Apocalypse: I Can Upgrade Everything

Chapter 125: Are You Still My Brother?

The school auditorium.

This vast hall was originally designed for mundane assemblies and principal’s speeches. Now, it served as the cathedral for the Death God Church’s dark rituals.

On the stage sat a massive, ornate throne. And upon that throne lounged a woman of breathtaking, lethal allure.

She wore a gown of blood-red silk. Her exposed skin was whiter than the falling snow outside, more translucent than the finest jade. Even the most celebrated beauties of the old world would have withered in shame before her.

She was barefoot, her long legs crossed casually, the curve of her ankle alone enough to induce dizziness in a mortal observer. She leaned back against the throne with languid grace, her eyes tightly closed.

Every inch of her was perfect. Every detail was exquisite. It was as if the Creator had poured all the world’s beauty into a single vessel.

But this vessel was terrifying.

Compared to the black-robed cultists kneeling in prayer before her, the woman was gigantic. Her height was estimated to be at least three meters.

Seeing this so-called “Death God” again, Chen Ye’s gaze swept over her form with undisguised greed.

Not out of lust.

But because an opportunity to observe such a powerful Anomaly up close—without being immediately slaughtered—was a once-in-a-century event.

He had always wanted to simulate a truly powerful target. This Anomaly was the perfect candidate.

If he could simulate even thirty percent of her power… no, even ten percent… five percent!

Chen Ye was certain his strength would undergo a cataclysmic evolution.

“O Scythe-Wielder who holds dominion over the End…”

Wu Jianshan stood at the forefront, closest to the entity. He didn’t dare lift his head.

“In the moment when the flames of apocalypse consume the old world, may Your judgment become the salvation of purification…”

He mumbled the prayers with fervent devotion. Behind him, rows of black-robed believers bowed their heads, terrified to gaze upon that perfect, monstrous figure. One could imagine the fanatical piety etched onto their hidden faces.

Chen Ye and his team stood at the very back, watching the performance like critics at a theater.

The chanting droned on for nearly half an hour before silence fell.

“Lord Death God,” Wu Jianshan intoned, kneeling. “These people are friends of our Church. We beseech You to remember their aura and grant them sanctuary! Let them be spared from dark corruption!”

His tone was thick with the practiced cadence of a charlatan, yet undeniable power hummed in the air.

The Death God slightly raised her head. Her eyes remained closed, yet a tangible gaze swept over them.

Boom.

An immense, invisible Pressure radiated from the woman.

Chen Ye grunted, feeling as if a mountain had gently collided with his chest. He wasn’t injured, but his heart hammered against his ribs in primal fear.

Beside him, Sun Qianqian, Ding Dong, and Iron Lion all looked pale and uncomfortable.

The ordinary survivors, however, felt only a gentle breeze that washed away their fatigue, leaving them blissful and relaxed.

But Chu Che’s reaction was different.

A drop of cold sweat rolled down his forehead.

He felt hunted. Like a mouse locked in a cage with a tiger. The sensation was… horrifying.

Fortunately, it lasted only a second.

But in that single second, Chu Che’s undershirt was soaked through with sweat.

“Yezi…” Chu Che whispered, his voice hoarse.

“What?” Chen Ye didn’t look away from the Death God, replying out of the side of his mouth.

Chu Che gasped for air twice, but ultimately said nothing. The terror had stolen his voice.

On the stage, the ritual shifted.

A large dining table was carried out. It was set with a single knife and fork, and a plate containing… a steak?

Chen Ye couldn’t be sure what kind of meat it was.

Wu Jianshan approached the entity with the reverence of a servant feeding a queen. He cut a slice of the meat and lifted it to her crimson lips.

The Death God opened her mouth—a small, delicate movement—and swallowed the offering.

Wu Jianshan exhaled, seemingly relieved that he hadn’t been eaten instead. He continued feeding her.

When the “steak” was half-eaten, a miracle—or a curse—occurred.

From the Death God’s tightly closed eyes, two trails of red began to flow.

Blood tears.

Wu Jianshan immediately snatched a glass test tube from an acolyte. With trembling hands, he caught the falling drops.

Only two or three drops fell.

Wu Jianshan corked the vial and tucked it into his robes as if it were the elixir of life itself.

Chen Ye’s eyes narrowed. So that’s the “Death God’s Blood Tears.”

When Wu Jianshan had given him the vial earlier, Chen Ye assumed it was just a fancy name, like “Wife Cake” or “Buddha Jumps Over the Wall.”

He didn’t expect it to be literal.

Below the stage, the cultists stared at Wu Jianshan’s pocket with eyes full of crazed envy.

And among those greedy gazes was Chen Ye.

His [Appraisal] had confirmed it: the Blood Tears worked on Sequence Beyonders. The effect was diluted, but valid.

I want that, Chen Ye decided.

The assembly watched in silence as the beautiful giantess finished her meal. It took another ten minutes.

Finally, the ritual ended, and the crowd filed out of the auditorium.

The atmosphere shifted from solemn horror to festive relief.

To welcome Chen Ye’s group, Wu Jianshan had prepared a banquet.

Two classrooms had been cleared out and converted into a dining hall. By post-apocalyptic standards, the spread was lavish: canned meat, canned fruit, flatbreads, and alcohol.

For a scavenging team that had been surviving on scraps, it was a feast.

The Death God Church, rooted in a major city, had access to scavenging grounds the convoy could only dream of. A city of millions, now inhabited by a few dozen… the stockpile of supplies was inevitable.

Sure, the cans were expired. But who cared about expiration dates when starvation was the alternative?

Chen Ye’s group contributed their camel jerky, which was received with enthusiasm by the cultists. The salty, preserved meat was a rare delicacy for city dwellers.

A bonfire crackled in the center of the room. Outside, the blizzard howled. Inside, it was warm as spring.

Alcohol flowed. Survivors laughed, cried, and stuffed their faces, the nightmare of the wasteland temporarily forgotten.

In a corner, Zhou Xiaoxiao sat alone, silently nibbling on a piece of bread. She looked like an abandoned child amidst the revelry.

“Hi! Zhou… Xiaoxiao, can I call you that?”

Hearing a voice with a strange, foreign accent, Zhou Xiaoxiao looked up.

“Choi Soo-eun? You… why are you here?”

The woman looked around nervously before sitting down next to Zhou Xiaoxiao.

“Ah… I had a job in Xia Country,” she explained in her accented Mandarin. “I arrived just before the end. Bad timing, yes?”

Choi Soo-eun. The Korean idol. Before the collapse, she had been a superstar, known as the “National Songstress” back home. She had even released a hit song in Mandarin, earning her a warm spot in the hearts of Xia Country’s youth.

“What about your sister?” Choi asked gently. “Isn’t she with you?”

Zhou Xiaoxiao’s face darkened.

“I’m sorry,” Choi said quickly, reading the grief. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Zhou Xiaoxiao waved a hand, forcing a smile. “At least we’re alive, right? It seems you’re doing well here. I envy you, staying in a safe place from the start.”

Choi Soo-eun’s expression fractured. She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper.

“Zhou Xiaoxiao, can I ask you a favor?”

“Huh?”

“Can you… take me with you when you leave? Please!”

Choi looked at her with wide, pleading eyes. It was a look of practiced vulnerability, perfected by years of media training, but the fear behind it was real.

Zhou Xiaoxiao looked troubled. “Choi Soo-eun, I’m just a nobody in the convoy. I can’t make that kind of decision.”

She subtly pointed a finger across the room. “If you want to leave, you have to ask him.”

“Him? The Beyonder?”

Choi Soo-eun’s gaze followed the finger to Chen Ye. Her face was a mask of conflict.

Chen Ye, meanwhile, was plotting.

He watched Wu Jianshan clink glasses with Chu Che and then turn to leave.

Chen Ye pounced. He shadowed the cult leader into the hallway and threw an arm around his neck.

“Old Wu! You rascal! Running away as soon as you see me? Since when are we so distant?”

Wu Jianshan stiffened. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Nothing good happens when this kid is around.

That was exactly why he had avoided him during the toast.

“Chen Ye,” Wu Jianshan sighed, trying to pry the arm loose. “What do you want?”

“What do I want? Damn it, Old Wu, you’re holding out on your brother!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Stop playing dumb. The Death God’s Blood Tears. Give me some. Remember back in school when you were broke? Who bought your lunch? Who covered for you?”

Wu Jianshan’s eyes widened. “Impossible. No way. I barely have any myself!”

Chen Ye tightened his grip, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that walked the line between playful and threatening.

“Damn it, Old Wu, you’re playing this game with me? Are you still my brother or not?”

The question hit Wu Jianshan like a physical blow.

Are you still my brother?

Panic flared in his chest. It felt like Chen Ye had seen through the disguise.

Did he figure it out?