Chapter 102: Everyone Despises Him

Tick! Tick! Tick!

The sound of water dripping.

Where the water was, where it fell, he could not see.

Before his eyes stretched a vast whiteness—not the cave he once knew, but a boundless snowfield.

The north wind howled; the snowfield seemed endless. The path beneath his feet was indistinct. He wandered forward in a daze.

Amidst the wind, faint whispers mingled, barely audible. He listened carefully—it sounded like someone offering him peaches?

He frowned and continued along the indistinct path. Glancing behind, he saw only a dark void. The sound of droplets hitting the ground persisted, as if coming from behind.

Yet, he left no footprints.

The wind strengthened, swirling snow around his face like dust. The cold snow stung his skin. Instinctively, he touched his chest—it too was cold.

He trudged on, half-awake. The sound of dripping water grew faint, while the voices carried by the wind grew louder. Finally, he heard clearly: “Run! Run! Run!”

An old man’s voice, followed by a child’s cry, “Run! Hurry! Brother, run!”

Brother?

He was puzzled.

In his memory, he had no younger siblings.

“Run quickly!” A woman’s voice then rang out, filled with panic and urgency, “Escape! Don’t come back! Don’t come back! Run fast!”

In an instant, the snowfield inverted; mountaintops became valleys, valleys became the sky above. He found himself hanging upside down from the heavens.

Ancient chants swept over him, a force thrusting him downward. He tumbled from the clouds, then was flung high again, still urged to flee.

Wind chimes tinkled, as if beckoning a soul.

He closed his eyes, unsure why—perhaps this act of escaping would make him stronger. It felt like an instinct etched into his very bones.

Then, he saw it.

This was no snowfield—it was a living hell on earth.

An old man with a graying beard chanted, faint purple gleam in his eyes. Strange markings adorned his forehead. He stood surrounded by men bearing similar markings, holding a flag.

They muttered prayers—the very melody he had heard.

Around them knelt many women and children, all captives. Further off, armored men sat motionless with closed eyes, as if asleep.

A crow cut through the clouds, stirring the wind. Its feathers fell to the ground, but the armored men remained unawakened.

Time passed. As the snow began to melt, the first armored man collapsed, then the second, the third...

All the armored men had fallen. The crows cawed, perching atop branches, their red eyes filled with disdain. At some point, a crow landed on one of the fallen men and fed on his flesh.

More crows followed. Perhaps none noticed, or some did—the crows that fed moved sluggishly for moments before returning to normal.

Only bleached bones remained. After their feast, the crows returned to the treetops, watching the women and children.

Tears stained their faces. They seemed to wish to collect their kin’s remains, but an impenetrable barrier prevented them from moving forward.

The crows lingered three days before dispersing across the snowfield.

After another stretch of time, a new ritual commenced on the snowfield. But before it began, tents in the camp caught fire one after another, as if something had shattered. Then, a horned man appeared.

This time, the old man was no longer the focus of the chanting. For some reason, he longed to find the old man—and in that moment, he realized he could move again.

When he found the old man, seven wounds marred his body, fresh blood flowing. Before the old man knelt a young man.

The youth’s eyes were dull gray, void of spirit, attentively listening in the old man’s direction.

“Escape! You must escape! You are the last hope.”

“Are you hurt?” The youth stepped forward. “Where are you?”

“Don’t move!” The old man halted him. “The soul tribe of this world is nearly wiped out. My group is among the last to be cleansed. You must escape, find the ruins of the god first.”

“God?”

“Yes.”

The old man pressed his bloodied finger to the youth’s forehead. The drop of blood vanished swiftly, as if absorbed into his body. A light flickered in the youth’s eyes.

He blinked, unaccustomed to the glow, shielding his eyes with a hand. “Ji Alao, I fear I am unfit for such a burden.”

“No. You have no eyes; you are the one most likely to witness that moment.” The old man’s gaze was resolute as he looked at the formation beneath them. “Your legs are healed, Diro. You may leave. Remember your promise—do not let the extinction of the soul tribe be in vain.”

“Yes.” The youth clasped his own shoulders and bowed to Ji Alao—the highest honor among soul tribe priests. “Today, Diro is the tribe’s offering. Should that day never come, the soul tribe’s mark shall live forever in Diro.”

“Child.” Ji Alao spat blood, kneeling as it spilled across the formation.

Beneath the light, he still smiled faintly. “Run quickly! If you delay, it will be too late.”

Diro stared at the dark holes in his body, gritted his teeth, and leapt in.

As he descended, the formation dimmed, as if it had never existed. On Ji Alao’s aged face was a trace of relief; a tear slid down his cheek.

“With the tribe’s strength, I protected this fragile line. Yet now, even the weak cannot be saved. I must send them away to protect another, even weaker.”

“Qiyun, are you truly the god of legend? Did they—and I—place our faith wrongly?”

The silent snowfield welcomed a formidable guest—one without mercy, who killed all living souls encountered.

They found Ji Alao last, bloodied. The demons ignored him, setting his tent ablaze instead.

At his final moments, Ji Alao gazed at the collapsing tent, bitterness filling his heart. “Qiyun, there is no god, is there? The calamity from ten thousand years ago—no chosen ones.”

“You are mistaken.” A woman’s voice suddenly spoke.

Ji Alao saw, amid the flames, the person he longed to meet—the god the soul tribe revered, and the god who had brought about their doom.

“Why?”

“You should consider why I have come to see you.”

“Why...?”

“I'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.