Cthulhu America, I can see the kill line.

"I'm here to destroy that spiritual object that houses concepts."

Kong Jiu looked at the old man with white hair and beard who was tightly holding the stone box and spoke frankly without any beating around the bush.

Squiche had previously mentioned that the old man guarding the concept of "loyalty" was a canonized by the church.

Regardless of his spiritual power, his loyalty to the church and his unwavering commitment to his mission are far beyond what a minor cult leader like Farah could ever achieve.

Verbal persuasion is utterly useless against a "saint" like Henry; the most direct and effective way to communicate is to use force.

Therefore, Kong Jiu skipped all the formalities and went straight to the point, stating his purpose.

Henry was stunned for a moment, a look of surprise flashing across his eyes.

Then, his expression became somewhat cautious, and he held the stone box more carefully in his arms.

"Which street thug are you, gambling away all your money and trying to sell this thing for cash?"

Henry's voice suddenly lowered, his eyes sharp as a hawk's, "Or is he a fallen person on enhancement drugs, incoherently trespassing into this sacred place?"

Henry's gaze pierced directly at Kong Jiu, his previous gentleness replaced by intense hostility.

Kong Jiu shook his head, his expression calm to the point of being indifferent.

He folded his black umbrella, shook off the rain, and walked into the church step by step, heading straight for Henry.

"I've heard your story, Father Henry Robertson,"

He narrowed his eyes slightly, a hint of pity and sympathy rising in his gaze as he looked at the hunched-back, weathered old man.

"Or should I call you 'the foolish saint,' Henry Robertson?"

During the preliminary investigation, Squiche explained and analyzed the priest's past to Conju.

Just to demonstrate his loyalty to the church, he wasted forty years, spending forty years in solitude in this remote little church.

Forty years, nearly twice the age of Kong Jiu.

Forty years ago, Hills was just a harbor.

Forty years ago, old Chad was just a young man.

But old Henry, holding onto that stone box, lived a simple life for forty years.

Such obsession makes it hard not to suspect that the eerie concept in the box has already subtly eroded the mind of this former priest, now an old man.

After all, even two tenths of the "continuation concept" could make Kong Jiu lose his mind and develop a complicated relationship with Mina.

How could a complete concept that had accompanied this old man for forty years have had no influence whatsoever?

"Do you know my name?"

Upon hearing Kong Jiu utter his name, Henry's hostility did not diminish but surged like a tidal wave, his aged eyes flashing with a chilling light: "You even know I'm 'The Foolish Saint'?"

Kong Jiu sighed softly, his sorrow deepening as if he were gazing at a prisoner lost in a dream, unaware of his own plight.

"Is it worth wasting forty years of your life just to uphold a false 'divine will'?"

There was not a trace of sarcasm in his tone, only genuine incomprehension and sympathy.

This Chinese son and daughter, who grew up on the red soil, could not understand from the bottom of his heart such a persistence that was almost like self-martyrdom.

During his five years in Amerigo Vespucci, Congo learned that all the mainstream churches promoted a way of "fooling the saints".

The more foolish one is, the more sincere one appears; and the more sincere one is, the more likely one is to receive the Lord's mercy.

The concept of "foolish sainthood" has become an unspoken but widely accepted and revered theme among the mainstream Amerigo Vedic sects.

After reading the Iron Curtain proposal, Kong Jiu finally understood some of the reasons.

This ancient custom is a product of the Iron Curtain.

Those sects were nothing less than a spiritual anesthetic, an ideological invigorator, suppressing ambition and struggle, and numbing people's thoughts of "resistance".

In contrast, the believers in the Prophet's Church who believed that "the prophet will guide people to resist injustice" appeared to be clear-headed and enlightened.

Ironically, the native churches in Amerigo seem to be quite inferior to those of the illegal immigrants.

"Listen, Father Henry, what you hold in your hand... is the root of all evil."

Kong Jiu raised his hand and pointed to the stone box, his tone suddenly turning icy, each word like a knife.

"Your blind loyalty, your blind filial piety, your so-called loyalty may all be due to the bewitching influence of that thing inside."

Henry subconsciously looked down at the stone box in his arms, his facial muscles twitching slightly, and a fleeting, almost imperceptible wavering flashed in his eyes.

Even without Kong Jiu's prompting, he himself had certainly secretly suspected this possibility.

From the first day he touched the stone box, he could feel the magnificent yet terrifying aura emanating from it.

Perhaps this thing has subtly influenced my mind, which is why I have been obsessed with it for forty years!

Do not!

He absolutely refused to accept this conjecture.

Furthermore, it is unacceptable for an outsider to so blatantly expose: "You may be influenced by what you are protecting."

Because this is tantamount to admitting that one did not voluntarily become the keeper of the box, the foolish saint of the church.

Instead, he was forced to waste a full forty years of his life, squandering his entire existence!

Henry gritted his teeth, slowly put down the stone box, and his eyes suddenly became sharp as a blade.

In the next instant, the heavy scripture in his hand trembled violently and burst forth with dazzling golden light.

The scriptures melted and deformed rapidly in his palm, flowing freely like golden liquid.

He was gripping a worn-out submachine gun with a wooden handle tightly in his hand.

That scripture actually turned into a gun?

"Demon! You are not some little brat from the street... You want to unleash the myriad sins within the box; you are bewitching and provoking a saint!"

Henry roared, veins bulging on his forehead. He gripped his submachine gun tightly with both hands, aiming the muzzle at Kong Jiu's chest.

Yes, this elderly priest had turned the sacred scriptures into a weapon of death.

"Old man, you can't hurt me..."

Kong Jiu sighed and shook his head, secretly convinced that he could be as invulnerable as he had been when facing Abel.

"Exorcizo te (I banish you)!"

Old Henry, his face contorted in a grimace, roared out a Latin prayer with all his might, and then slammed the trigger.

The submachine gun formed from the scriptures suddenly spewed out blazing flames.

Puff puff……

The bullet pierced Kong Jiu's chest sharply, bursting out from his back and spraying up bursts of blood and flesh.

The composure on Kong Jiu's face shattered instantly, replaced by disbelief and horror.

He staggered half a step, looked down at his bloodied and mangled chest, and his pupils contracted sharply.

No?

How could there be any harm?

"How...how did you manage to hit me?"

He forced out a hoarse, unwilling question, staring intently at Henry before his body went limp and he collapsed onto the cold ground.

The blood quickly spread, and the light in his eyes gradually faded until it was completely extinguished.