Chapter 268: The Call

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 change.

The liquid surface beneath them, nearly non-reflective, rippled, making the group feel as if they floated within an abyss.

The liquid's appearance and texture were utterly bizarre—like thick shadows immune to light, or a curtain concealing something, possessing an unparalleled allure that made it impossible to resist the urge to reach out and touch it.

He slightly bent forward, extending his fingertips toward the dark, illusory surface; the sounds around him grew distant and muffled, a quiet sensation of falling alone as a dream began to fade.

A sudden explosion nearby shattered this stillness.

"Stop!"

Kraft struck 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 blocked out external sounds, turned around, and taken the first step toward the shield wall.

The chaotic entity continued to shift, its amorphous tissues within the fissures contracting and extending, but its speed visibly slowed.

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

Sharp, rust-brown protrusions rich in iron oxide thrust forward, hooked like crossbars, attempting to snag 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 twisted 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 pounded the soul, a heavy, mercury-swallowing agony tugging at mind and body, awakening buried negative impulses deep within the nerves.

In the span of seconds, the memory of first being burned by flame, skin blistering, returned to his fingertips; ribs struck years ago in training seemed to crack again; the dull, weary monotony of daily copying and recitation assaulted his mind; even a past midnight's confusion about the future became sharp and piercing.

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, binding it to this world.

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

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

Like eternally trapped in the moment a mental sensory perspective is cut out, claustrophobia left the mind in a state of unbounded, unbearable suffocation.

The only solution was one and one alone: infinite expansion and aggregation, until the boundaries shattered and it returned to its origin—the source, suspended beyond the heavens, in another world.

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 surrender to it, dragging the man backward with one hand.

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

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 sticky liquid beneath their feet was replaced by a firm, gravel-like texture; vast clusters of newly formed crystals blanketed the ground, their boots sinking in, 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—a miracle, given the encounter.

The echoes of pain still reverberated, compulsively dredging up buried negative emotions from the depths of the mind, forcing them to realize something terrifying: they had always been struggling in an ocean of suffering, and simply grown used 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 in another world, suspended high above the heavens, where all suffering would end in distant, godlike observation.

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

"That was…?"

"Silence!" The priest crushed the budding discussion with a stern voice. "The path to heaven is inevitably arduous. Only the gates of hell are unlocked."

"As you teach, my lord," the rescued cultivator straightened his spine, nodding quickly at Greene's words, then noticed the others staring at him with unfriendly glances.

"What?"

"Why are you smiling?"

The 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 his face, but found the smile was not a bodily reflex—it sprang from inner joy and longing, 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, blocking the priest's attempt to comfort his subordinate.

"Be careful—he was too close. 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 a step, maintaining sufficient distance from both the grinning cultivator and the professor to react if needed.

"Turner, are you alright?"

"I am well," he answered firmly, enunciating clearly, his tone carrying a detached, ethereal quality. "Nothing has ever been better."

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

The cultivator noticed the motion—he knew Greene's habits too well to miss its meaning. "Don't you see it?"

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

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

"You don't see it? That's…"

"That is not." A glint of icy steel pressed against Turner's Adam's apple; Greene's voice remained outwardly calm, but hidden fury pulsed beneath.

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

"It is not I who should be expelled, but those who occupy high positions yet conceal the true meaning of heaven." Turner retreated slowly, but the blade followed, always pressing against his throat, ready to slit his windpipe.

"The mitre on the bas-relief—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 believers, but their seemingly solid spiritual anchors usually shattered or corrupted upon contact with aberrant phenomena—he saw no such signs in Father Greene.

"Listen, Turner: the Heavenly Father 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 those prerequisites, it is not heaven!" Unconsciously, the two had moved ten paces closer to the corridor entrance. "Stop right there!"

Brother Turner jerked back to avoid vital points and fled toward the way they came.

Greene could have lunged and slit his throat, but the shadow of Kraft drawing his sword behind him triggered instant alertness—he turned to defend instead.

The two blades clashed; he saw the one aimed at his back halted with a screeching ring—the attacker wore a mask-like, rigid smile.

And the other, from Kraft.