Chapter 123 Chant For Me
Juan’s voice was hoarse, but beneath it ran a resolve I had never heard from him before.
Lian and I exchanged a glance. His expression was quiet as still water, but a sharp glint hid beneath the calm.
“Move,” he said under his breath. “To the altar.”
Outside, the wind had risen, cutting hard through the streets. Thunder rolled across the mountains, metallic and violent.
I tightened my hold on Juan. Lian swept us up, and we slipped into the storm, his sleeves snapping sharply in the wind, scattering the last shards of broken wine jars from the street.
In that instant, every lamp along the street guttered out. Herling City looked as if its soul had been pulled clean from its body—nothing remained but the churn of black clouds above and paper umbrellas shredded by the rain.
The altar of Herling City sat at the foot of the northern mountain. Stone steps wound upward through dark pines. We circled behind a collapsed wall. From a distance, the circular platform at the top blazed with firelight.
“Quiet.” Lian pressed a finger against my hand. The three of us crept forward and peered around the corner.
The sight made my scalp prickle.
The entire population of Herling City was kneeling in the square—rows upon rows, a heaving black mass pressed flat to the ground. When the wind swept through, their clothes rustled like dry leaves. It was more unnerving than chanting.
At the center of the platform stood a lone figure wrapped in a long cloak that trailed to the floor. It was impossible to tell age or gender. The platform rose in tiers toward the sky, and on the topmost level stood a wooden frame—someone had been tied to it, arms bound overhead, head hanging low. Blood ran in thin lines along the captive’s wrists.
Lian recognized him instantly.
“Hua.”
My breath stalled.
He—was tied up there?
A cold edge sharpened Lian’s gaze. His entire presence tightened, his breathing drawn thin.
Below the platform, more cloak-wearers emerged. They carried jars of liquor and stacks of bowls, descending the steps one by one, pouring alcohol for the kneeling masses.
I whispered, barely audible, “That wine… could it be from the Deep Alley tavern?”
Lian weighed it a moment, brow slightly furrowed, then shook his head. “Uncertain.”
A darker thought flickered behind his eyes.
“You stay hidden with Juan. I’m going closer.”
“Have you lost your mind?” I hissed. “There are hundreds of—”
Before I finished, Lian’s silhouette blurred. He was already gone, sliding noiselessly into the edge of the crowd. I blinked hard, thinking I’d imagined it.
He moved with the ease of an eel slipping through reeds, keeping to the shadowed edges. The cloaked figures were fixated on the platform; none noticed him. The kneeling townsfolk kept their heads down, rigid as carved wood. In seconds, Lian had knelt at the back of the crowd.
I held Juan close, breath locked in my throat.
Suddenly, a voice rang from the platform—cold enough to sting.
“All—raise your bowls—and drink—”
The last word stretched unnaturally long, like a cracked flute catching in the wind.
The kneeling crowd lifted their bowls in perfect unison. No expression. No hesitation. Their movements stiff, puppeted.
Then they tipped their heads back and drank.
My chest tightened.
The scene was too strange.
But nothing happened.
After finishing, they lowered their bowls and bowed again. No reaction. No collapse. No transformation.
My palms were slick with sweat, yet the anticlimax eased my tension by a hair.
“Maybe we… misread it? Maybe the wine’s fine?” I murmured.
Juan stared wide-eyed, silent.
Something still felt wrong, but I couldn’t name it.
The cloaked figure on the platform was painfully thin. The wind pressed the cloak against the body underneath—nothing but angles and bones. Then, slowly, the figure lifted a hand.
“Let the altar be cleansed. Let the souls return.”
The voice was airy and chilling, as though blown up from the bottom of a dry well.
The air cracked. Mist leaked from the ground—gray-black, cold, winding between people’s legs like snakes trying to slip under their skin.
Within the kneeling crowd, a few bodies trembled. Then those few lifted their heads in eerie unison, eyes empty, and stood.
My pulse stuttered.
More followed—slowly, jerkily, as though pulled upright by invisible strings.
Soon, nearly half the crowd was standing. Their faces blank, necks rigid as they tilted their heads back to stare at the sky.
The rest remained kneeling, foreheads pressed to stone, unmoving. Kneeling and standing—two worlds split by a single breath.
Puzzled and uneasy, I glanced upward.
The sky had turned red-black. Clouds churned like blood. From deep within them, lightning flared—and then the clouds tore.
A huge crimson eye opened.
No pupil. Pure red. Veined in darker threads, like a malignant star glaring down.
I inhaled sharply; cold streaked down my spine.
“That eye…” I whispered.
The cloaked figure tilted its head toward the sky, as if meeting the eye’s gaze.
“The rite is complete. Let the souls return to judgment.”
A rasping sound rose from the crowd—like a chorus of broken flutes dragged across stone. Once it started, it spread uncontrollably, multiplying into a grotesque harmony.
Lian moved.
His figure flashed upward, cutting through the wind, landing on the top tier of the platform.
I barely had time to gasp.
The cloaked figure reacted—lifting a hand to block—but Lian’s sleeve flicked, wrist snapping in a controlled strike.
A sharp gust.
A hollow thud.
The cloak collapsed.
I stared—then my blood ran cold.
There was no person beneath.
A wooden puppet lay on the ground, carved with a faint, unsettling smile—eerily similar to Senior An’s old handiwork.
Lian froze for a beat, then turned sharply to cut the ropes binding Hua.
Footsteps echoed up the side stair.
From the shadows between the tiers, someone stepped into the firelight.
Moonlight trimmed the figure’s hair. The face was calm, familiar.
“Hold.”
Senior An.
Lian tensed. His fingers shifted inside his sleeve, ready to strike again at the smallest provocation.
His gaze locked onto the approaching figure, cold and unblinking.
Senior An looked unruffled. His robes fluttered lightly without wind. He stopped beside Hua.
“There was no need for this.”
He bent slightly, letting his fingers brush the ropes on the frame, his tone gentler than anything that belonged in a place like this.
“These people… each one guilty. They deserve to meet the judgment of the divine eye.”
His voice sank, deep and resonant, like a chant rising from the earth itself.
All around, the kneeling and standing masses quivered faintly, as though answering a forgotten command.
Lian didn’t reply. He shifted just enough to shield Hua behind him, every muscle held taut.
Senior An lifted his gaze, taking in the crowd.
When he spoke, it was like reciting an ancient litany.
“All beings bear sin. Born of desire, undone by delusion.
Suffering comes from the heart; an impure heart must be judged.”
He extended a hand toward the kneeling and standing figures.
“You who glimpsed falsehood and touched the forbidden—yet showed no repentance.
The divine eye watches.
Your bodies, your blood, your voices—will become the offering.”