The charred top-floor hall of the command tower had now transformed into a silent yet fanatical "Sanctuary."

  The Slayer, shouldering his still-smoking shotgun, was preparing to step over the ruins and leave. But his path was blocked.

  Not by demons, nor by barriers.

  But by a white sea of prostrated bodies.

  Tens of thousands of Spirit slaves, regardless of the severity of their injuries or where they were, all knelt facing the Slayer. Their foreheads were pressed tightly against the filthy ground, even though that ground had just been spattered with demon ichor and the shredded remains of their companions.

  There were no cheers, no clamor.

  There was only a suffocating devotion, akin to a religious ritual.

  An elderly Spirit priest (though his robes were tattered like beggar's rags) crawled forward on trembling knees, holding a piece of relatively intact black crystal slate he had found somewhere.

  He wasn't offering a treasure.

  With hands as withered as dry wood, he tremblingly began to carve on the slate. He wasn't carving words, but a crude pattern composed of geometric lines.

  It was the outline of the Slayer's helmet.

  And that iconic runic mark representing destruction.

  After carving it, the priest held the slate high above his head, as if displaying a holy relic.

  "Wooo——!"

  The moment all the Spirits saw that mark, they simultaneously emitted a low hum of resonance. It wasn't language, but a tremor and submission from the depths of their souls.

  Immediately after, things got even more outrageous.

  Several Spirit maidens had picked up a few empty shell casings dropped by the Slayer during the battle from somewhere. They didn't treat them as scrap metal, but wiped them clean with their sleeves carefully as if holding rare treasures, then strung them up with grass ropes and hung them around their necks as the most sacred amulets.

  A group of strong Spirit miners gathered around the deep pit the Slayer had stomped out. Instead of filling it, they found stones and began to build a wall around the edge of the footprint—they were actually going to protect this footprint and enshrine it as a holy site!

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  There was even a Spirit child who picked up the empty bottle of Aunt Meng's Soup the Slayer had thrown away, trying to lick a remaining drop of red liquid inside, as if it were divine nectar bestowed by a god.

  The Slayer watched all of this.

  His faceplate remained cold and hard as iron, showing no expression.

  But his finger on the gun grip twitched slightly.

  Irritation.

  Extreme irritation.

  He was used to being feared, hated, and cursed. He was used to the pathetic, terrified state of demons when they saw him.

  But he had never dealt with this situation... being worshipped as a "God."

  There was no fear in the eyes of these Spirits. There was only a fanaticism to unconditionally hand over everything they had—life, dignity, future—to him for disposal.

  This fanaticism gave him a heavy, sticky sense of constraint, even more uncomfortable than demon blood.

  He didn't need believers.

  He didn't need sacrifices.

  He certainly didn't need anyone to fence off his footprints as a tourist attraction!

  The Slayer suddenly stomped his foot.

  *THUD!*

  The ground trembled violently. The Spirit miner building the wall shook with fright, dropping his stone.

  The Slayer didn't speak. He just used his glowing red electronic eyes to coldly scan the crowd kneeling on the ground.

  Then, he raised his hand and made a stiff gesture that even carried a meaning of shooing away:

  A wave.

  Like swatting a fly.

  *Get lost.*

  *Don't block the way.*

  *I don't buy this.*

  If it were anyone else, this action might be interpreted as arrogance or rejection.

  But in the eyes of these Spirits who had completely brainwashed themselves...

  The old priest watched the Slayer's waving motion, and hot tears actually welled up in his cloudy old eyes.

  "Look... God is guiding us..."

  "God wants us... to spread his prestige..."

  "God wants us... to purify this world..."

  The Slayer froze.

  He watched the old priest sobbing with self-moved emotion, and watched the surrounding Spirits not only not leaving, but kneeling even straighter, their eyes brighter.

  The Slayer gave up.

  There was no communicating with these guys whose brain circuits were so bizarre.

  He turned around, ignoring this bunch of lunatics. He activated his thrusters, flying directly over the heads of the crowd, rushing toward the portal that hadn't completely closed yet.

  *Go.*

  *Leave quickly.*

  *This place is scarier than Hell.*

  Singularity hid in the back, watching this scene, and couldn't help letting out a gloating laugh (of course, on a channel the Slayer couldn't hear).

  "Worship vs Indifference."

  "Great Hero, oh Great Hero, you've killed Demon Gods and slaughtered behemoths in your life, who would have thought you'd be defeated by a group of fanatical fans in the end?"

  As Singularity put away the drone, he quickly recorded in his notebook:

  "The Spirit Race's worship of the Slayer has formed a kind of 'Memetic Virus.' If not guided, these guys might create some 'Cult of Destruction'."

  "However..."

  Singularity looked at the Spirits who, although fanatical, were still orderly, and a gleam flashed in his eyes.

  "Since the Great Hero doesn't want to be the cult leader, then let me be the 'Acting Cult Leader'."

  "After all, it would be a pity to waste such useful labor on feudal superstition."

  *Next Chapter: Phase Three Settlement. Not only was the mine captured, but a race was also annexed along the way. Singularity says: The Netherworld's demographic dividend period has arrived.*