Chapter 19: Meditation

Madame Pauris did not chat with Aurora long; after a few minutes, they walked out of the study.

Lumian accompanied his sister, seeing Madame Pauris all the way to the front door.

He then turned to Aurora:

“What did she ask you to do?”

Aurora curled her lip and said:

“She asked me to lead the singing at the Celebration of Praise. I refused.”

The Lenten observance in Koldu Village has three parts: the Blessing Parade of the Spring Spirits, the Water Ritual, and the Celebration of Praise held inside the church—the last primarily conducted through instrumental music and choral singing.

In the Dariji region, the church choir usually leads the singing, but Koldu Village lacks such resources, so they must find someone skilled in singing instead.

As for the instrumental portion, the villagers have no trouble with it; in a village with a shepherd tradition, music—or instruments—is an essential part of daily life.

Shepherds spend years out in the wild, living in huts or dugouts; besides their companions and flocks, the only thing they regularly interact with is the flute they carry.

Beyond herding, playing cards, and chatting, blowing the flute to soothe their inner selves is something nearly every shepherd does.

That’s why the phrase to describe a shepherd in dire poverty is: “He doesn’t even have a flute.”

With so many shepherds around, other villagers in Koldu inevitably absorb some influence; when they gather to chat in the square, someone will always play an instrument, letting the melodious tunes drift through the air.

“Mm.” Lumian, seeing his sister’s firm resolve, felt deeply relieved.

For such celebrations, just watching and joining the noise is enough; being the main performer wastes time and invites unnecessary envy.

To protect his eyesight, with only kerosene lamps for light, Lumian read for only a short while before washing up and going to bed, seriously pondering how to safely test what special qualities he possessed within his dreams.

The lady’s repeated suggestions had been uncannily accurate, making him unconsciously believe her words completely.

In the deep silence of night, Lumian entered his dream again—and woke up there.

He patted each pocket, instinctively counting: the 217 Fierkins and 25 Kopes he’d gained were still there.

He exhaled, picked up his axe and pitchfork, clattered downstairs, and headed straight for the stove.

The fire had gone out.

“When I’m not dreaming, the clock here still ticks…” Lumian frowned slightly.

In such a “realistic” dream, what could possibly be special about me?

—“The clock still ticks” is a common saying in the Dariji region, meaning time flows on regardless of human presence.

Lumian returned to what he considered his safest room, set down his axe and pitchfork, and swiftly stripped off his clothes.

Then he walked to the full-length mirror attached to the wardrobe and examined his body inch by inch, searching for differences from reality.

No abnormalities.

“Spiritual specialness?” Lumian didn’t bother putting his clothes back on; he walked straight back to the bed, sat cross-legged like his sister.

Previously, to help him achieve lucid dreams, Aurora had taught him some basic, non-mystical meditation techniques; now he wanted to try them, to see if, in complete stillness, he could sense any hidden special qualities in his spirit or body.

Step one: regulate the breath.

Lumian deepened his breathing and slowed its rhythm.

Through slow, prolonged, rhythmically paced breaths, he gradually emptied his mind.

Simultaneously, he visualized in his mind a crimson sun, focusing all his attention and thoughts on it to exclude all other distractions.

Aurora had specifically warned him: when meditating, he must always visualize something real and representing light, to avoid attracting some filthy, evil entity.

As a casual devotee of the “Eternal Sun,” Lumian’s first instinct was to visualize the sun.

His spirit gradually calmed; his perception of the world seemed to shrink to nothing but that crimson blazing sun.

Suddenly, Lumian seemed to hear a sound.

It came from impossibly high above—or perhaps right beside his ear—indistinct yet echoing like thunder.

In that indescribable hum, his heart pounded wildly; his head felt as if an iron rod had been jammed inside and twisted violently.

Intense pain erupted instantly; the blazing sun turned blood-red, then rapidly blackened into deep darkness.

The vision within the meditation shattered.

Lumian snapped open his eyes, gasping for air, feeling as if he were about to drop dead.

It took over twenty seconds before he recovered from that near-death experience.

He instinctively lowered his head to examine his body.

He saw something strange on his left chest.

A deep black, thorn-like symbol, as if growing from his heart, emerged from within his flesh—linking one after another, forming a chain that stretched backward.

Above these “thorns” were eye-like patterns and worm-like twisted lines, all in bluish-black.

At that moment, these tattoo-like marks were slowly fading.

Lumian was startled, then his mind raced with possibilities.

He leapt from the bed and rushed to the full-length mirror, turning his back to it.

Then he strained to twist his head leftward, trying to see his back.

He barely glimpsed the chain of black “thorns” re-entering his body at the center of his back.

Meaning: the “thorn” chain formed a ring, encircling his heart and the corresponding part of his body.

“The black and bluish-black symbols are different. The bluish-black ones feel familiar… similar to the markings on the old man I helped during my wandering… That’s when I started having dreams filled with thick fog…” Lumian analyzed these dream-specific “specialties” until they faded completely and vanished.

Seeing this, Lumian felt deeply disappointed.

Though he’d found something special, he deemed it meaningless.

Because the process that triggered it caused him extreme pain, bordering on death.

What’s the difference between facing that monster with the hunting rifle and delivering it food, when you’re barely conscious?

And if he waited until he regained strength, the “specialty” would almost vanish again.

The dream’s climate was cold, like early spring in the mountains; Lumian couldn’t stay bare-skinned for long, so he quickly redressed.

Merely performing this simple act left him utterly exhausted, his head throbbing again.

Clearly, the impact of that meditation wouldn’t recover quickly.

Under these conditions, Lumian decided to abandon exploration tonight, make no further attempts, sleep well, and rest properly.

…………

When he woke again, dawn had not yet broken.

Gazing at the darkness inside the room and the faint crimson near the curtains, Lumian carefully recalled everything that had happened in the dream.

“I’ve meditated many times in reality before—never heard that strange sound, never felt any pain…”

“Is the specialness only present in that dream?” Lumian sat up in confusion, determined to verify.

He tried meditation again, following the same steps.

The crimson sun quickly appeared in his mind; his mental clutter gradually settled.

This was the familiar meditation experience: no strange sounds, no intense pain, no near-death sensation.

After a while, he ended the meditation, unbuttoned his shirt, and looked down at his chest.

There was no symbol there.

“So it’s true—the specialness belongs only to the dream… it doesn’t affect reality…” Lumian didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

He lifted his head, gazing at the window obscured by curtains, his thoughts spreading out, wondering how this dream-specific “specialness” could be used—and how.

At that moment, he noticed a small black shadow outside the window.

Lumian’s pupils widened instantly; his entire body tensed.

His most instinctive reaction was to call his sister—but then he remembered: he was at home, and Aurora had said she’d watch over this place; she’d likely already noticed. So he carefully got out of bed and crept slowly toward the window.

Throughout this, Lumian waited for his sister to call out and stop him.

Aurora did not appear.

Lumian reached the window, gripped the curtain, and cautiously pulled it open a sliver.

Outside lay a quiet, deep night; a crimson moon hung far in the distance.

On a nearby elm tree, gently swaying its leaves, an owl stood motionless, staring directly at Lumian’s window.

It was noticeably larger than most of its kind; its eyes were neither dull nor rigid, and the gaze it fixed on Lumian carried an indescribable sense of superiority.

That owl!

It’s back again!

Lumian’s heart tightened.

Just like last time, after locking eyes with Lumian for Shiji seconds, it spread its wings and flew silently into the depths of the night.

“...” Lumian was speechless.

After a long pause, he pulled the curtain fully open and muttered curses:

“Are you mentally ill?

“You just show up, stare for a second, then leave without saying a word!

“Are you mute, or are you stupid? You’ve been around for years and still haven’t learned human language?”

In truth, Lumian had his own theory about the owl’s behavior: he believed it was Aurora’s presence that kept it from acting—after all, Aurora had said that as long as he didn’t leave the building at night, he’d be safe; had he impulsively stuck his head out the window just now, the owl probably wouldn’t have flown away so calmly.

After cursing for a while, Lumian decided to close the curtains and catch a few more hours of sleep.

His gaze drifted idly outside—and froze.

At the edge of a small grove, ten meters away, a figure was walking slowly.

She wore a long, dark dress made of coarse cloth; her hair was thin and pale.

“Naroka…” Lumian recognized the figure.

It was the woman he had previously asked about the witch legends—Naroka.

Naroka’s face seemed half merged with the darkness, her eyes reflecting an odd glow under the faint crimson moonlight, her entire body moving with unnatural stiffness, like a wandering ghost.

PS: Thank you to Heiye Youli for the Baiyin Alliance reward.

(End of Chapter)