Chapter 680 - 74: Extraordinary Bloodline, Superhuman Transformation

Chapter 680: Chapter 74: Extraordinary Bloodline, Superhuman Transformation

Murphy raised his dragon claw.

His five talons spread open.

A Crimson glow surged from his fingertips, covering the golden canopy.

Wherever the light touched, the Golden Threads snapped one by one.

The fragments fluttered down, their broken ends as clean as paper cut by a knife.

He extended his dragon claw again and tore.

A rift ripped open from the middle, widening as he pulled, revealing the dark rooftops and pale gray flagstone paths below.

He looked down.

The open-air Holy Hall was filled with people.

Heads tilted back, mouths agape, eyes wide and round.

Golden fragments drifted down from the sky, swirling above their heads like a lingering snowfall that refused to melt.

Fear.

Fear was on everyone’s face.

The Warriors who had retreated from the battlefield.

The Elders, women, and children who had never left the village in their lives.

Right now, the expressions on their faces were all identical.

Someone took a step back.

Someone pulled their child into an embrace.

Someone fell to their knees.

"Sister—"

Sera’s voice was not loud.

A child’s tearful cry, it pierced the silence.

She saw it.

She saw the unconscious figure in Murphy’s claw—the White Robe was torn to shreds, and a pale arm hung limply down.

"It’s the High Priest!"

"The High Priest is in his hands!"

"That monster captured the High Priest!"

Fear receded, and hot blood and courage surged in their chests.

A Warrior with a severed left arm was the first to fly up.

The stump of his arm was wrapped in a bandage soaked through with blood—a dark red that looked black under the Crimson glow.

But he flew.

His remaining right arm burned with a golden-yellow light, as if he were holding an invisible spear.

A second.

A third.

One after another, the wounded Warriors flew up.

The light on their bodies flared—golden, silver-white, and pale cyan.

They charged toward Murphy.

Densely packed, like a swarm of moths drawn to a flame.

Murphy hovered in midair.

His massive dragon wings were motionless behind him.

His Dark Gold scales reflected the burning light from the Warriors.

His golden, slitted pupils swept over the figures charging at him.

They were broken and incomplete, their light flickering uncertainly.

A voice rumbled from the great dragon’s throat, as deep as the boom of distant Thunder:

"Why do this? Moths to a flame. A futile struggle."

Saladin was held in the dragon’s claw.

On his ashen face, his murky, yellowish eyes watched the flying Warriors.

He watched the light burning from their broken bodies, watched them charge forward knowing it was impossible.

He suddenly laughed.

His laugh was faint, like the rustling of dry leaves swept up by the wind.

After he finished laughing, the rims of his eyes turned red.

"A moth that fears the flame can never extinguish the blaze, even if it becomes a phoenix."

"This is our blood, our will."

Murphy was silent for a moment.

His golden, slitted pupils reflected the figures of the Warriors, the light burning from them, and the villagers behind them who could not fly—but who took a step forward, set down their children, stood up, and looked up with hands on their chests in prayer.

Then he spoke.

His voice was still just as calm:

"Yes. Your will is passed down through your blood."

He paused.

"But it’s a pity—you still haven’t broken the Thought Steel Seal."

Saladin froze.

On his wrinkled face, his murky eyes stared, unmoving.

His brow furrowed, forming three deep lines across his forehead.

"What do you mean?"

Murphy did not answer.

His gaze shifted from the Warriors and swept over the village below—the houses built of stone, the wooden-framed windows, the dirt roads, the stone steps. ℴℴ𝘮

A glint flashed in his eyes.

It was not pity, nor was it contempt.

It was disappointment.

He had already discovered this when he was reading the information in Saladin’s flesh and blood.

’These Extraordinary bloodlines, passed down through Divine Blood, are able to store information in their genes, transmit will through their flesh, and maintain a near-eternal inheritance from one generation to the next.’

’What a perfect creation. If I could decipher its secrets, I could forge a civilization where every newborn naturally possesses Extraordinary Power.’

’How absurd is that potential?’

’It’s just like the "superman cataclysm" depicted in the science fiction novels of my past life. When every person is born with the ability to fly, with an invulnerable body, with the power to control fire and Thunder—what would be left of the old social models?’

’Class, nation, currency, law—all these concepts, built on the foundation that "all men are mortal," would be utterly crushed.’

’And then, upon the ruins, a brand-new world belonging to supermen would be rebuilt.’

’Societal development would advance by leaps and bounds.’

But not here.

The houses in this village were built of stone, the windows were framed with wood, and the roads were made of dirt.

Three thousand years.

A full three thousand years.

They possessed Extraordinary bloodlines and the power to move mountains and fill seas—yet they still lived in stone houses, still used wooden-framed windows, and still walked on dirt roads.

Their productivity was underdeveloped.

Their social structure hadn’t changed.

Their level of civilization had stagnated at the level of three thousand years ago.

The reason couldn’t be simpler.

The Thought Steel Seal.

’To attain a state of longevity, one must solidify their very soul to achieve eternal life.’

’A state of longevity inherited through bloodline is, naturally, no exception.’

’The will of their ancestors is passed down in their bloodline; the beliefs of their ancestors flow through their veins.’

’What their ancestors couldn’t imagine, they can hardly imagine.’

’What their ancestors couldn’t do, they can hardly learn.’

’And the closer one gets to the will and beliefs of the ancestors, the more powerful one becomes—and the more incapable of change.’

To them, this is called "inheriting the will of the ancestors."

It is their precious traditional culture.

Murphy recalled the myths and legends from his past life.

’Certain races have certain personalities—Dwarves are skilled at forging, elves are skilled at archery, dragons are greedy, and gnomes are cunning.’