Chapter 122: “You can punish me however you want.”
During the short time that An Wujiu left the tower and headed to the Red House, he considered countless possibilities for completely uprooting this man-eating faith.
But none of them seemed truly feasible.
Those beliefs were already deeply ingrained, existing in their minds even above their own lives. No power could erode the influence of faith, as An Wujiu knew very well. The only thing he could do was to borrow it.
The chances of success were not high, and it was very likely that he would be countered. But with his steely body, he could at least try.
Blood soaked into the wide sleeves of his snow-white robe, dripping down his hand and staining the snow, spreading out into a large red patch.
The townspeople’s eyes were filled with fear, doubt, and even disbelief at the scene before them.
An Wujiu stood still, hearing the sound of armor behind him. A gust of wind blew by, and he nimbly tilted his head to avoid it. A sharp stone spear narrowly missed his neck—just a little closer, and it would have pierced through.
But An Wujiu had been trained since childhood, his speed and strength far exceeding those of ordinary people. After dodging, he grabbed the tip of the stone spear, turned sideways, and kicked the strong warrior who tried to sneak attack him.
With a twist of his wrist, An Wujiu turned around, grasped the gray-white stone spear, spun it in the air, and stabbed it into the snow.
Behind him was an entire army, those warriors draped in tiger and leopard skins, no less than twenty or thirty of them, glaring at him like a weak prey.
But An Wujiu was not prey; on the contrary, he was the best-disguised hunter.
Their resistance did not surprise An Wujiu. Killing the leader meant destroying the core of the upper class here, shaking the foundations of the nobility. They would not let someone who claimed to be a god with empty words destroy the noble status.
“I know you don’t trust me.” An Wujiu’s beautiful face was extremely cold. He weighed the spear in his hand and pointed it at the warriors, “Together?”
At first, some warriors were confused and incredulous, but the first brave warrior had already appeared. He held a giant stone axe in both hands, his body tall and strong, rushing towards An Wujiu, swinging the stone axe fiercely at his shoulder!
An Wujiu, dressed in white, moved like a nimble butterfly, light and agile. The deadly stone axe, heavy as a mountain, could not touch him, no matter how many times it swung.
In such a cold snowfield, the other was sweating from swinging the stone axe. An Wujiu, unwilling to tangle with him, used the spear as a staff, quickly striking the other’s chest, abdomen, and knees. With a few hits, the opponent fell to the ground with a thud.
Seeing this, the remaining warriors felt that their crowned warrior’s honor was tarnished, and they angrily charged forward together. An Wujiu did not dodge but instead lifted the spear and rushed into the fray.
The distant townspeople couldn’t see clearly. They could only vaguely glimpse the gray shadow of the spear and the white youth in the midst of the clashing armor. The ordinary stone spear in his hand seemed like a magical weapon, thrusting, lifting, retracting, and spinning, shining brilliantly in the falling snow and daylight.
One by one, the warriors fell, leaving only a few. The last one tried to get up and sneak attack but only managed to cut the string tying An Wujiu’s hair. He turned around, and the sharp tip of the spear pointed at the opponent’s throat.
All the warriors were defeated, but none were fatally injured.
An Wujiu stood in the wind and snow, his long hair blown loose by the cold wind, looking no different from the perfect god in pictures and statues.
This was the war god, the sun god, and the savior they longed for.
Before An Wujiu could speak, a townsman not far away suddenly knelt down, prostrating himself on the icy, biting snow, shouting, “War God, you truly are the incarnation of the Sun God.”
So, the sun god was the war god.
An elderly woman next to the man also kneeled down, her expression very excited, her cloudy eyes seemingly filled with tears.
“Yes, the legend says that the Sun God and Rain God will choose a lucky person to possess and convey divine will to us. It seems this is true, it really exists.”
“Yes, who else but the War God could possess such great power!”
An Wujiu was not familiar with the legends here. Each of them had encountered different NPCs, and different NPCs gave different hints. It seemed that the shrine should have given similar clues, suggesting they replace the faith, but he had stumbled upon it by accident.
He turned his face and glanced at the last warrior who had tried to sneak attack him. The warrior immediately put down his weapon, kneeled on one knee, and bowed his head in submission.
“War God.”
Thus, all the townspeople in the snowy field kneeled down, leaving An Wujiu the only one standing.
He withdrew the spear, coldly looking at everyone, “The recent blood moon and blizzard are punishments for all the townspeople of the Water City.”
The kneeling townspeople dared not look up at him, only bowing and asking, “Please enlighten us. We have always offered our most precious and best things to you and all the gods, we…”
“The gods do not need your hearts,” An Wujiu said coldly.
He recalled the “screams” and faint children’s cries he heard during their mountain sacrifices.
He knew that what he was saying now almost overturned these people’s imaginations. Perhaps since they were born, these beliefs have been rooted in their hearts. They were used to flattering the so-called gods with flesh and blood, which was why there was a blood-stained staircase leading to the temple.
But An Wujiu had to try.
“All the offerings you have made have been filled with blood and gore: hearts, limbs, bones, the lives of captives, the cries of children. These only add to your own original sin.”
“Your sins are irredeemable, and only endless snow can cover them up.”
He spoke these words with a high and mighty attitude to the people who submitted to him, firmly and confidently. His voice echoed ethereally in the howling wind and snow, with silver bones exposed in the flower of turned flesh, glowing brightly in the reflected snow like the light of a god.
“Stop these bloody sacrifices; stop your sins.”
An Wujiu paused slightly, feeling the wind seem to calm a lot, and the falling snow seemed less heavy.
It seemed that abolishing the bloody religious tradition here was the true solution to the second goal of this game.
He lowered his head, pondered for a moment, then bent down to pick up a stone axe from one of the warriors. Stepping over the severed heads and limbs, he walked up the steps leading to the temple. Every step he took was on nearly frozen blood—the sacrifices he hadn’t been able to save in time.
He raised his hand, swung the heavy stone axe, and broke the shackles that bound the captives.
The captives’ pupils trembled, their eyes filled with struggle and unbelievable fear.
An Wujiu spoke to them and the townspeople of Water City: “Stop the murderous Crown of Glory. It should be a true crown woven of flowers and peace.”
He threw down the stone axe, looked at the gradually disappearing snowflakes in the sky, then looked at the crowd.
“Offer bountiful food, fruits, and flowers, the artworks created by your talents and wisdom, and sincere hearts to all the gods.”
“The sun will rise as usual.”
After hearing these words, the townspeople gradually lifted their heads. They saw the subsiding wind and snow, as well as the sun gradually appearing behind the distant snow-capped mountains. Though it was incomplete, it was a sun that was about to set.
These miracles gained An Wujiu the trust of everyone. This grand festival made them believe that the Sun God had truly descended to the world, bringing them the revelation of survival.
An Wujiu ordered them to release all the captives and properly bury all the killed “sacrifices.” When he learned that these captives were townspeople from nearby cities, he used the leader’s corpse as a token, allowing them to return to their territories, signing a truce agreement, and letting the so-called Crown of Glory disappear forever.
He now realized that there were often festivals held here, with many sacrifices killed each time. When the pyramid temple before them was completed, a grand festival was held, during which over a thousand people died in one day.
The leader and nobles stood at the top of the pyramid, in front of the temple, extracting the hearts of the sacrifices, dismembering their bodies, taking the flesh and blood, and distributing it to the townspeople to eat, while the parts they couldn’t consume were given to the precious beasts raised by the nobles.
This was the “food” mentioned by the husband of Yasia—the food that the leader would bring back.
They sacrificed innocent children, who would cry as they walked up the mountain road. This was what they wanted.
They believed that the louder the children cried and the more tears they shed, the more rain they would have in the coming year. They would drown the children in the lake, believing the Rain God would be moved by this cruel sacrifice.
Even the towering pyramid had the skulls of past sacrifices neatly layered within the stones of each level.
This seemingly pure and beautiful snow city was, in reality, a city shrouded in the bloodshed of primitive religion.
An Wujiu tried to destroy the sacrificial rituals here, but he didn’t know where to start. Every townsman he asked couldn’t interfere with the priests’ actions.
As nightfall approached, An Wujiu could only first end the festival, sending all the townspeople back home.
The killings and sacrifices among the priests were dictated by the shrine. An Wujiu thought he probably had no authority to stop it, but he couldn’t just stand by and watch Shen Ti be sacrificed.
He hurried back to the tower, arriving on the second floor, only to be shocked by the scene inside.
Those left in the tower praying according to the shrine’s rules now had blue eyes, and eerie blue patterns covered every part of their skin.
The circles and seven-pointed star on the ground seemed like seals, trapping them, as they had lost their will and consciousness, each person appearing like an empty shell.
The only one still conscious was Nan Shan, who was using magic to fight against this eerie, immense power.
It was that evil god again.
An Wujiu, holding his injured arm, ran over. Nan Shan didn’t turn his head, forming hand seals with his fingers. He knew An Wujiu had returned, and he spoke to him with great difficulty.
“Quick, Wu You…”
An Wujiu understood his meaning, but he still couldn’t help but look at the unconscious Shen Ti on the ground. Shen Ti had no consciousness, but his skin lacked the glowing blue patterns, instead having green ones. These green patterns seemed to move, with the white robe hiding what appeared to be strange, moving tentacles.
An Wujiu’s heart suddenly ached. He turned away, trying to forcefully carry Wu You out of the formation. But the moment he embraced Wu You, a huge tentacle appeared at the center of the blue seven-pointed star, moving so fast it was like a flash of light, making it impossible for An Wujiu to dodge!
The tip of the tentacle was a gaping maw filled with three layers of sharp teeth. As the inner teeth opened, a long, extremely sharp tendril shot out, like a dagger, piercing An Wujiu’s chest.
The process took less than a second.
An Wujiu felt no pain. He looked down to see his blood dripping onto Wu You, a lot of blood, and he could also see the slender blue tentacle piercing through his robe and skin, deep into his chest, as if trying to gut him like a fish and extract his heart.
A sudden surge of powerful energy emerged from within his body, seemingly for self-preservation. That energy clashed with the tentacle that had penetrated his body, the two forces colliding like two planets, nearly exploding inside An Wujiu’s body.
An Wujiu fell to his knees, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
“Wujiu!”
Nan Shan’s voice was very faint, and many strange and bizarre words echoed in An Wujiu’s mind, like the ramblings his father repeated before his death. Countless memories flooded into his mind, like an unstoppable blizzard, a dense and suffocating pain.
A green light sheltered him, and the tentacle was repelled, its tip covered in An Wujiu’s blood but unable to extract his heart.
Even so, the severely injured An Wujiu did not collapse. He struggled to his feet, staggered, and carried the unconscious Wu You out of the glowing formation.
In the next second, the seven-pointed star on the ground disappeared, along with all the blue light.
He handed Wu You to Nan Shan and knelt beside Shen Ti.
So tired.
At the moment the tentacle touched him, An Wujiu experienced a fleeting review of his short yet seemingly long life. The years were short, only twenty, but the pain was so long-lasting.
An Wujiu held Shen Ti’s cold hand, pressing it against his face.
Then, very lightly, he kissed his palm.
The others who were controlled gradually awoke, the lines on their faces fading away. At dusk, a red sunset appeared on the horizon.
He had hoped he could change tonight’s sacrifice, but things did not go as he wished. A stone coffin suddenly appeared, Shen Ti’s body floated up, and finally sank into the cold stone coffin.
“All surviving priests, please begin your twilight sacrifice.”
It was the same rugged mountain path, the same heavy stone coffin, and his gradually fading consciousness. The only difference this time was that An Wujiu did not hear the children’s cries, only the solitary cold wind.
The mountaintop was very cold, and An Wujiu seemed to have adapted to the power within him. This time, he was not controlled at all and could perform the sacrifice clearly and calmly, but because of this, he felt particularly painful.
He could only clearly offer up the life of his beloved.
The others were different from him; they were all “doing their duties” under control. The eerie and ritualistic sacrifice began, and the obsidian dagger was right in front of him. An Wujiu picked up the knife and raised his hand high.
But the next moment, he threw it forcefully off the cliff.
An Wujiu came into this world naked and now had almost nothing left.
What god, what sacrifice, he would never compromise.
But even so, even though An Wujiu had destroyed that knife, in the next second, the obsidian dagger returned.
From the valley to the mountaintop, the wandering stone knife gleamed with blue light, like an inescapable ghost.
Blue flames blazed, burning away An Wujiu’s last bit of reason.
“Offer all your anger, pain, and fear to me!”
He instinctively embraced Shen Ti’s body, chest to chest, trying to shield him in the last moment.
An Wujiu knew this was the inevitable path; three people had already been dissected here, their hearts removed. He knew that despite all his efforts, he couldn’t make Shen Ti an exception.
He had really tried everything.
The stone knife paused in mid-air, then plunged down, piercing through An Wujiu’s back, through the gaps in his ribs, and into Shen Ti’s chest.
An Wujiu propped himself up on the stone coffin, separating from Shen Ti. Blood gushed from his own ribcage, but he seemed too late to feel the pain.
Because he saw clearly that Shen Ti’s skin and bones were split open by an invisible blue light.
Tears welled up in his eyes, the sight of his lover being dismembered held a strange and eerie beauty.
What happened next left An Wujiu unsure whether to be surprised or expect it.
Shen Ti had no heart to sacrifice.
His chest cavity was empty, like a hollow shell, a beautifully crafted statue.
An Wujiu’s suspicion was ultimately confirmed in this maddening way.
The blue flames suddenly raged, burning the entire mountain, so overwhelming it seemed to consume everyone. But even so, nothing was there that wasn’t there before.
Others awoke, and Nan Shan never expected to see An Wujiu kneeling before Shen Ti’s body, laughing maniacally like a madman.
Afraid something might really go wrong with him, Nan Shan walked over, kneeled down, and tried to support An Wujiu’s shoulder, attempting to stop him from looking any further.
“An Wujiu, the game isn’t over yet, don’t be too sad.”
An Wujiu, with his head bowed, wiped his face with a bloody hand, turned his head, and smirked lightly.
“Sad?”
An Wujiu’s smile momentarily took Nan Shan back to the first time he saw him change.
“Why should I be sad?”
“Nan Shan, he failed.” An Wujiu stood up and almost crazily pulled Nan Shan up. “Did you see it? He didn’t get what he wanted.”
Nan Shan looked at him with a complex expression, seeing the tear-stained face with blood.
An Wujiu’s shoulders slumped slightly, a tear slid down his face.
“I’m not sad at all.”
Expressionless, devoid of emotion, his eyes hollow, but Nan Shan understood An Wujiu’s current heartache, or at least one percent of it.
“Let’s go back first,” Nan Shan draped his cloak over him. “Your hands are freezing purple.”
An Wujiu stood still in place.
“You go back first, take care of Wu You.”
Wu You stood not far away, watching them.
He knew Nan Shan couldn’t persuade him, no one could. An Wujiu was not only struggling to accept Shen Ti’s sacrifice, but perhaps even more difficult to accept was the fact that Shen Ti had no heart at all.
Even an outsider like him felt shocked and found it incomprehensible.
Wu You left with Nan Shan.
“You should go back soon,” he said to An Wujiu.
An Wujiu, however, acted as if everything was normal, nodded, and even in his usual tone advised him, “Be careful on the way.”
Descending the mountain, Wu You felt unusually cold, his body stained with An Wujiu’s blood.
“Did you see that?” Wu You’s voice trembled. “Wujiu-ge is already so seriously injured, his hands haven’t healed completely, and now his arms and chest are covered in wounds, and his clothes are all stained red. He’ll die like this.”
By the end, he choked up, admitting with a quick wipe of his eyes with the back of his hand that he wanted to cry.
For the first time, Nan Shan embraced him, holding the grieving Wu You at the foot of the mountain.
“It’s okay,” he gently patted Wu You’s back. “Wujiu is strong; he will hold on until the end.”
Hold on until the end.
An Wujiu stood still, feeling for the first time that he really couldn’t go on.
A weight lifted from his heart, but it fell heavily upon him, leaving him breathless.
He had already accepted that Shen Ti wasn’t human, but now he was asked to accept that Shen Ti had no heart.
How long could this shell last? Even if he won this game, and survived, how long could he live? He didn’t even have a complete human body; maybe one day he would just disappear.
Night slowly fell, and the crimson blood moon returned to the land.
The sacred voice continuously reminded him.
“An Wujiu, you must return to the temple now and await the call of the altar.”
An Wujiu showed no reaction, ignoring it completely.
“An Wujiu.”
The sacred voice repeated again, “You are now in violation. Please return to the temple, or you will be punished.”
An Wujiu sneered coldly.
“Punish however you want. I only have this much life left. If you want to take it all away, go ahead.”
He said this without a care, defiantly and recklessly stepping into the stone coffin, lying down beside Shen Ti’s cold body, holding his hand.
“Fortunately, I am a guardian of the tomb.”
An Wujiu kissed Shen Ti’s hand back, smiled, and closed his eyes.
“I’ll watch over you. Sleep now.”
