Chapter Thirteen: The False Prophet

“It’s getting closer!” Tang Ruyan felt a surge of crisis welling up inside her.

“Target, two thousand meters out!” Guan Qian activated his micro-consciousness, instantly sensing that distant threat speeding toward him.

“What do we do?!” Tang Ruyan asked urgently, a faint intuition telling her that this crisis might become a turning point for Guan Qian—survival, or death.

A great bolt of lightning tore through the night like a blue dragon, casting Z City into a profound stillness. The torrential summer downpour smothered the city in a sense of oppressive suffocation.

“There’s no more running from this,” Guan Qian said calmly. The steadiness in his voice made Tang Ruyan glance at him again, her gaze lingering.

“Stay put and don’t move!” Guan Qian suddenly turned to look at Tang Ruyan behind him. On his pale, serious face shone a unique and resolute determination.

It was the first time Tang Ruyan had seen this side of him. Surprise mingled with a long-lost sense of security—just like the feeling once given by the first generation of Prophets, which she now sensed again.

“Prophet, return safely,” Tang Ruyan said with reverence. She dropped to one knee, crossed her hands over her shoulders, and gave a formal salute. In that moment, she fully acknowledged Guan Qian’s identity as the Prophet.

In times of peril, the Prophet steps forward!

That is the Prophet’s calling, the responsibility that must be shouldered!

Within the blood of the Prophet flows an unyielding resolve to fight for survival, for justice, for all humanity.

It was as if unseen eyes were watching Guan Qian, the eyes of his ancestor—the legendary and pride-inspiring First Prophet.

Guan Qian clenched the stone in his palm, roughly half the size of his hand. Looking at the respectful Tang Ruyan, the sense of responsibility that stirred the depths of his soul grew even stronger.

With a sharp rush, Guan Qian shot out like an arrow loosed from a bow, vanishing into the pitch darkness. The pouring rain quickly erased all trace of his movement, water splashing everywhere, as if all returned to peace.

But ahead, danger loomed!

With his micro-consciousness fully engaged, Guan Qian’s awareness of his surroundings became exquisitely attuned. Sheets of rain falling in the darkness could not slow his pace. He ran swiftly and nimbly forward, as a blurred, indistinct figure gradually emerged in his mind.

Abruptly, Guan Qian halted, his movement ceasing as he stepped on the falling rain, his cold gaze fixed on the looming black shape ahead.

Rainwater, icy and relentless, coursed over his head and down his body.

His white T-shirt, clinging to his well-built frame, reflected a powerful masculinity.

Fifty meters ahead, a shadow flashed into view.

A broad black cloak hung from a gaunt figure. Under the low-brimmed hood, half a face could be seen, features obscured. Rain trickled down the cloak, lending an eerie, unsettling air.

“Hehehe… I’ve finally found you!” The sinister voice echoed through the rain, sharp and grating.

“Who are you?” Guan Qian was on full alert, his eyes hawklike and fixed on the stranger, an ever-thickening sense of gravity pressing on his heart.

A wicked laugh accompanied the lifting of that broad hood, revealing a pale face.

Thunderstruck, Guan Qian’s mind went blank.

It was a face he knew all too well. Rain streamed down those pale cheeks, sliding from the faintly upturned smile—a smile like a demon’s, burning itself into Guan Qian’s vision.

The same features, the same complexion, even the hairstyle was identical. With micro-consciousness fully engaged, Guan Qian took in every detail of the mysterious figure before him.

It was as if he faced his own double.

“Surprised, aren’t you?” The cloaked stranger’s devilish smile played with Guan Qian’s shock, clearly satisfied.

“You—how—” Guan Qian’s mind raced, but he found no memory, no information about this person who looked exactly like him.

The sense of crisis and agitation between the two intensified, and Guan Qian unconsciously tightened his whitening fists.

“It’s uncanny, like looking in a mirror,” the mysterious figure traced a finger along his own cheek, his sharp eyes glinting with a barely veiled murderous intent.

Guan Qian remained silent. This was a supremely dangerous opponent; he would need to tread carefully.

From the very first moment, Guan Qian was at a disadvantage: his adversary seemed to know him inside out, while he was utterly in the dark. This mysterious threat only heightened the unease and fear within.

“So, my dear Prophet, what sort of gift do you think I have for you on this stormy night?” the hooded stranger asked, his voice low and chilling.

“Come then!” Guan Qian answered crisply, his micro-consciousness fully open, his guard absolute.

“You really are humorless, aren’t you?” The mysterious figure ran a hand through his rain-soaked hair, his tone faint.

And then—

In the next instant, the figure who’d stood fifty meters away was suddenly right before Guan Qian, a cold smile on his lips as he reached to pat Guan Qian’s shoulder.

The suddenness of it caught Guan Qian off guard. He instinctively took two steps back to steady his pounding heart, his eyes wide with shock.

That flash of movement was as fast as Guan Qian’s own micro-consciousness could react—perhaps even faster.

“Not bad, you’re quick on your feet. Hehehe.” The cloaked man clicked his tongue, eyeing Guan Qian as if he were prey, sending chills down his spine.

“You can call me the False Prophet,” the stranger said, brushing rain from his sleeve.

“False Prophet?!” Guan Qian had never heard the term before; even Tang Ruyan had never mentioned it. His brow furrowed, unease gnawing at him.

“Hehehe… Well then, my dear Prophet, shall we begin?” The False Prophet’s eyes flashed, and he launched a kick at Guan Qian’s abdomen with the force of a cannonball.

Guan Qian dared not be careless. He shifted and withdrew, deftly dodging the attack—only for a pale fist to appear right before him.

With a crack, Guan Qian met fist with fist, the two parting with a jolt.

Their limbs flashed faster than the eye could follow, fists and feet colliding in a dazzling blur, sending sprays of rainwater flying. The droplets slapped the slick ground, churning the mud, but were instantly washed away by the relentless downpour.

Blow after blow resounded.

With his micro-consciousness engaged, Guan Qian’s speed reached inhuman levels. The two battled through the rain, locked in a dead heat, their forms blurring, the spectacle astonishing to behold.

A misstep—Guan Qian left himself open. The False Prophet’s left fist struck his right cheek, sending a mouthful of blood arcing through the air.

But Guan Qian refused to yield. He seized the momentum, his right fist crashing into his opponent’s left cheek, another arc of blood flying, even longer than the first.

With a spit, Guan Qian expelled the blood from his mouth, meeting the False Prophet’s cold glare with one of his own, his fists sparking as they clashed again and again.

The fierce battle began anew.