Marvel's master of cosmic magic-Chapter 789

"Huh... that aura feels familiar."

George hovered above the Hornacis Mountains, having crossed the distance from Backlund in mere seconds. His awareness swept across the jagged peaks like a silent tide.

Something was wrong.

High within the range, a massive concealed barrier pulsed faintly, its power unmistakably aligned with the Goddess of Darkness.

His brows knit together.

"So Antigonus... and Zaratul. Both vanishings tied to her?"

According to Rosselle, Zaratul had once led the Secret Order. Meanwhile, the Church of the Goddess of Darkness possessed most of the formulas and material channels tied to the Fool’s path.

Coincidence was starting to feel unlikely.

"I’ll find out inside."

The seal was strange. Its strength focused inward rather than outward.

From the outside, someone with demigod-tier force could break in.

Leaving, however, was another story.

George judged that brute-forcing an exit would require power approaching the very top of existence.

He appeared beside the hidden barrier, sliced open a thin black rift with one hand, and stepped through.

Snow vanished.

In its place stood a small town swallowed by rolling gray mist.

Weathered streets. Silent houses.

At the center, a needle-like church rose into the fog, its architecture ancient enough to feel out of place in any era.

George summoned a massive spectral eye into the sky.

The town unfolded before him.

Two forces pressed against each other like tectonic plates.

One carried the imprint of darkness.

The other reeked of deception, manipulation, and fate.

"And puppets. An entire town’s worth."

His lips curved slightly.

"At minimum... high-grade relics. Possibly something far better."

The concentration of Fool-aligned energy brushed dangerously close to the level of true divinity.

Which meant something unique was likely present.

George descended.

He walked straight toward the church.

The moment a living presence entered the streets, every resident froze.

Necks twisted.

Hundreds of identical gazes locked onto him.

George kept walking.

A chorus of inhuman roars erupted as the townsfolk charged.

"Sever."

One word.

Invisible threads snapped.

Every attacker collapsed mid-stride.

They were not alive.

They never had been.

Each body was a hollow marionette, suspended by spirit-threads stretching back toward the church.

With the threads gone, the fog thinned noticeably.

Above, the crimson moon brightened.

At the same time, darkness surged.

A vast sealing force descended, attempting to drag George into an endless black abyss.

"So the balance shifted."

Light erupted from his body.

The encroaching darkness evaporated.

"Not enough."

Before, divine-grade seals would have been troublesome without preparation.

Now, after absorbing the lamp spirit, George’s internal reserves rivaled those of true gods.

And sealing magic happened to be one of his specialties.

He pushed open the church doors.

The interior was worse than the streets.

Dozens of human figures hung from the ceiling by translucent threads.

Men.

Women.

Elderly.

Children.

Some wore black ceremonial robes.

Others wore jackets, dresses, or ragged clothing like beggars.

Several radiated power on par with demigods.

George’s eyes lit up.

"Jackpot."

Every suspended body was a high-quality marionette.

Nothing weaker than mid-tier.

Perfect for study.

Perfect for materials.

Perfect for personal use.

But one figure stood above the rest.

A withered old man near the statue at the back of the hall.

No threads.

No suspension.

Yet his presence was unmistakably dangerous.

"Not a true body," George muttered. "A historical projection... carrying a fragment of upper-tier essence."

Zaratul.

Which meant the man had reached this place, found something, and failed to escape.

George stepped closer.

The old man’s eyes opened slowly.

"Another... walker of the Fool’s path..." His voice rasped, barely stable. "Do you wish to leave this place? I can help you."

George smiled.

"So you think I’m a prisoner."

He raised his hand.

"I just need to borrow your memories."

Without hesitation, he reached forward.

The old man’s expression twisted.

"You’re only a mid-tier practitioner! You dare—"

The illusion of weakness vanished.

Cold malice flooded the hall.

Zaratul had planned to manipulate whoever arrived, using fear and uncertainty to regain freedom.

He had not expected someone who skipped conversation entirely.

Their clash was about to begin.