comforting a child crying because he had lost a toy.

"It's okay, it's really okay. Kids who are new to cards often feel this way."

The lines on one's life chart resemble flames; when they first appear, they always flicker erratically.

As he spoke, he extended a hand, his movements as gentle as a father teaching a child to tie shoelaces:

"Come here, let me help you tighten your life lines, otherwise people will notice later."

Elf instinctively took a small step forward, but at that moment, a cold wind quietly crept up her spine from behind.

She tensed up, wanting to turn around, but it was too late.

That hand had already quietly landed on her shoulder; the palm was icy cold.

It carried an indescribable chill, as if some lurking, long-dormant contract was awakening in the shadows.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the alley.

Alanhewin approached from a detour, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. He had sensed something was amiss in this alleyway—he had deliberately laid down "vibration detection lines" along the way tonight.
Any slight movement of life energy would resonate in his mind like the vibration of a musical string.

Just now, Elf's life mark suddenly throbbed violently twice.

That wasn't an ordinary energy fluctuation; it was a life-pattern pulse that, though suppressed, was still struggling to beat. That rhythm was extremely dangerous.

One moment in motion, the next still; one struggle, the next pause—it's like… the lines on one's life are trying to cry for help.

He barely hesitated before vaulting over a low wall, darting into the alleyway in a flash, his toes barely touching the ground, like a leopard in the night.

He saw it in the night fog.

The girl was being slowly pulled into a gray brick archway by a man dressed in a priest's robe. The man lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the faint glow of the life mark on the girl's palm—

His gaze was sickly calm, like someone appraising a precious treasure, or like a hungry wolf staring at sacrificial flesh.

The priest smiled, his fingertips trembling slightly, as if he were restraining some kind of abyssal desire.

Alan Herwin yanked the card sharply.

[Intermediate-tier Life-type Vampire Variant - Daywalker]

The card suddenly lit up, blood patterns crawled up his arms, and life force poured into his bones and muscles, surging in his blood vessels like a tide.

His voice was steady, yet it carried suppressed anger:

"Let her go."

Gaston slowly turned around, his face still bearing that gentle smile, as if everything that had just happened was a misunderstanding, and even carried a hint of appreciation.

"Another young man whose destiny is not yet stable."

He spoke in a low voice, his tone almost compassionate:

"Great...tonight's harvest is really good."

He gently raised his hand, and a blood-red card emerged from between his fingers. Blood mist instantly spread out, swirling and flowing in the air like red clouds drifting under the moonlight.

He chanted a spell in a low voice, slow and precise, as if he were announcing a final verdict on the allocation of fate:
"We are all shepherds—"

"You are sheep."

The alleyway suddenly seemed to be torn apart by an invisible blade, the cold wind carrying a bloody smell exploded, and the surging energy ripped the silence into pieces.

Alanhewin suddenly burst out of the mist, his life runes and blood energy burning like flowing fire, bursting out bursts of red light around him.

His figure was like a gray shadow, moving so fast that it was almost impossible to catch. His feet scraped across the bluestone bricks, leaving a faint red trail. His whole body, carrying a scorching pulse, crashed into the shadow of the black priest's robe like a sharp arrow.

His cards burned in his palm, blood patterns swirling, as if the entire life pattern array had been stretched to its limit.

[Intermediate-Tier Life-Type Vampire Card - Daywalker]

Mysterious entry: "Sunlight Pulse" - Forcibly stimulates blood heat in an extremely short time, causing muscles to explode and attack speed and strength to jump instantly.

Subtitle: "Bloodline Communication" - It can sense the flow of blood and qi in others, track and locate them, and identify them without the need for vision.

That's the combat configuration of the vampires, designed specifically for instant strikes and breakthroughs.

Alan was practically fighting for his life. With a burst of energy, he leaped forward, channeling all his blood and energy into his arms, and slammed his right fist toward Father Caston. The force of his punch stirred up a cloud of cold mist, and the air exploded at his fingertips.

But the next moment, an even more dazzling, blazing white light quietly rose from the priest's palm, as if it did not burst forth from the life lines, but descended from some silent, watching divine will.

That's not magic.

That was the verdict.

[Intermediate-Tier Life-Type Card - Pure White Mystic Card - Blood Saint - Blade-Wielding Angel]

The covenant entry: Summons a "Holy Blood Configuration Battle Spirit," which has a natural priority to suppress the mysteries of life-type vampires and seals their low-level life rune behavior.

Mysterious entry: "Holy Blood Law" - Apply "Attribute Freeze" to non-Church Certified Life Mark users, forcing deck failure and blocking one configuration reaction.

Additional effect: "Pre-sacrifice baptism": Before the sacrificial ritual, the target will be temporarily immobilized and have their life runes drained, leaving them in a semi-paralyzed state.

The light was as bright as the sun, containing a breathtaking purity, as if it wanted to cleanse all "unauthorized existence" from its very source.

It crashed heavily into Alan's life mark with overwhelming force, his body seemingly bound by an invisible steel wire.
His chest tightened suddenly, his throat tasted sweet, and he staggered back three steps like a bird with broken wings, crashing heavily into the brick wall, spitting out a mouthful of hot blood.

Father Caston did not rush into an attack. He supported himself with one hand on his prayer staff, and with the other hand, he gracefully stroked the edge of the Holy Blood War Spirit's feather blade.

The war spirit hovered in mid-air, constructed from pure form, clad in silver-white armor, its wings folded, its right hand holding a broad-bladed heavy sword, its face mask hanging down so that its face could not be seen, but one could hear what sounded like thousands of prayers whispering from within its breastplate.

"You can call her by name..."

"But you—can't protect her."

Gaston spoke calmly, yet each word felt like a nail driven into the ear. He sighed softly, his voice low and pitiful:
“You are not a sorcerer…not a chosen one…you are merely—material for a sacrifice.”

His steps did not falter at all, steadily approaching forward. With each step he took, the runes under the floor tiles trembled slightly, as if they had been synchronized with the ritual all along.

His eyes were gentle, almost holy, like a loving father gently persuading sinners to convert to the Virgin Mary, but beneath his tone lay a cold certainty and contempt.

Behind him, the iron gate opened silently.

What was revealed was a ceremony room that had already been set up.

The surrounding walls are engraved with life patterns, the lines winding and intersecting like blood vessels spreading to every brick and stone.

The blood groove had already been carved out, and the silver-inlaid pipes outlined an extremely intricate runic structure on the ground.

The central stone slab gleamed with a silvery glow, and suspended above it was a reflection of the Virgin Mary—not an ordinary image, but a spatial passage specifically used for "pre-ritual transcription," existing only in rituals at the core level of the Church.

Elf retreated further, clutching the cards in her arms, her eyes filled with utter terror.
Her back pressed against the cold brick wall, no sound escaping her throat. Her life lines still trembled in the dim light, but like a heartbeat out of control, they were completely unable to regulate themselves.

Alan struggled to his feet, his right leg trembling slightly, already numb. He gritted his teeth, staggered to Elf's side, and pulled the card again with trembling fingers, still trying to activate the configuration.

"You... won't take her away."

His voice was hoarse, filled with bloodlust and stubbornness, as if he might faint at any moment, yet he still used his body as a shield to protect the girl behind him.

Gaston sighed softly, his tone devoid of anger, only filled with helplessness:

"You think you can stop it because you... have never truly witnessed the sacrifice of life runes."

He waved his hand.

From the surrounding darkness, figures silently emerged—the church's secret guards, their entire bodies clad in red and black armor.

Holding the control device in his hand, the life-patterned pipes were faintly visible within his armor, like silent, soulful spectators who had already formed a closed defensive circle.

The stone gate slowly closed, sealing off the last possible escape route.

The ritual halo then rose up, its silver and blood-red colors intertwining and moving to form a terrifying array of light.

The life runes on Elf's body were instantly bound and frozen, as if invisible iron chains were binding her flesh and will.

Her eyes widened, her lips trembled slightly, but she couldn't even manage to cry out.

Alan let out a roar and leaped up, but just as he reached mid-air, the "Law Transformation Feather Blade" suddenly slashed down, infused with holy power, and struck the core of the life rune.

He was slammed to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, scattering pebbles and blood. He could no longer move.

At this moment, the sacrificial bell beneath the light array finally began to chime softly.

At that very moment, a voice devoid of emotion...

A low, cold, and slow message, emanating from behind the ritual light, seemed to travel from among distant stars, piercing the blazing sacrificial halo with its icy chill.

"I'm sorry, Father."

The sound was so soft it barely stirred up any dust, yet it carried an absolute power that could not be ignored.

Immediately following, a pale blue wind-patterned mystical spell unfolded in the air, like an invisible string stretching across the sky.

Suddenly, a loud bang rang out in the silence, the string light wrapped in the breath of wind, shattering the outermost rune circuit of the ritual disc in an instant.

"Snapped--!"

A clear cracking sound suddenly rang out, and the light stream of the sacrificial array abruptly became chaotic, the interwoven lines of silver and red twisting and swirling.

Some of the life-mark chains went out of control, the symbols became disordered, and the airflow became chaotic, as if the entire ritual itself was being abruptly questioned.

Father Caston turned around abruptly, placing his hand on the breastplate of the Featherblade War Spirit. The War Spirit's wings suddenly unfurled, blazing light shooting upwards, and it went into full alert.

His eyes were as cold as knives, fixed on the source of the sound.

Above the high window frame, the night was as dark as the tide, and the person stood there, like a shadow emerging from the depths of the moonlight.

His robes billowed in the night wind, and he held an unopened scroll in one hand, his fingertips still damp with the lingering light of the incantation.

Moonlight streamed down his shoulders and back, outlining his sharply defined profile—not an expression of anger, but a dangerously calm one, as if what burned within him was not emotion, but a will clear enough to shatter faith.

He stood there, like a cold sword plunged vertically into the night.

In that instant, Gaston's pupils contracted sharply. He recognized those eyes.

Yes—Ian.

A high-level wind-elemental mystic, the main lecturer of Morning Star Night Class, but—far from ordinary.

His voice rang out again, his tone as steady as a bell, each word seemingly etched into the very foundation of the ritual space:

"Excuse me for disturbing your prayers."

"but--"

When he said "but," the wind suddenly rippled, as if the entire ceremonial room trembled in response.

He leaped lightly from the window frame, his movement almost effortless, yet it was as if a true "breath of the gods" had descended from the sky. However, this wind was no longer a gentle blessing, but rather a prelude to purification and severance.

"I am here."

The sound of his landing was extremely soft, yet it struck the heart like the sound of a bell.

He stood steadily in front of Alan and Elf, his tall figure and flowing robes reaching the ground. He slightly raised his left hand, and the pale blue life patterns on his hands rippled like water, gently dispelling the residual pollution of the life patterns on the two children, as if brushing away dust.

In that instant, the space suddenly fell silent. Even the broken energy flow within the ritual array seemed to be watching him.

He looked down at Father Gaston.

His tone was devoid of any emotional fluctuation, yet it was as firm as a steel nail driven into a stone tablet.

"You—cannot harm my student."

The sound wasn't loud, but it was like a hammer striking a stone tablet, making a resounding clang, and the cracking sound seemed to shake the airflow throughout the entire altar.

Father Caston stared at him, the tip of Featherblade War Spirit's sword lowered, but remained still.

Ian stood there, his figure appearing extremely calm amidst the chaotic aura.

He is not a warrior within a clergy organization, not a judge recognized by the church, nor a "power entity" that can be directly invoked under any card system.

But his back, standing before the child, was like an insurmountable wall of wind—blocking the sacrificial sword.
It blocked the devouring of fate and also blocked the originally unchangeable ending of this ceremony.

He doesn't need to remove the card.

Just here.

That alone was enough to make the entire ceremony tremble.

Some priests use the Book of Songs to lull believers to sleep;

Some teachers shielded their children from knives before they went to sleep.

—From the preface to "Lectures by Mengdeng"

(End of this chapter)