Chapter 86#
Genesis Eight#
A unicorn drew the carriage to paradise’s edge. Paradise’s sky remained forever the same twilight scenery across centuries—snowy white and pale gold connected without bound, occasional orange flowing clouds drifting as decoration.
Leaping down from the edge, upon leaving paradise’s vicinity, the scenery suddenly transformed. The sky was overcast and gloomy, dark clouds pressing from above, as if violent wind and storm would erupt the next moment.
Xiamson gazed toward the divine kingdom below: “The elders of Landenworth say every resurrection day brings rain.”
No one knew how many resurrection days Landenworth had experienced, how many years it had existed in the divine kingdom, or why it was called the “Land of Holy Redemption.”
It simply existed there, just as the Temple of Twilight perpetually stood atop the central mountain. Over time, people came to believe the world naturally was this way. Perhaps initially it wasn’t, but those who experienced the beginning no longer existed, leaving only dubious legends.
“Look, the temple is there, at the mountain range’s peak,” Xiamson pointed toward the gradually visible mountain contours emerging from mist and cloud. After indicating the path, he told Yu Feichen the Temple of Twilight’s customs.
Just as divine favor descends upon everyone, the temple refuses no one entry. Yet the mountain path was steep—thirty thousand steps were no easy climb. People born in Landenworth climbed several times, glimpsed the temple’s form, and after growing up rarely returned, avoiding disturbing the peak’s serenity.
Only children raised by the temple or sent by parents to be educated remained in its vicinity. Occasionally, playful youths got lost within the temple and were returned by temple attendants.
“The deity loves children,” Xiamson said.
Yu Feichen: “Does It have a name?”
“It?”
“It.”
“A name?” Xiamson shook his head. “Names are merely… symbols we create to distinguish ourselves from others. The deity needs no such mortal marking.”
Making such a question seemed to paint Yu Feichen as a mundane person.
Xiamson observed Yu Feichen, testing: “You seem somewhat nervous.”
“I…”
Yu Feichen leaned against the carriage wall, gazing toward the boundless sky.
He knew he was evading something. Ever since that day seeing Vincent kneeling before Anphiel, he’d begun this pattern. Within brief reaction time, he planned this journey, then actively stopped thinking about it, unconsciously beautifying it as—no unnecessary emotions until matters became clear.
Xiamson laughed: “First time sensing emotional fluctuation in Yu-ge. Truly rare.”
But Xiamson didn’t delve deeper. Not prying into others’ private affairs was also one of Landenworth’s cherished virtues. He changed the subject: “Speaking of names, is your current name your original one?”
Yu Feichen: “No.”
Xiamson blinked.
Yu Feichen found fragments of memory about this name in distant recollection. As the carriage drew nearer the mountains below, he evaded more thoroughly, reminiscing with such focus as if reliving it directly.
In memory, there was a murky yellow sky. Dust and smoke permeated. Ten thousand beasts shrieked. He departed from armies of hundred-thousand black-armored soldiers standing in formation, ascending the steep, open celestial ladder. At the peak of the vast, pitch-black mountain range stood a magnificent black-gold palace. As he climbed, twisted branch-like monsters crawled aside with rustling sounds, yielding the path.
Twelve lamp-bearing maidens lined each side of the palace entrance. Wind howled, white robes and veils covering their faces fluttered, yet each stood with lowered head, perfectly still, like the white flames in the lanterns they held.
When he reached the entrance, the foremost maiden turned toward the palace, speaking warmly: “General, please follow me.”
The great hall was imposing, windless inside. Lanterns burned everywhere, held by white bone talons, burning from ceiling to walls.
His fingers subtly brushed the deerskin scabbard at his side, surveying the hall with cold eyes.
The maiden guide spoke as she led: “General, your journey from Yan River Valley to here must have been exhausting.”
He answered dismissively: “Mm.”
“His majesty heard of the general’s triumphant return and has ordered a banquet in your honor.”
Actually, he hadn’t come prepared to receive commendations.
—He planned to incite a rebellion, usurp the throne.
This was a world of primal chaos, newly opening heaven and earth. His task was to push the kingdom’s borders from Yan River Valley to the Fragmented Mountains thousands of li away, then seal the Fragmented Mountains’ heaven prison. Not a simple task—he needed to stay here three years. The kingdom’s ruler had no great faults, but occasionally orders from the mountain throne conflided with his plans, making him uncomfortable.
For short-term missions, discomfort was tolerable. For long-term missions, he wouldn’t accept this indignity. Starting a rebellion to ensure three years of smooth task completion was quite worthwhile. He hadn’t been in paradise long, but this wasn’t his first time doing such things. When the mission completed, he’d simply release the softly imprisoned ruler.
After finalizing his plans one last time mentally, he looked up and saw the kingdom’s master.
That person wore a black-gold fox cloak, lazily reclined on a throne wrapped with white bones, eyes gazing downward, half-closed brows emanating scattered majesty.
That day he didn’t rebel because for the first time he intuitively sensed danger—his subconscious hairs stood on end throughout his body.
Even animals encountering stronger foes lower themselves to probe the conflict before seizing opportunity. He would too.
This probe extended until his next campaign.
His identity in this world was the seventh son of the Yu family of Yan River Valley, with a perfunctory name: Yu Qi.
As he departed, a lamp-bearing maiden appeared with a message: the ruler bestowed the name “Feichen” upon the general, hoping for his triumphant return.
He looked back toward the mountain peak palace, seeing that ruler standing at the railing, apparently gazing toward the endlessly drifting dust of the horizon.
He accepted it. Yet three days after returning to Yan River Valley, news arrived that the ruler had passed. Three years later at the expected triumphant return, a new king indeed greeted him.
Yet the name remained.
“Yu-ge?” Xiamson’s voice pulled Yu Feichen from reminiscence. The peak was near.
Xiamson: “Just above are the final steps. If you can’t return to paradise before resurrection day, you can still see it from the peak.”
Yu Feichen stood before the steps. Eternal sleep flowers and white roses bloomed along the path, clustering around the temple above. The temple was pure white, especially sacred and solemn beneath the gloomy sky.
Yu Feichen felt familiar, as if he’d been here before.
Xiamson said: “Follow me.”
After climbing the steps came the temple square. At the center stood a divine statue—Yu Feichen’s first sight of a statue belonging to the supreme deity.
The statue was gray, beautiful and lifelike. The deity wore robes, held a staff, wore a solemn crown, with sleeves and robe hem carved as if caught by wind blowing forward, the entire figure seemingly gazing into the distance. Yet despite the statue’s fineness—even individual hair strands faintly visible—the face bore no features.
“This is the faceless divine statue,” Xiamson said.
A group of children passed, led by priests, their laughter faintly audible.
Xiamson: “I must leave.”
Yu Feichen thanked Xiamson and walked toward the temple’s great doors. He only avoided this in his heart; his actions never reflected such avoidance.
As a magnificent temple, this place differed little from all solemn sacred sites worldwide—some areas even showed decay, overgrown with vines and moss.
If anything distinguished it, it was the extraordinary scale, countless staircases, and complex structure.
—And extraordinary desolation.
Initially, white-robed attendants smiled in greeting or offered assistance. As he passed corridor after corridor, their presence gradually vanished.
His footsteps echoed alone in the vast hall. Looking back toward his approach, he suddenly realized he’d been lost for quite some time.
Yet his heart held no panic at being lost, only a tranquility like returning home. He was certain he’d never seen any ivy or pillar here, every crack was unfamiliar, yet standing on the nearly ice-cold marble floor, Yu Feichen felt no strangeness.
Cold wind suddenly rushed through cracked glass doors, a low whimpering echoing in the temple. Outside darkened further. A small lamp spontaneously ignited in the corridor. Its faint light fell on the window, projecting his shadow.
His appearance changed frequently—some inherited from the painter, others gifts from employers, refusals to which drew complaints. Today, brought to the deities’ gathering, Claros had selected his appearance: light armor under a pitch-black cape with silver trim, carrying an eerie religious flavor. The shadow on glass resembled a phantom in a temple.
Withdrawing his gaze, he looked ahead. Yet he couldn’t find the path. He even questioned his earlier decision—why had he come here merely hearing “the supreme deity resides in the Temple of Twilight” rather than waiting for resurrection day to watch the deity descend the peak with millions?
Because someone gifted a lame-legged rabbit, thinking himself somehow different from those millions?
More ironically, throughout an entire epoch, he’d never revered this deity.
The emotions he’d avoided became increasingly intense, surging like tidal waves, yet the deity’s dwelling remained deathly silent. More tomb than temple.
Not yet the time, Yu Feichen told himself.
Before the final moment came, this might not be It.
Yet his emotions grew too complex to suppress forcefully. He felt weary, closing his eyes.
Everything vanished from sight. In the desolate air, a tranquility previously unnoticed settled. Eternal sleep flowers—their scent so faint it couldn’t properly be called a smell, making them the perfect decoration.
With no path to choose, he followed the eternal sleep flowers’ guidance. The longer he walked, the wider and older the corridors became. No windows lined the sides; the eternal sleep flower scent intensified.
Finally, he reached a tightly closed great door. Florid reliefs flanked it—a sword on the left, a staff on the right.
The door opened with a push. Brilliant light flooded forth, a serene atmosphere like the calmest ocean.
The place was very warm, the light source unknown. A translucent dome above was overgrown with roses and ivy, soft vines hanging downward. The vast hall was empty and immaculate, walls lined with niches full of eternal sleep flowers.
At the center stood a crystalline object, visible at first glance. And once seen, Yu Feichen’s gaze never left.
His steps were light, as if fearing to disturb the deity dwelling here. Yet drawing near, he saw clearly—it was a crystal coffin.
The coffin interior was heaped with eternal sleep flower petals and other flowers—white roses or white roses, indistinguishable. Scattered crystal-brilliant dew like shattered diamonds lined the petal edges.
They were sweet, fresh, fragrant, quietly clustering around a person seemingly in slumber.
Yu Feichen’s fingers touched the coffin lid. It was so smooth; a gentle push moved it aside, falling dully onto the soft carpet.
Sometimes people become extraordinarily calm.
Sometimes they fall into extreme madness.
Yu Feichen calmly gazed into the crystal coffin. His right hand extended toward it, yet his fingers trembled slightly. Unable to touch, his body stiffened as if unable to bend his waist.
Wind wailed. He slowly bent, half-kneeling before the coffin, gently brushing away several petals obscuring the right eye’s corner.
The teardrop mole fell like scattered light beneath the eye—serene yet sorrowful.
Yu Feichen suddenly smiled slightly.
“You,” he said coldly, “wake up.”
No one answered.
His fingers ice-cold, he touched the deity’s forehead, then the corner of the lips. No warmth, no breath.
After seeing Murphy treat Anphiel that way, he could have directly confronted him, but didn’t. Not only that, he wanted Anphiel to think he’d discovered nothing.
He’d been deceived too much, unwilling to give Anphiel any space for excuses or concealment. He wanted to trap him in a position admitting nothing, unable to deny anything, then unveil that nearly non-existent veil.
Now was that moment.
Yet—
“You wake right now,” Yu Feichen intended to say he would forgive.
Instead he said: “I won’t forgive you either.”
The temple fell silent. He called out Anphiel—yet this name felt distant and unfamiliar, floating on the surface. He didn’t even know this person’s true name.
Yu Feichen’s heart beat violently. His fingers gripped the coffin edge, knuckles blanching white, looking confusedly at the empty surroundings.
Upon unveiling the truth, he’d expected the angriest, saddest moment of his life. Yet he experienced fear’s flavor for the first time.
His gaze gradually returned to the crystal coffin.
“Don’t sleep,” he said.
Yet uncontrollable drowsiness gradually wound around his body.
Yu Feichen suddenly recalled eternal sleep flowers’ other effect.
When densely placed in enclosed spaces, they produced extraordinary sedative and analgesic properties.