OBS Chapter 641 Varn
Chapter 641 Varn
Carlon's wooden leg thumped with the final clapping sound, a massive nail driving the stone statue into the stone. Celine whispered a silent clapping sound, like gathering the last scattered thread into the eye of a needle. Reinhardt straightened from the stone platform, the stigmata on his chest converging into a core of light that remained unbroken. He looked like a lump of iron, washed by fire and enveloped in water.
Valerian placed his palm on the center of the formation and exhaled a long breath: "Stop singing."
Silence spread out like snow. No one spoke, no one dared to move, as if any unnecessary movement would destroy the order they had just painstakingly carved out. After a long moment, Mara gently patted her knees, as if brushing off the last speck of dust. "Alright."
No one cheered. They simply touched their chests, making sure the tiny light was still there, that it was no longer flickering. Some raised their eyes and saw that the sky outside the crack had turned from black to blue; some rubbed their throats, finding a hint of coolness in their hoarseness; some raised the back of their knives and found that they were heavier than last night, but also more responsive.
Elio returned to Carloen's side, his shoulders slumping, and he nearly fell to the ground. Carloen quickly grabbed him by the collar, joking, "Not bad, kid. You've learned more than my wooden leg." Elio chuckled, his eyes suddenly red. "For a moment, I thought... I thought someone wouldn't be able to catch up."
"Yes," Carloen offered no comfort. "And so will you. Just let the line down and aim your shot. Catch as many as you can."
Valerian approached and tapped Ilio's chest with his knuckles. "Your 'rope' is fine. Remember this—don't let the tugging of one string throw off the rhythm of the entire group." He turned to look at the group. His voice was low, yet it suppressed the anger in everyone's heart. "Seven nights make up a season. From tonight on, every seven nights, you'll return to camp. The more you sing, the more profound it becomes, not the more profound it becomes."
He paused, as if to drive home the point: "We're not using songs to hide the pain; we're using songs to tame it. The pain doesn't go away; it just changes its clothes to guard the city walls."
Outside the cave, the first rays of sunlight streamed in through a gap in the broken wall, landing on the edge of the array. The platinum nail flickered, a tiny pinprick of light. The light wasn't glaring, but it was captivating, like a small lamp on the corner of a desk, telling you it was time to write.
Mara put away the sheet music, folded up the corner of a page, and wrote four words: "Pain Becomes Its Own Song." She suddenly felt that after finishing this volume, the next volume would be vaguely visible - that would be the first step taken by an ordinary young man after the trial. On the battlefield, he would sing the "Song Rhythm" into the wind of swords, dig the "Echo Well" in the enemy's camp, and put the "Threshold Song" on the enemy's throat.
"Don't think too far ahead." Valerian seemed to suddenly understand what she was thinking and said lightly, "Go to bed first. When you wake up, copy today's video and audio again. Don't miss a single shot."
Mara nodded and murmured in agreement. She bent down to blow out the last candle, but the darkness of the cave did not re-emerge—because the little light in everyone's heart was still firmly guarding its owner.
As night fell, the wind from the wasteland slammed like the sighs of the dead, carrying gravel against the dilapidated wooden fence. This was the small southeastern border town of Varn. Originally a supply base for the Starfall Alliance, its remote location and sparsely populated forces made it a target for the remaining Knights of the Holy See of Light.
They were like sparks rekindled from ashes, with dark red spots of light, approaching in the night.
Leading the way was the great knight Cyrus, draped in a ragged white robe. His armor was already tarnished, and his shoulder pads were stained with black scabs from the blood of his comrades. But the light in his eyes was brighter than ever. He whispered a prayer, his voice hoarse and heavy:
"The holy light is immortal, and the ashes will burn."
The knights murmured in agreement, dozens of voices interweaving into a chilling chant. Their footsteps were not hurried, but carried a sense of oppression, like an unstoppable fate.
The town's defenders numbered no more than a hundred men, mostly ordinary militiamen and mercenaries. Seeing these armored figures emerge into the night, their first reaction was "remnants," but the next moment their hearts suddenly tightened—for the expression on these remnants' faces wasn't despair, but fanaticism.
The battle broke out after a short horn sounded.
Cyrus raised his sword high, a strange red glow emanating from it, the mark left by the "Trial of the Stigmata." He roared and charged, nearly outnumbering ten men, his sword's trajectory leaving a trail of blood and fire.
The other knights followed suit, using no complex tactics or elaborate formations, simply the most direct approach of "pressing forward." To them, death wasn't a fear, but a sacrifice; blood wasn't a sin, but the nourishment of the Holy Light.
In just half an hour, the town's defenses completely collapsed. Militiamen were mowed down in the dust, mercenaries abandoned their armor and weapons, and even the usually cold-blooded mercenary leader howled in horror, "They're crazy! This bunch of people are completely crazy!"
Yes, they are crazy.
But because of this, they won.
When dawn arrived, the flag of the Holy See of Light was raised again on the bell tower of Varn Town. The flag was already badly damaged, with the corners burnt black, but it was still held high devoutly by the knights.
The townspeople were driven to the square, where hundreds of pairs of eyes shrank back as they stared at the knights, swords in hand and covered in blood.
Cyrus stood on the steps, his voice low but penetrating the crowd:
"Today, the Holy Light returns to this place. Those who are willing to return to faith will be blessed; those who refuse will be judged."
His words made the air suddenly tense. No one dared to speak out in rebuttal, but deep within the trembling crowd, some people were still sobbing softly, others were clenching their fists, and were dissatisfied.
Cyrus's eyes scoured the air like a hawk, searching every soul for any trace of doubt. He raised his sword and pointed, and several townspeople were dragged out, their cries for mercy utterly meaningless under the knight's iron boots.
The flames were lit, and the sound of burning drowned out the cries.
The blazing light illuminated the square, and the knights sang hymns in unison. To them, this was not a massacre, but a "purification."
The townspeople fell silent, succumbing to despair and fear. Illuminated by the flames, Varn officially became the first stronghold of the remaining Knights.
In the morning, the square of Varn Town still stank of yesterday's bloody odor. Wood piles and pyres stood in two rows, the ashes still warm, emitting a charred smell. The townspeople, forced to gather here, their faces pale and their eyes empty, seemed to have lost the strength to resist.
Above their heads, tattered banners fluttered. The Knights' swords were stuck in the ground, the stigmata on the blades gleaming with a faint golden light. It was the gift of yesterday's blood, and the starting point of a new order.
Knight Cyrus stood on the stone steps, his voice loud but cold:
"From this day forward, Varn belongs to the Holy Light. Faith is the only law, and hymns are the only language. Those who doubt will be reduced to ashes."
After the words fell, Sister Mara unfolded the parchment and read out the "Law of Ashes" formulated by Archbishop Valerian:
1. Every morning and evening, everyone must gather in the square and sing hymns.
2. Every household must offer a holy symbol and perform a blood sacrifice.
3. Children must learn the Holy Law from the age of five and must not question it.
4. If anyone questions the stigmata and holy light, they will be burned immediately to prevent any future troubles.
The provisions are short, but more cruel than any royal law.
The townspeople lowered their heads in silence, and no one dared to object.
Soon, the first counterexample appeared.
A middle-aged blacksmith couldn't help but mutter under his breath as he read the Holy Law: "If the Holy Light really exists, how could it allow us to suffer like this?"
This was heard immediately. Cyrus raised his sword, pointed it at the blacksmith, and said in a cold tone:
"Bring him to the fire."
The blacksmith struggled in fear, crying out that he had only spoken carelessly, but the knights remained expressionless as they dragged him to the stake and tied him up.
The pyre was ignited, and the flames engulfed his body in an instant. The blacksmith's screams echoed throughout the town, but when his voice reached its peak, the knights sang a hymn in unison, drowning out his cries.
"Holy Light bless you, ashes bear witness!"
The fire became a footnote to the law.
Fear quickly turned into superficial piety. Townspeople began hanging crude holy emblems on their doorsteps, women embroidered the words "The Light of God Is Immortal" with needlework, and children were forced to recite hymns, even repeating them in their dreams.