Chapter 359: The Calamity of Darkland
When black lightning spread across most of Darkland, countless ordinary citizens looked up in fear, wanting to see what was happening. But in the very next moment, black smoke rose from the tops of most of their heads, drifting up and gathering over the rooftops of every charity house in the city, absorbing, swirling, and coalescing into something unknown.
Those ordinary people then turned one after another into black wraiths made entirely of shadow—or shambling undead who wandered aimlessly, guided only by the instincts they had in life.
Darkland, the Grand Capital of the Apocalypse World, a city blessed by the gods, with a population of more than eight million—lost over six million lives in an instant.
——
At the old Turing residence.
Mrs. Turing was busy preparing dinner. Since Wayne was coming over that evening, she had specially decided to make a few of her signature dishes—like clover-fed veal and Bryston slow-cooked chicken—chatting away to her husband while she worked:
"We'll have to wait a bit before I can take you out for a walk. I need to finish these two dishes first. Slow-cooked chicken takes time."
"I know, I know."
Old Turing sat in his wheelchair, fiddling with an alchemic battle armor nearly as tall as a man, a rare smile curling his lips. It was a gift he had promised to give Zhou Ning—a toy for men, as he called it.
Though he rarely said it aloud, his heart was filled with gratitude toward Zhou Ning. He knew full well that without those life-saving Undead Cores and Life Cores, his wife would never have survived the winter.
After losing all their sons and daughters to war and disease, she had continued to care for his paralyzed body with the same tenderness and patience—for over forty years now. He dared not even imagine what it would be like to lose her.
Suddenly, a bolt of black lightning descended from the sky above, and he felt something being drawn out of his body. In the distance, Larela's condition was even worse—her complexion turned ashen, and she began gasping for air. Within ten seconds, her skin had gone gray, her eyes rolled white—and she had become an undead, a soulless creature moving only by the faint echo of her living instincts.
"No… Larela…"
"No, Larela…"
His trembling hands reached out toward her as he called her name again and again. Then he saw her raise her head, taking stiff, halting steps toward him.
Old Turing shut his eyes in pain. Then he felt a gentle push from behind—soft, familiar.
She was pushing his wheelchair.
She pushed him out of the room.
5:50 in the evening—the same time as always, for forty years straight—his wife had always taken him out for their evening walk.
Even now, as a mindless undead, her instincts remembered.
——
Not far from there, on the edge of the trade district, in front of a newly opened diner, Marisa was crouched on the ground picking vegetables while her daughter played nearby, running around happily with the neighborhood children, playing a game they called Weather Child. She still wore the hat that kind young man had given her.
"Who's the Weather Child? Wind, rain, thunder, lightning!
Who's the Weather Child? Fog, dew, cloud, frost!"
Marisa watched her daughter laughing as she ran farther away and couldn't help calling out, "Sylvia, dinner's ready—don't go too far!"
"Got it, Mom!" came the bright, crisp reply.
Marisa smiled. Though her husband had died in an accident, thanks to that kind young man's help, she'd received some money. Following his advice, she'd left the welfare home and used that money, along with her small savings, to open a modest little restaurant.
Life was hard, yes—but as long as they were alive, there was hope.
In just one day, she'd earned seven Roshens. At this rate, her daughter Sylvia might even have a chance to go to school someday—and truly escape the life of the lower class.
The thought brought a gentle smile to her face, and her hands moved even faster as she worked.
Before long, she finished preparing the vegetables and was about to stand up when she suddenly felt something drifting out from inside her body. A puff of black smoke rose above her head—Sylvia's, too.
Through her blurring vision, she saw Sylvia stop mid-run. A moment later, her daughter—and the other nearby children—turned into ashen-faced undead or pure black silhouettes of shadow.
No… Sylvia…
Tears rolled down Marisa's cheeks. Life had finally been getting better—why did it have to turn out like this again?
Her consciousness faded, and moments later, yet another undead began to wander aimlessly.
——
The same scene repeated itself in every corner of Darkland—every area under the shadow of the charity houses: the trade district, the docks, the harbor, the canal zones…
Countless people without supernatural abilities—or those who were already weak—turned into undead or shadows and died one after another. Even many transcendent beings began to weaken.
The Darkland Calamity had officially begun.
Meanwhile, on the Apocalypse forum, an unprecedented storm of discussion exploded. Posts about the new version filled every page. Many players uploaded screenshots showing hordes of townsfolk turning into undead right in the streets.
Preachers of the Retreat Society appeared across the city, spreading their doctrine. Amid the chaos, people looted, murdered, and burned—spilling more and more blood. Many players were killed by them, and the blood gathered into a massive sphere that hung ominously in the air.
So this was the Darkland Calamity? Players who had never seen such a vast, terrifying event in the game were stunned.
At the Darkland Fortress, Zhou Ning—who had just finished organizing his thoughts—felt a chill crawl down his spine. He had seen the posts on the Apocalypse forum, and with his Observation Haki, he could feel it too: in that instant, countless lives had been snuffed out, their life force and resentment surging toward the skies above every charity house.
So the Ascendant Ritual had begun already?
The more critical the situation became, the calmer Zhou Ning's mind grew. He could sense that one after another, the presences within the fortress were vanishing—they must be using supernatural means to scatter throughout the city.
His long-standing sense of foreboding had finally come true. If his guess was right, the situation outside was even worse than he imagined. From their conversations, he'd learned that this plan involved four factions—the Bryston Royal Family, the Curse God Cult, the Life Alchemy Society, and the Retreat Society. Their immediate goal was to help Charles VII ascend to godhood—and resurrect the sealed evil god beneath the city, Nyastora.
He now had two choices: leave Darkland at once—with his abilities, even if Nyastora descended, it couldn't harm him—or try to stop the ritual and save as many people as possible, at the very least preventing the evil god's resurrection.
After a brief moment of weighing his options, Zhou Ning drew a deep breath and clenched his fists.
He still wanted to save everyone he could.
After living in this world for so long, he could no longer treat it as just a game.