The priest's voice rose, calm yet filled with undeniable authority, reverberating through the ancient chapel.
"Brothers and sisters, gather your hearts in humility and reverence. Let us bow before the Lord, our eternal God, the giver of life and judge of all souls."
The congregation shifted as one, folding into silent kneeling, heads bowed low in pious submission. Then, in a hushed but firm chorus, their voices rose:
"Hail the Lord, our God."
Candles flickered along the stone walls, their flames trembling as if struggling against the weight of silence. The scent of burning incense curled upward, thick and sweet, wrapping the air like a sacred shroud.
Each breath was heavy with faith, and yet beneath the quiet devotion, an unspoken tension lingered—an unyielding demand for obedience, for unquestioning acceptance of the divine will.
The chapel seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next word from the priest, as the worshippers clung to every syllable, bound by tradition and fear alike.
The priest's voice lowered, gentle but firm.
"Let us kneel in humble reverence."
Without hesitation, the congregation bent their knees, heads bowing in unison, the scrape of clothing on stone filling the heavy silence.
Candles flickered as shadows stretched across the chapel, and the scent of incense thickened, enveloping them all in a shared solemnity.
The only sound was the quiet rustle of breath, the collective surrender to a ritual older than memory itself.
The boy's question echoed sharply through the silent chapel, unsettling the stillness like a sudden crack in glass.
Whispers rose immediately—soft but sharp, like ripples in a stagnant pond.
Some faces twisted in disgust, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval. Others flushed with embarrassment, eyes darting away as if to escape the weight of the moment. A few glared at the boy's mother, their expressions hardening with judgment.
Murmurs of "How could she let him speak like that?" and "Such disrespect…" floated in the heavy air.
The mother's cheeks burned crimson, her eyes flicking nervously from one accusing gaze to another. She swallowed hard, the bitter sting of shame cutting deeper than the candlelight.
Then, her eyes locked on Yanwei's—black, deep, and unfathomable like her own abyss.
With a sudden, sharp motion, her hand snapped through the air, striking the boy's cheek.
"Blasphemy!" she hissed, voice trembling with rage and humiliation.
The chapel fell into a stunned silence once more, the echoes of the slap lingering like a thunderclap.
Gasps rippled through the congregation like shattered glass underfoot. Some clutched their chests in shock; others narrowed their eyes, their silence sharp with judgment. A few even nodded in quiet approval, as if the slap were a necessary punishment for irreverence.
A murmur spread—disjointed phrases carried on breath:
"She struck him?"
"Serves him right…"
"Poor child…"
"Disrespect… in the house of God…"
Yet the mother, face flushed and breathing unevenly, turned her gaze upon them all. She looked from face to face—those who disapproved, those who pitied, those who silently agreed—and offered nothing in return but a brittle smile, stretched too wide and too calm.
She gently placed her hand on Yanwei's shoulder, not to comfort him, but to quiet him completely. Her voice, when it came, was laced with that terrifying softness fanatics often wore like a second skin.
"Do not ask questions again," she said.
"What matters is not to understand, but to listen… and to obey. Obedience to the Lord, to His divine words, spoken long ago, is our only path to salvation."
Her smile deepened, almost serene now, as if the sting of the slap and the weight of shame had vanished in her blind faith.
The chapel held its silence. The candles flickered on.
The flickering candlelight blurred and softened, the heavy silence of the chapel fading like smoke carried on a gentle breeze. Shadows dissolved into the edges of vision, and the suffocating weight of faith loosened its grip.
Darkness pulled at the edges of Yanwei's consciousness, dragging him away from the cold stone walls and whispered judgments. The echo of his mother's voice, sharp and unforgiving, grew distant—replaced by the slow return of breath, the steady thump of a beating heart.
His eyelids fluttered, heavy as dusk, then peeled open to a world muted and unfamiliar.
No light touched the cramped, windowless room where he lay. The stale air hung thick and heavy, carrying the faint scent of dust and old wood. His breath came ragged, chest rising and falling as reality settled in—he was no longer kneeling in that oppressive chapel, but lying on a rough wooden floor, sweat cooling on his skin.
"That dream again… It happened more than a hundred, maybe even thousands of years ago. Why does it still linger in my sleep? Is that earthling saying true—that it's laughable to think people truly know themselves?"
A dry, humorless laugh tore from his throat, sharp and bitter like a wound that refused to heal. Why didn't I ever bother to fix what's broken inside me? The question clawed at him relentlessly, echoing through the hollow chambers of his mind, reverberating with every beat of his restless heart. Why did I let myself become this… demon? This monster cloaked in human skin?
His fingers clenched into trembling fists, nails digging shallow crescents into his palms, as if trying to grasp some elusive truth. Do I even crave the blood that stains my hands? The thought felt alien, yet it clung to him like a twisted thread of false comfort. Or is it just a lie I whisper to myself in the dark, a lie to survive the emptiness?
His abyssal eyes, black as the void itself, flickered with a tempest of doubt and sorrow. That nagging emptiness — a hollow pit gnawing relentlessly at his soul — grew deeper with every breath. And that dream… what is it, really?
A ragged sigh tore itself from his chest, fragile and broken like the last ember of a dying fire. Is it eternal strength I seek? The question hung in the air like a challenge he wasn't sure he wanted to face. Or… like I told Zhang, is it only about tearing down someone else's dream?
The bitter thought settled heavy, like poison seeping into his veins, cold and slow. Damn it all… I don't even know who I am anymore. The words trembled on his lips, swallowed by the shadows that danced at the edges of his vision.
Am I destined to wander lost in this endless void? The idea was suffocating, a chain binding him to uncertainty. Am I going to find what I truly want, what I actually dream of, in this third journey of mine?
His voice dropped to a whisper, fragile and raw, as if confessing to a silent, indifferent world. Goddamnit… I'm too empty. Too hollow to even trust the echo of my own thoughts.
He closed his eyes briefly, the weight of loneliness pressing down like a suffocating shroud. Somewhere deep inside, buried beneath years of pain and shadows, a faint flicker of hope dared to glimmer — but even that felt distant, fragile, and painfully out of reach.