Chapter 268: The Summoning

Kraft realized he had made a "don't think of a pink elephant" kind of mistake.

As expected, upon hearing the warning, several cultivators instinctively looked down at their feet, trying to see the ground's changes.

The liquid surface, nearly non-reflective, rippled beneath their feet; the formation seemed suspended within an abyss.

The liquid's appearance and texture were utterly bizarre—like thick shadows that light could not dispel, or a curtain concealing something, possessing an unparalleled allure that made it impossible to resist the urge to reach out and touch.

He slightly bent forward, extending his fingertips toward the dark, illusory liquid surface; the sounds around him grew distant and muffled, a quiet sensation like falling alone just as a dream was about to end.

A sudden explosion nearby shattered this stillness.

"Stop!"

Kraft struck away two outstretched hands with his sword scabbard, gripped another's shoulder, and jolted them out of their initial confusion, then lunged toward the rear of the formation—the last cultivator had already Occluded the outside, turned around, and taken the first step toward the shield wall.

The chaotic entity continued to shift; the amorphous tissues within the fissures writhed and stretched, but their speed visibly slowed.

It seemed the vast quantities of black liquid had exerted an inhibitory effect—it had entered a semi-solid state, like cooled magma, and consequently lost its fluid freedom of movement.

Sharp, reddish-brown objects rich in iron oxide thrust forward, equipped with barbed crossbars, attempting to hook their targets.

It was a long halberd, exceedingly rare outside formal battlefields; its wooden shaft was encased and ossified by what appeared to be calcium-based material, forming a callus-like texture.

Kraft forcibly dragged the unconscious, struggling cultivator away from the thing; on the face wracked by pain, a strange smile curled at the corner of the mouth, as if the gates of heavenly salvation had just opened within the chaos.

A hundred thousand melted voices hammered against the soul, a heavy, agonizing pull like swallowing mercury, tugging at mind and body, awakening negative information buried deep in the nerves.

In the span of seconds, the memory of first being burned by flame, skin blistering, returned to his fingertips; ribs struck during training years ago felt as if cracking open; the dull, weary monotony of daily copying and recitation assaulted his mind; even the confusion about his future from some midnight hours became sharp and piercingly clear.

A new understanding was born—or rather, awakened—the mind's dominion over the body and identity was an illusion; the body was the mind's prison, confining it to this world.

From a higher vantage point above time and space, one saw only narrowness, constraint, limitations everywhere—a world saturated with suffering.

Existence is suffering, and the greatest suffering is to clearly perceive one's own suffering.

Like being forever trapped in the moment when the mental senses cut out, claustrophobia left the mind in a state of unthresholded, unbearable suffocation.

The only solution was one and one alone: infinite expansion and aggregation, until the boundaries could be shattered, returning to where they came from—the source, existing in another world, suspended high above the heavens.

A perfect celestial body rose in memory's sky—neither sun nor full moon, shattered beyond repair. They were fragments of celestial bodies, scattered wills.

This summons was nearly irresistible, especially intense in Kraft's senses.

He fought hard to suppress the urge to plunge into it, dragging the man backward with one hand.

The shield wall's advance had halted completely; Kraft realized his earlier speculation about the black liquid was at least partially correct—it could effectively suppress proliferation, though he had never imagined it would be used in such volume to counter this thing.

The chaotic tide that had pursued them began to retreat; the semi-solid portions were pulled back by the parts still outside the corridor, vanishing into darkness as mysteriously as they had arrived.

The viscous liquid beneath their feet was replaced by a firm, gravel-like texture; vast clusters of newly formed crystals blanketed the ground, their boots sinking into them, tiny grains falling as they lifted their feet.

Within moments, they crystallized again.

"Alright, we're safe—for now," Kraft lowered his hands, signaling the frozen group to move freely. "Don't sit on the ground—these crystals have sharp edges."

They were safe. For now.

A headcount confirmed no one had been left behind—remarkable, truly a miracle given the encounter.

The echoes of pain still reverberated, compulsively dredging up every negative feeling long buried at the bottom of the mind, forcing them to realize a terrifying truth: they had always been struggling in an ocean of suffering, and simply grown accustomed to it.

【Come!】

A summons seemed to echo from the labyrinth, inviting them onto the path of "return."

Cold sweat broke out across the cultivators' foreheads; now they understood what the heretics meant by "heaven"—a place existing in another world, suspended high above the heavens, where all suffering would end in distant, overseeing silence.

One had to admit, as the chaotic entity drew near, this summons was undeniably alluring—like realizing you were in hell, then seeing a window open to salvation, impossible not to yearn for.

"That was…?"

"Silence!" The priest snuffed out the budding discussion with severity. "The path to heaven is inevitably arduous. Only the gates of hell are without locks or keys."

"As you teach," the cultivator dragged back straightened his spine, nodding hastily at Greene's words, then noticed the others staring at him with unfriendly glances.

"What's wrong?"

"Why are you smiling?"

The reminded cultivator touched his aching facial muscles; both cheeks felt as if nailed open, pulling his lips into a mask-like grin.

He tried rubbing and smoothing them, but found the smile was not a bodily reflex—it sprang from deep within, a joyous yearning impossible to conceal.

"Brother Turner?" Greene walked forward solemnly, reaching to place a hand on his shoulder, but Kraft stepped quickly away from the cultivator, intercepting the priest before he could comfort his subordinate.

"Be careful—he was too close just now. He doesn't seem right."

Greene's first instinct was to heed the warning and stop, yet he looked at Kraft, finding no trace of lingering pain on the professor's face.

He silently shifted one step, maintaining sufficient distance from both the grinning cultivator and the professor to react in an emergency.

"Turner, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he answered firmly, enunciating clearly, his tone carrying a detached, dreamy quality. "I've never felt better."

The priest hid his hand beneath his robe, subtly moving it toward his waist.

The cultivator noticed the motion—he knew Greene's habits well, understood its meaning. "You didn't see it?"

He asked in disbelief, unable to comprehend why Greene felt nothing, stumbling over words trying to describe what he had experienced.

But no matter how he shaped his language, he could not convey the celestial body's unimaginable majesty to the others—this very failure confirmed the scripture's claim that the Lord cannot be precisely described.

"You don't see it? That was…"

"That was not," a glacial blade pressed against Turner's Adam's apple; Greene's voice remained outwardly calm, but suppressed fury pulsed beneath.

"I said, that was not. Brother Turner, if you dare continue comparing that thing to Tianfu, I will expel you from the Church for blasphemy."

"It is not I who should be expelled—it is those who sit in high places and conceal the true meaning of heaven," Turner retreated slowly, but the blade followed step for step, always pressed against his throat, ready to slit his windpipe.

"The carved hat—I've only seen it on bishops during their investiture."

"Proves nothing. Anyone can carve it," Greene did not waver; his hand remained steady, the longsword held level without a tremor.

Even Kraft was surprised—he had met many religious people, but such seemingly solid spiritual pillars usually shattered or corrupted upon contact with anomalous phenomena; he saw no such signs in Father Greene.

"Listen, Turner—Tianfu teaches that only through good deeds and repentance can one ascend to heaven. The emphasis is on good deeds and repentance—not the latter."

"But Heaven is right..."

"Without the premise, it is not Heaven!" Unknowingly, the two had advanced and retreated, moving over ten paces toward the corridor entrance. "Stop right there!"

Brother Turner suddenly retreated to avoid the vital point and fled back the way he came.

Green could originally have pursued, slashing across his throat, but the shadow of Kraft behind him drawing his sword made him instantly alert, causing him to prioritize turning to defend.

The two swords clashed; he saw the blade thrusting at his back halted amidst a piercing shriek, the attacker wearing a mask-like, rigid smile.

And the other blade came from Kraft.