Divine Flame Crystal

Chapter 639 The way home

This was the first old man to step onto the stone platform. His hunched body was nearly blown over by the wind, but he still clasped his hands together, facing the sky, his voice trembling yet firm. His son had long since perished in the war, and the family property his son had left him had been reduced to ruins in the flames of war. Now, all he had left was his final breath, dedicated to the so-called "God."

The priest, draped in a bloodstained white robe and wielding a rune-carved dagger, slowly slashed open the old man's chest. Blood gushed out, transforming into light in the air, and was absorbed by the knight on the stone platform. The knight's face was grim, his muscles twitching in the bloody light, as if countless flames were branded into his bones.

"Holy... Light..." The knight growled in his throat. The whites of his eyes were quickly dyed gold, and his skin cracked, flowing out not blood but light.

——He has become stronger.

But the price was that the old man's body turned into ashes and was blown away by the wind.

There were no wails from the crowd. Instead, there were young people praying loudly, crying out, "Glory to the Light." That wasn't despair, but fanaticism.

A mother and daughter walked up to the stone platform, hugging each other. The mother handed the child to the priest. The child was even babbling. The mother smiled, tears in her eyes. Her last words before her death were:

"Let her blood grant the knight protection, and let her soul be reborn in the holy light."

The child's cries abruptly ceased as the blade pierced its skin. Blood flowed into the light array, illuminating the entire shattered church. The knight on the stone platform roared in pain, a new stigmata appearing on his chest, vein-like golden runes spreading through his veins.

His strength increased again, and he could even sense the breathing of the distant army. But at the same time, golden blood continued to drip from the corners of his mouth, indicating that this "blessing" was accompanied by irreversible corrosion.

What was even more terrifying was that those knights, although they were almost crazy, sang hymns in front of everyone.

"Blessed by the Holy Light, Glory to the Holy Light, we use our blood as fuel and our bodies as lamps!"

Their singing was hoarse and loud, as if declaring an absurd victory.

As night fell, corpses piled up like a mountain beneath the stone platform. People lined up voluntarily, one after another, offering their lives. Even though they knew they would die, they still walked with a smile.

Amidst flames and hymns, this sacrifice lasted for seven days and seven nights. Ultimately, the hundred or so remaining knights gained strength sufficient to rival the demigod bloodline legions.

Their eyes were cold, their bodies were shaking, but they were praying in a low voice at the same time.

“We are no longer human.

We are the will of the Light."

The air in the underground ceremonial chamber gradually thickened. Blood, incense, and holy oil mingled like a pot of boiling water, the heat searing every lung. The flames of the candlesticks on the wall had burned black, yet they still flickered stubbornly.

Lying on the stone platform was Knight Reinhardt. He was young, strong, and the most taciturn of all the members of Kaloen's squad. His chest was exposed, his sternum rising and falling violently, as if it would break at any moment.

The runesmith lit the bone-engraving needle, and a red light flickered in the molten iron. Bishop Valerian leaned forward, his voice low, as if setting the tempo for the blazing fire:

"Guard the shot, don't hide, look at the light."

Reinhardt gritted his teeth and said nothing.

As the bone-carving needle pierced through, every flame in the cave trembled violently. Blood spurted out from the needle tip, ignited by the holy oil, and instantly transformed into tiny wisps of golden light.

"Ah--!" Reinhardt let out a beast-like roar from his throat, and his arms were almost broken from the pain.

However, what came out of his mouth was not curses, but hoarse hymns.

"Holy Light—Shine on my bones!

Holy Light—melt my blood!"

His voice was torn, but he sang the pain into the rhythm. The choir was thrown off track by his roar for a moment, but soon regained the rhythm, and the chorus mixed with his wails, creating a heart-pounding solemnity.

As the second line was carved, a rune-shaped rift appeared on his chest, bleeding profusely, but the holy oil forcibly ignited it. The flames spread along his blood vessels, burning his bone marrow.

His eyes began to glow red, and his pupils dilated, as if madness was about to consume him. Brother Mara stood beside him, holding up the holy book and reading aloud: "If pain can generate power, then sacrifice with pain!"

Reinhardt's body convulsed as if struck by lightning, yet he suddenly burst into laughter: "Hahahaha—hurt? This is the Holy Light!"

His laughter mixed with his roar of pain, causing the dust on the top of the cave to fall.

The third line fell, and his chest burned completely. The skin split, exposing the bones, which were engraved with runes in the golden light. That was the formation of the stigmata.

He was almost suffocating, with blood bubbles rolling in his mouth, but he kept singing.

"Holy Light Eternal"

The tone was broken and could not even be called a song, but every syllable was like a flame that he squeezed out with his life.

When the fourth line was completed, Reinhardt's heartbeat stopped for a moment. His head jerked to the side, and his breathing stopped.

There was silence in the cave, and everyone held their breath.

The next moment, he suddenly sat up, the holy mark on his chest completely ignited, and a golden flame shot up into the sky.

His eyes were completely covered with light, and he let out a hoarse growl: "I see it—the Holy Light!"

At that moment, even Valerian took a slight step back.

The brand is not just power, it also brings madness.

Reinhardt stood on the stone platform, the flames on his chest burning the air, but he looked down at the cracks on his arm and smiled with satisfaction.

"Engrave it again...engrave it for me again!"

"I am willing to exchange a hundred times of pain for one time of holy light!"

His voice was terrifying, yet it also made the knights' blood boil. They saw power, and the hope that even "mortals" could transcend their bloodlines.

So, one knight after another voluntarily lay down on the stone platform.

Their bodies twisted under the bone carving needles, blood and fire mixed, and the stigmata burned in their bones and blood. They cried and wailed, but also sang hymns in the pain.

The grotto seems to have become a purgatory, but it is also a church full of power.

Only a few people can survive the whole process.

Some knights were completely burned to ashes at the third line, and their bodies turned into ashes and dissipated into the air.

Some people lost their minds in pain, bit their tongues, but still fell down with a smile.

Sister Mara's eyes welled with tears, but she still sang hymns to bid them farewell. She knew that the blood of these dead would become fuel for the survivors, increasing their chances of success.

Valerian coldly wrote down the data, recording the cause of each death. His eyes held no sorrow, only calculation, for only absolute composure could reduce the death rate.

"Remember, their deaths were not in vain.

Every ash is a brick towards the holy light."

After seven days and seven nights, nearly a hundred knights completed the stigmata branding.

Their bodies are full of cracks and their minds are on the verge of madness, but their fighting power is far greater than before.

They were no longer ordinary remnants of the army.

They are fanatics marked by the Holy Mark. Every sword they strike carries fire, and every step they take makes the earth tremble.

As they sang hymns in unison, the dome of the cave seemed to be actually expanded, and a column of light shot straight into the night sky, illuminating the world above the ruins.

——The Holy Trial of this group of pioneers was truly completed, and their death increased the hope of survival for those who came after them.

The crack in the grotto's ceiling was like an unhealed wound, through which the night wind seeped, carrying with it rubble and moonlight. The candlestick burned to its shortest flame, its wax tears piling up like a small mountain. The air underground was still hot, yet so cold it seeped into the cracks between my bones, like shoving a charcoal fire into the snow.

Valerian had the fourth draft of the ritual pinned to each pillar. The bold black characters "Rhythm of Song, Rhythm of Blood, Rhythm of Pain" flickered in the firelight. He circled the symbol of the "Echo Well" three times with a thick line, and next to it, a line of fine words read: "Song as beam, pain as nail."

The choir was returned to the grotto's antechamber, where the room was larger and the echoes were more distant. Mara placed the youngest children on the stone steps and had them learn the simplest two "beat words": "One, two, three, four, inhale; one, two, three, four, exhale." She explained, "Don't overthink it. You're not singing for God; you're singing for yourself, to help your body find its way home."

Carron leaned against the stone wall, his wooden leg tilted at an angle, like a superfluous yet necessary support. He pressed his palm against the newly formed stigmata on his chest, feeling the faint glow. But the light was like a curled-up animal, rising and falling with the rhythm outside. He hummed along in his throat, no words, just the tune. Celine held the broken blade across her knees, staring at the tip of the candle, as if staring at something that might escape at any moment. Ilio sat in the front row, his hands tucked into his cloak, like a bow poised for release.