Divine Flame Crystal

Chapter 640: Return Song

The first song began in the antechamber, very slowly. Like pouring the first scoop of water into an empty bucket, the sound waves traveled along the corridors, struck the cave walls, folded back, and gradually thickened. The notes weren't "beautiful," even a little rough, like stones freshly lifted from the mine, their edges still prickly. But as the singing progressed, the harmony grew, the steadiness grew, until every breath seemed measured with a ruler.

Reinhardt leaned against the stone platform, his fingertips rubbing over his stigmata. His flesh was still alternately splitting and closing, like the tide hitting the reef, half-closed and then torn apart. The pain was not a flash, it was like a nail, nailed deep into the bone, neither rising nor falling, neither advancing nor retreating. In the past, he would subconsciously grit his teeth and hold his breath, as if wrestling with something invisible; now he obediently handed the pain to the beat: count one when inhaling, count four when exhaling. As long as he kept to this simple "river channel", the pain would no longer flood, but like a flood controlled by a channel, moving forward with tremendous force.

"Holy light shines on my bones—"

"The Holy Light melts my blood—"

The second song began with the children's voices. Their thin, tender voices, like new sprouts piercing the soil, didn't drown out the adults' chorus; instead, they cast a layer of fireflies above it. Mara's eyes flushed slightly as she stared at the rise and fall of those tiny Adam's apples, like a string of tiny anchors; each child was tying a small boat called "pain" to the dock of "beat."

Valerian tapped the ground with his cane, and the echoing well responded with a half-beat delayed "shadow sound" echoing from the cavity. It was like an invisible hand reaching out to each person being engraved, telling them, "You are not alone in this." Hubert stood at the well's mouth, holding an hourglass. Whenever the sand fell out, he raised another one, maintaining the "screw" of the shadow sound and the true sound. It wasn't mysterious, and even a little clumsy, but the method was reliable.

The third song is "Threshold Song," sung specifically for those who are on the brink of "Burning Body." The tune is simple, but the long notes are stretched an inch longer than usual—as if someone is reaching out from the door and grabbing your ankle as you're about to step out. After a quarter of an hour, the breathing of the most difficult victims caught up, and the flames that should have ignited retreated into their bones, no longer spilling out. Elena wrote down the data for Valerian, with a concise note: "The Threshold Song is effective, with a recovery rate of 63%."

The most frantic bout of pain occurred on the third night. The wind outside suddenly picked up, like a herd of invisible horses galloping across the city walls. The candlelight on the grotto ceiling was suppressed, trembling violently. Echoes swirled through the cracks, falling down, layer upon layer, like a pot of soup cooked to perfection. This created a surge of energy—a surge that swelled everyone's skull. Some pressed their chests, their stigmata ripped from within; others pressed their foreheads against the stone wall, their skulls buzzing with the vibrations. Many simply lay flat on their backs, like piano boards, waiting for the bow outside to draw.

"The fourth—Suture Song!" Valerian shouted.

The beats of the Suture piece are finer than those of the previous three, like a razor-thin needle, tracing through tangled flesh. The chorus first strikes a large beat, then breaks the medium beat into smaller beats; the smaller beats then break down into "hidden beats," like sewing a rag with a large thread, then a smaller one, and finally a hairline thread, patching even the tiniest tear. Reinhardt listened and suddenly realized the pain had become more subtle: it was no longer a single, visibly aching pain, but rather a series of particles colliding with the body, each one discernible, counted, and even, after being counted, gently tightened.

"Sew—one; close—two; fold—three; hide—four." The children counted along, as if they were playing a serious game. Their voices were soft, not noisy, like a layer of fine salt sprinkled on painful skin, the fishy smell becoming more pronounced, but the wound shrinking.

Carron slid his wooden leg forward, and with a single, sharp click, the shoulder blades of the group were instantly pushed down half an inch. It wasn't an order, but a reminder: Drop your shoulders, don't shrug; breathe down, don't push. He was in pain himself, old wounds tangling with new ones, but he never considered avoiding it. Instead, he treated the pain like a biting dog—if you looked it in the eye, it wouldn't dare pounce.

Celine led the "secret beat" at the side. She wrapped her broken blade in cloth and placed it horizontally on her knees. She tapped the cloth with the back of her fingers, making no sound, but it happened to block the third layer of shadow sound. Her eyes were extremely calm, like a pool of deep water, occasionally passing by Ilio's profile - the young man closed his eyes, pursed his lips, but before each long note was about to dissipate, he would give a "raise" on time. The "raise" was not high, like the small blue flame on the candle flame, but it often saved people half a step before "burning their bodies". The scar is not killing, but redemption, and it is this "raise" that is happening now.

On the fourth night, someone in the choir lost their voice. Mara fed them saltwater honey, muttering, "Sing softly," but she herself swallowed the "soft"—because she saw a young man in the far corner, his body flickering like a dying firefly. She slowed the "timekeeping words" by half a beat and raised them a tiny bit, allowing the firefly to climb the stairs.

By the fifth song, the wind outside the cave suddenly died. That "stillness" wasn't spontaneous; it felt like a massive hand grasping the four directions, commanding all to be still. The candle flames all stood erect, and the chorus' harmony, like a piece of jade polished to a smooth, rounded edge, felt like a smooth, polished jade. At that moment, the pain felt like receding for many—not disappearing, but like a midsummer river retreating back into its course, never overflowing its banks. Someone smiled wearily, a smile devoid of triumph, only a sense of peace at having finally grasped something.

Valerian moved to the echoing well and leaned over to listen for a moment. He heard two voices: one human, one bluestone. The human voice was "keeping the beat"; the stone voice was "guarding the city." He suddenly realized: the darkness beneath the earth was not only devouring, but also responding - when they sang steadily enough, the blackness would also appear upright and correct their voices. He added another line next to the picture: "The sound of shadows is not false, the sound of shadows is the answer of the earth."

On the sixth night, Valerian asked Ilio to stand in the front row and lead a verse. He instinctively hesitated, looking back at Carlon. Carlon said nothing, merely raised his chin, a gesture that clearly meant "go." Ilio took a deep breath, the little sun in his chest rolling through his bones with a barely audible "dang." He raised his hand and gave the opening verse, his voice clear and youthful, yet steady as spring water from a stone.

He sang the simplest first song, yet he transformed each long note into a rope to hold onto. The victim climbed on the rope, slipping halfway, and he lowered it another foot. If he couldn't hold on after climbing, he twisted it. On the third rendition, the boy in the corner, who had been going "off, off, off, off," suddenly shuddered, his burning energy stagnating. Elena nearly cried out, forcing her cry into a dense string of ticks.

"—Bitterness 59%, critical recovery." "—Boundary rhythm forms a delay; add two bars of threshold music." This series of notations, like a cipher, leaves outsiders bewildered. "—But the engraved one, guided by his voice, generates self-regulation..." She memorized, her hands trembling. She suddenly understood what Valerian had said: "Singing is not a plea, singing is a law." Law is not a gentle comfort; it is a hard hand that pushes you up, twists you, binds you, and then pushes you forward a step.

At the end of the seventh night, everyone understood what was about to happen—they would sing out the pain of seven days and seven nights. It wasn't that the pain would be banished, but rather that it would be renamed: from "rebels" to "defenders." Valerian slammed his scepter to the ground, his voice deep as a well: "The last song—Return to Camp."

The Return Song has no fixed text, only a single direction. Everyone applies the rhythm, harmony, lead, and conclusion learned during these seven nights, counting their pains one by one, and then, on the "right beat," invites them back. It's not an order to leave, but a polite and calm farewell: "Guard this rib; hold down that platinum nail; watch over the path to the Echo Well; and you—remind me when I'm about to lose my temper."

When the first call of "Return to Camp" rose from the grotto, every candle flame on the ground nodded. A second call of "Return to Camp" echoed from the echo well, a beat slower than the first, like a large army marching through the side gate into the city. The third call was sung by the children, bright and light, like the corners of a flag. The fourth call came from the civilians left on the margins after the inscription—their voices were not bright, and they couldn't even hit the notes correctly, but that imperfection only added a touch of roughness to the overly smooth surface of the chorus, like the grooves in brick that can grip your feet.