Chapter 68
Within the memory he received, a memory that was unlike a dream because it was too clear, too detailed, too real—so real that he could smell smoke and blood and something burning.
He could hear the clash of swords and agonized screams and cruel laughter.
He could see with his own eyes how the Gods who once ruled began to show signs of exhaustion.
How their once absolute power began to crack like old porcelain that had never been cared for.
How behind those cracks, a being—Huan Zheng could not determine whether it was a God or a human or something in between, because its form was unclear, like a shadow formed from mist and light and darkness all at once, like something that did not wish to be recognized by anyone because if it were recognized, it would lose its ability to move between the gaps of reality without ever being detected—whispered to the leaders of humanity gathered in a secret chamber beneath the palace.
Whispering words that poisoned their minds.
That provoked their anger.
That made them forget that the Gods, even as they weakened, still had the right to live.
That victory did not always have to be celebrated with slaughter.
That peace did not always have to be paid for with blood.
"Look at them," the figure whispered, its voice like a fusion of a thousand voices that could not be separated from one another, like a rumble rising from the belly of an enraged earth, like a whisper that slipped into the ear and directly poisoned the mind without being restrained by logic or reason.
"Look at the Gods who are beginning to show signs of weakening power. They will not last forever. If you do not attack now, if you do not take advantage of their weakness, if you do not sever their heads before they have the chance to rise again, then you will become slaves forever. Not slaves who are chained and whipped, but slaves who smile and give thanks for being fed. And you do not want that, do you? You do not want to be slaves. You want to be executioners. You want to become the Second Divine. You want this world to kneel before you. Then attack. Kill. Burn. Because only through blood does victory taste sweet. Only through death does victory feel eternal. Only through destruction does victory feel real."
Huan Zheng remembered that moment—when he, along with The Singer and several other human soldiers, stood before the leaders who were beginning to grow restless.
Who were beginning to be influenced by the subtle whispers that slipped into their minds without them realizing it.
Who were beginning to forget that they had promised to end the battle once the Gods laid down their weapons.
He remembered how he shouted.
How he snapped at them.
How he tried to convince them that what they were hearing was nothing but lies.
That there was nothing to fear from the weakened Gods.
That peace was more valuable than victory bought with innocent lives.
He remembered how The Singer stood beside him, her green flute still in her hand, her dim eyes gazing at the leaders with an expression he could not read—somewhere between sadness and anger, between disappointment and despair, between love and hatred.
And how she too tried, with her melodious voice, to calm the wave of anger that began to sweep through the room.
To remind them that they were no different from the Gods.
That they too could become monsters if they chose to become monsters.
That history would remember them as executioners if they chose to become executioners.
But the whispers were too strong.
The provocation was too subtle.
The poison had sunk too deeply into the minds of the leaders.
So when Huan Zheng, The Singer, and several others continued to resist, they were instead seen as traitors.
As obstacles that had to be removed.
As thorns in the flesh that had to be pulled out, even by the cruelest means.
And thus, the Harmony Conflict was declared.
The Gods were attacked.
The Goddesses were violated and abused in groups.
Their heads were severed one by one, turned into collections, turned into trophies, turned into proof that humanity had won, that the Second Divine had been born, that nothing could stop them anymore.
And behind it all, behind the curtain of blood and fire and tears, that formless figure smiled.
A smile that was neither warm nor cold, but strangely satisfied, like a puppeteer watching his puppets dance according to the script he had designed from the very beginning.
Without ever knowing that they were merely puppets.
Without ever knowing that their laughter was forced.
Without ever knowing that their victory was orchestrated.
That they had never truly won.
That they had only been made to win.
"We have to find out who that puppeteer is, Ling Xu," Huan Zheng said, his voice no longer lazy, no longer relaxed, but heavy and deep, like a rumble restrained behind a mountain ready to erupt at any moment.
His eyes, which a moment ago had been staring blankly at the busy street, now shifted to Ling Xu.
To the white bandages wrapped around her head.
To the third eye on her forehead that remained tightly closed as if asleep.
To her face that was no longer pale and thin, but fresh and alive like an ordinary human of twenty-two years old.
Yet her eyes—eyes that could not see—still held secrets she could never hide.
Secrets of hatred that would never fade.
Of vengeance that would never diminish.
Of resolve that would never waver even as the world tried again and again to destroy her.
"Not merely to avenge the deaths of the innocent Gods. Not merely to restore the honor of the violated Goddesses. Not merely to find out why the once-wise leaders of humanity suddenly turned into bloodthirsty monsters. But because I am certain, Ling Xu. I am certain with the very foundation of my Humanity that has returned after being lost for so long. That the figure I saw in that memory—the one whose form was unclear, whose voice was like a fusion of a thousand voices, who moved between the gaps of reality without ever being detected—is the key to everything. It is the root of the problem. It is the provocateur. It is the puppeteer pulling the strings behind the curtain. The one who makes the puppets dance according to its will. The one who laughs every time blood is spilled. Every time a head is severed. Every time a life is wasted. And if we do not find it, if we do not stop it, if we do not ensure that it will never again manipulate anyone, then everything we do—killing the Second Divine, burning their golden palaces, destroying the civilization they built upon the bones of the Gods—will only become another spectacle for it. Only another reason for it to smile. Only another proof that it is the greatest, the most cunning, the cruelest puppeteer of all. Because it succeeded in making us, its enemies, kill one another without ever realizing that we were actually on the same side."
Hhhh!
To be continued…