Divine Flame Crystal

Chapter 635 1 Road to the North

The group stopped at a sharp bend. Mara asked the children to form a small circle, arrange the seven slabs of rock into a semicircle, and whisper a melody that couldn't be simpler. The melody was like dry noodles soaked in water. It was dull at first, but it became more and more powerful as it was sung. The melody circled around the slabs, and a thin white light seeped out from the strings, blocking the cold wind outside the circle. Mara put down the last note and smiled: "Did you see it? This is called 'Echoing Prayer' - when there are few people, we rely on songs, and when there are many people, we rely on our hearts. When more people come later, don't be distracted."

"Who will come?" a child asked timidly, terrified of the adults with demigod blood. Mara raised her hand: on the slopes across the river, dots of fire had formed a line, like a constellation about to cross the river.

An abandoned monastery in the saline-alkali land of southern Xinjiang.

The dome of the monastery was blown open, like an upturned bowl. The remaining members of the Illuminati turned out the scrap metal one by one, scrubbed and polished it, and managed to build a simple but decent altar. The officiant was an old man with white hair and beard, Brother Aveiro. He spoke in a loud voice like a bell. He first picked up the empty Holy Grail, turned it around, and showed it to everyone frankly: "See? It's empty. An empty cup can also be used as a cup, because the use of a cup does not lie in what it contains, but in its shape that 'can contain'." Everyone laughed, and there was a long-lost lightness in their laughter. Aveiro held the empty cup to his chest: "We are the cups now. Don't ask what is in it. Wash yourself first--"

Before he could finish his words, the sounds of horses neighing and armor clashing emanated from outside the monastery. A group of unfamiliar riders stopped at the gate, led by a dark-faced female knight, Rosa, wearing leather armor and carrying a sword on her back. She spoke directly: "You can pray, we can fight. You give us a direction, and we will show you a way."

Aveiro glanced at her and raised the Holy Grail high. "Direction—towards the light. Road—north." Rosa simply bowed and said, "Northward, then." She turned to her subordinates and raised her chin. "Did you hear me? Northward, sing along."

"What are you singing?" a skirmisher asked. Rosa slammed her scabbard to the ground and said, "Are you deaf? Sing what they sing!"

Then, the rough military voices and the monks' chorus mixed together. At first, there was chaos and confusion in the rhythm, with people singing three or four sentences at a time, but as they sang, they finally matched the even beat, like a taut rope.

On the road under the night sky, the sparks gathered from scattered ones.

The remnants of the army from all over the country converged on the north like a tide: some carried slate emblazoned with the holy emblem, others shouldered charred flagpoles, and some pushed wooden carts loaded with the wounded. A broken bronze bell was tied to the cart, and it swung with every step, making a clanging sound as if counting the troops. Some untrained townspeople, holding a pot in their left hand and a spoon in their right, said, "We're not very good at fighting, but we can make you porridge." Ilio was delighted: "If this pot were covered with iron sheets, perhaps it could be used as a shield." Celine rolled her eyes at him: "Shut up first, save your breath for chanting."

The march northward grew steadier and faster. This was because they had broken the march into a "cross march": forty steps, pause; forty steps, sing a verse; forty steps, pray silently; and forty steps again, change the standard-bearer. The rhythm struck a chord with everyone, and even the townspeople, who had rarely read the Holy Tablet, could not help but follow.

But not everyone was impressed by this "singing army." The mercenaries on the outskirts of the city, hiding in the woods by the roadside, watched them pass by, their voices swirling: "Are these lunatics going to die?" "The demigod army is gone, can they sing their way out?" "Can singing save armor?"

Carloen didn't turn around, he just pointed the flag forward: "Look in that direction." Celine whispered: "They're cold, we're hot. Cold things shrink, hot things swell. Uncle, aren't you afraid of your wooden leg swelling?" Carloen smiled: "I'm afraid, but I'm more afraid of the children. If the leg swells, you can tighten it, but if your heart is cold, it's hard to put it back into the furnace."

At that moment, a flock of jet-black birds exploded from the desolate forest ahead with a crashing roar. They weren't birds, but rather a flock of filthy crows—dead crows, smoked by unholy fire, their feathers coated in gray bone dust. Their flight resembled a scattering of ashes in the air. Their crops held embers of fire, spitting out their chittering chorus. A touch of mortal flesh would leave not blisters but a layer of cold, burnt black marks. The mercenaries cursed and crept away, their formation instantly breaking into a heap, each one scattering their heads in panic.

Carloen tapped the ground with a "thump!" "Shield formation—assemble!" Thirteen broken shields were raised. The front row knelt, and the back row pressed their shield edges against the backs of the front row's shields, forming a neatly arranged slope. Sister Mara placed the holy emblem slab at the center of the formation. She pulled a string of worn bells from her sleeve and gently shook them. The tinkling sound was like a spring falling on rocks. She cleared her throat: "Chapter 37—Common Prayer Echoes, Arise."

At first, the singing was shattered by the crows' clamor. The second time, the melody seemed to be caught by the wind, steadying itself. The third time, the children followed suit, their voices naturally separated, their thickness and thinness balanced. Ripples of sound spread from the center of the formation, striking the crows' wings, rebounding and overlapping, squeezing out a thin film of pale gold between the notes. Foul flames sprayed against this film, crackling like black rain, yet impenetrable.

Carlon gave the order: "Push forward!"

"Tuk-"

The wooden leg fell to the ground, and the thirteen men marched forward in unison, like the ridge of a sloping roof. Celine sheathed the broken blade and grasped the flagpole. The charred white cloth at the end of the flag suddenly "raised" a faint ray of light from the ashes, like a star bud plucking from a dead fire. She looked up at the sky—no stars, only ashes; she looked down at the people—each one had a little light in their eyes, and together, it was much brighter than the light in the sky.

At the end of the third prayer, the crows of the Fiery Flame seemed to have suddenly remembered something important and scattered. Ashes and snow drifted down, landing on banners, helmets, and wooden legs. Mara put away the bell, took a breath, and gave the children a thumbs-up. "Well sung. Remember? We don't rely on blood, but on a common heart. When our hearts unite, the evil will retreat."

The mercenaries poked their heads out from behind the trees with complicated expressions: none of these "singing lunatics" died.

Carlon didn't look at them. He pointed the flag north again and said, "Let's go."

-

As we headed north, we encountered strange road signs along the way.

It was a wooden stake, whittled into a square, pointed shape, no taller than a man's shoulder. Tied to it was a small, unassuming brass lamp. Inside, a thin, white wick flickered in the wind, as if ready to go out at any moment. But it never burned out—because beside each lamp sat a lampkeeper. They might be an old monk, a half-blind man unable to serve on the front lines, or a widow clutching a baby. The lampkeepers chanted simple prayers and cheered on passersby.

Elio asked, "Who built this?" Mara said, "We."

"us?"

"Every time a team advances thirty miles, they'll turn back and send two people to patch up the path they've taken into a path of lights. It's called the 'Ember Road.'"

"why?"

"Because not everyone knows where north is. But everyone knows where the light is."

They joined forces with several other remnant armies on a slope called Windshear Hill. Everyone's eye sockets were black, but their teeth were gleaming white; everyone's armor was torn, but the formation was neat; everyone's collar was empty, but their hands were full - filled with holy medals, broken blades, half shields and stone slabs engraved with holy emblems dug out from the ruins.

Brother Aveiro stood on the platform holding his "empty" Holy Grail and looked around at the crowd: "Now that you are here, the cup is no longer empty."

He raised his cup to the sky, and what the cup faced was not the stars, but the ashes; he turned the cup around and faced the eyes of the people: "Pour the light in."

The crowd fell silent, then simultaneously exhaled—not a sigh, but the first breath of a chorus. The prayer sang, as if pouring from a vast chest, low, steady, and rich, like a piece of heavy wood pushing the entire wilderness slowly toward the surface. The wind died for a moment, the dust settled for a moment, and even the restless echoes of the battlefield seemed to be silenced.

Carron stood in the front row, his wooden leg planted silently in the dirt. Celine held the flag, the star-like glint at its tip expanding to a single ray. Elio couldn't help but mutter, "If this were any brighter, it would be like..."

"like what?"

“Like starting a fire.”

Carlon heard it and said with a smile: "We are here to make a fire."