The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 164

The temperature within the ship's hold was frigid, as if winter itself had taken refuge there. A thin layer of frost covered every corner, and the liquids in the containers had started to freeze.

Underneath the mirrored surface of the plague doctor's mask, his eyes gleamed with fervor. Heavy breaths echoed through the filter, sending faint white mist rising from beneath the beak. His body began to tremble, seemingly overwhelmed by excitement, and strange protrusions rippled under his robe, threatening to distort his human form.

His eyes, hidden beneath the mask, were fixed straight ahead. An eerie blue light illuminated the scene, casting everything in cold hues. His voice was nearly twisted as he spoke.

"So... there really is such a thing as an angel?"

He turned to look at Father Lawrence, his body quivering with excitement.

"No, to be precise, the term 'angel' was coined to help us comprehend its form. What it truly is—angel or demon—we do not know." Father Lawrence spoke slowly, a smile playing on his lips as he gazed ahead at the pinnacle of human craftsmanship.

There lay a pale corpse, the time of its death indeterminate, reminiscent of the martyr recorded in the Gospels. It was spread-eagle, nailed to a cross.

Ancient and awe-inspiring power reverberated through the air. Though they were aboard a steamship, docked at Reyn Dona Port, the plague doctor heard a faint chant in his ears, as if an unseen choir mourned the deceased presence.

The barriers of time and space seemed shattered, and this sacred entity pierced through the ages to manifest in the present, showcasing its former glory to mortals.

Milky white gas began to seep out from its base, spreading through the sea of candles, making the flames ripple. The gas enveloped the plague doctor, with countless invisible hands grabbing him, revealing the miracle of heaven.

It was an indescribable scene, like some mysterious ritual imbued with divine colors, yet bound by the cold rationality of machinery that imprisoned the pale corpse. The continuously circulating low-temperature gas kept it cool, while the dried skin, severely dehydrated, was pinned at every joint by holy silver nails, as if suppressing a soul longing to return.

The past and the present, sacred religion and mechanical technology, entangled.

The plague doctor walked heavily, stepping on hardened wax, until he stood before the crucifixion. He carefully observed the pale corpse.

All the hair had fallen out, its eyes were tightly shut, and its face was an indiscernible blend of genders, handsome yet possessing a seductive beauty. Looking down, the body was smooth, devoid of primary sexual characteristics.

It was not human, but some humanoid entity...

From the first glance, the plague doctor knew. He knew the body before him wasn't human—it was that sacred existence, that holy relic... yet he still found it hard to believe.

To believe they really existed.

He murmured softly.

"Angel..."

His gaze lifted to the sides of the corpse, where new branches had grown along its back, entirely unlike human anatomy, resembling malformed growths of flesh. But the plague doctor knew what they were.

They were rugged wings, spread out with all their might, nailed firmly by countless holy silver nails, like a specimen.

He had not yet realized his own anomaly, for in observing this unspeakable existence, his eyes behind the mask were bloodshot, the more he saw, the more the invisible pressure rapidly ravaged his body.