Divine Flame Crystal

Chapter 646 The Birth of the Singer's Power

The Embers' voices plummeted into the ground, sinking half an inch—their sonic attacks were no longer directed outward, but inward, like a defense stuck to the bones.

On the third attempt, Xingluo withdrew his hand. He saw: the people on the other side didn't rely on the Singer Colossus; the Colossus was a weapon, not a pillar of support. The pillar of support lay in their chests, in the rhythm of the music. In the distance, or even further, a group of people with the power of the Singer were awakening. He knew that even if he defeated them, more would rise. He might as well take this opportunity to study this newfound power, a fusion of faith, song, belief, and a certain musical technique.

"I understand." He took out another silver bell he had made himself from his arms and put it on Xiao Hei's other horn.

This is not a battle between armies, it is a battle between the power of voices.

He listed five lines of words to himself in his mind:

To break them is not to break the image; it is to break - the well (anchor), the line (salt, flour, lamp), the song (beat), the rhythm (chapter), the person (name).

His first decision was to retreat to the left and defend the center. His movement also represented a change in the point of attack.

He could win this morning, but not this era. He knew that now that the power of the singer had been developed, others would follow suit; it was the inevitable trend. He didn't shout, he simply rang the bell—the center was like a mountain, the left wing withdrew, and no longer lingered in the battle.

"Chase?" Ilio asked.

"No." Cyrus shook his head. "We are no match for him now. If we forcefully pursue him, not only will our entire army be annihilated, but those of us who have mastered the power of the singer may lose their inheritance."

“Borrow the power he just used?” Ilio blinked.

"Why borrow it?" Carlon snorted. "He just used it to cooperate with the dragon. We don't have dragons. We have our own. The God of Light will guide us."

The wind picked up again, but the colossus didn't reshape itself; it dissipated in the air of Seven Fingers Field in the form of a shadow, like a series of invisible razor blades. The flank was already broken: the Starfall Alliance's left wing was forced to move closer to the center, exposing its supply line.

Celine and Mara's people arranged a team along the edge of the "Seven Finger Ditch". The energy in their bodies was like small lamps that lit up one after another, like sewing a thin golden seam in the soil.

"Take their way." Cyrus's voice was very soft, but it seemed to put the battle situation on the ground.

At one end of the rip, a young man, freshly wounded, collapsed. His fall was perfectly timed: he didn't disrupt the rhythm of others, nor did he slow down the overall song. He flung his cloak toward the well, and the wick on the sleeve of his cloak scraped against the ground and lit up.

"Name—" Mara asked when she arrived.

"...Derek." He smiled, his teeth covered in blood. "Remember I sang it on the third white stone in the seventh ditch..."

"Noted." Mara took his hand and held his small hand in her own.

His breath faded, but his voice lingered in the air. A new line of fine writing appeared on the parchment: "Derrick—Seventh ditch, third white stone; lamp burns for three days after death."

At night, the square was lit with many lights. There was no triumph, only the reading of names. Valerian read each name, word by word, reading each person's birthdate, the day they were scarred, the songs they sang, the wells they guarded, the places where they fell. After each person was read, the lights seemed to stabilize a little. This new power, never before attempted, now possessed many magical properties.

"Every time one person dies, the others can take a step forward."

Beneath the gray stele, there was a newly engraved note: "A steady shot doesn't mean no pain."

Xingluo stood in Qizhiye's palm, watching the fiery clouds in the western sky. The color wasn't pretty, as if rubbed red by the smoke of battle. He thought of the demigod legions he had defeated, their panic when their divine brilliance dimmed, a group of dandies who had long held high positions and were most afraid of falling from their height.

Most of these Bright Embers Knights were born in the mud, with suffering etched in their bones. If you knock them to the ground, they'll sing on the ground; if you lift them up into the sky, they'll let their voices echo through the heavens—making the sky their roof, a shield against the wind and rain.

"General?" the adjutant said softly.

Xingluo withdrew his gaze and handed over a piece of parchment he had just written. "Tell Lantis not to attack the shadow again. Look at the well, the line, the chapter, and the name. They have woven the town into a ritual, time into a law, and people into a beat. Start singing from the way they came. Here is a detailed explanation. Have him study it carefully."

"Retreat now?"

"Take a step back. Let them think we're scared." Xingluo gently tapped Xiao Hei and returned to the formation. The light under his cloak was quiet and peaceful. "Tell the troops: from now on, turn off the lights when you see them, move the white stones when you see them, and create a bigger wind when you see a song. We don't have to win their hearts; we just need to make them unable to hear us."

He tapped the dragon's horns with his fingertips: one, two, three, four.

"This isn't the Legion."

“It’s the will.”

The adjutant couldn't help but count the beats. When he counted to four, he suddenly looked up and said: This beat is really hard to play.

The waterline at Zheliu Ferry slowly rose in the night, and the lights of Qizhiye, one after another, seemed to have sewn a long bright line across the earth. From the distant towns came the sound of low songs, no longer praying for divine intervention, but a new power quietly emerged.

The men in the mines sang as they chiseled;

The people at the salt wells sang as they picked;

The children in the children's singing studio were also breathing in and out even when they were dozing off;

A ash monument is erected beside the burned square. In front of the monument there must be a small lamp, and under the lamp there must be a small piece of paper with the name written on it.

"The tide is rising," Mara said from the gates of Varn.

"The tide is not the sea," replied Cyrus; "it is the united force of our own breath."

Valerian placed his hand on the iron nail at the center of the city gate. "If external favors are not continued, internal resentment will naturally arise."

Carlon's wooden leg slammed on the threshold, as if to nail this old saying into everyone's mind.

Celine put the broken blade on her back and raised her hand to adjust the somewhat dim military flag.

Ilio stood behind her, the small lamp on his shoulder standing at attention. He mentally counted the day's beats again, from one to four, from four to one. These lights weren't some kind of fire magic, but rather the energy of their faith and belief. They could illuminate at night, but without the burning sensation of flames, they were brighter and unaffected by the wind element.

The light did not grow brighter, but it did grow steadier.

The night wind did not get weaker, but it became softer as it blew through the group of people.

They regard failure as a blessing and the dead as pioneers in exploring power, borrowing the experience of their predecessors to make their power even stronger.

The sound of the tide is not the sound of the sea, but the resonance of the singers' chests as they keep close to each other for warmth in the dark night, inhaling and exhaling together.

A flag called "Embers," a power woven from "people, songs, blood, and bones," a battlefield experiment that tore apart the flank, and a word from an opponent carried on the wind—

This is not a legion, this is a will.

The ceremonial chamber beneath the Holy City was renovated for the third time. Where the stone walls once read "Man—Song—Blood—Bone," Valerian nailed in another line: "Law."

He placed the scepter horizontally on the table, revealing a long box wrapped in black cloth. When he opened the lid, he found three antiques inside: a cracked silver ring, a blackened scale pendant, and a wick as gray as bone.

"Name." He pointed at the silver ring. "The Wheel of Judgment—it's not meant to be worn on the head, but to restrain the paddle and the fire of faith."

"This." He picked up the scale pendant. "The white ash scale—it doesn't weigh things, it weighs wishes and sins. Whoever goes into battle, step on the scale first."

"Finally," he pressed the wick back into the box, "the bone lamp—put the lamp into the bones. As long as the lamp remains, the person can serve as the rhythm of the singer's power."

Mara read the record in a low voice, while Hubert stood beside her, copying it. Cyrus stood straight, the stigma on his chest expanding and contracting between light and darkness, like a small animal breathing quietly. Ilio, standing in the back row, subconsciously touched his chest when he heard the word "bone lamp": it seemed empty, as if there was room for something.

A new power was born, the power of the singer. From then on, this alien continent had one more power that could influence the outcome of the war. Although it had just been formed, its power should not be underestimated.