The Nightmare

  Darkness clung like tar, binding YiChen Caelestis’ limbs.

  Each step dragged threads of pitch-black, sticky as sinew.

  He tried to run—home was there, just ahead—

  but every stride was shackled, ten thousand chains sunk into his bones.

  The house loomed in the fog, warped and broken, its frame torn by unseen monsters.

  His father’s rifle erupted in a spray of blood-mist—its barrel twisting, reshaping into the thorned emblem of the holy.

  YiChen lunged—only to smash against an unseen wall.

  The silhouette of home shivered, fractured—

  and shattered into void.

  Above, laughter echoed.

  Strange. Mocking.

  A nun’s face drifted from the dark.

  Eyes emerald-bright, filled with stars.

  At her brow—faint, but unmistakable—the slit of a vertical mark. The same pattern as the Fiendlord’s.

  She spoke no word.

  She only smiled.

  That smile froze his blood. His chest locked. He tried to cry out—no sound came.

  A hand slid forward behind her. Vast. Pale.

  It closed around him. Bones groaned in its grip, lungs crushed. He thrashed—

  —And woke.

  ?

  The Hall of Healing

  YiChen’s chest heaved. Fingers trembled.

  He sat upright within a glow of turquoise air, heavy with the scent of herbs.

  Not nightmare.

  Not void.

  Grass cushioned his back.

  Above arched a dome of glass, dawn-light suffusing its curve. The walls glowed milky-white, seamless, serene.

  He touched the blades beneath him. Soft as silk, damp with dew.

  They straightened under his palm, brushing his skin—alive.

  Leaves translucent, tips jeweled with radiant drops. Dew, or condensed stars.

  Beneath the soil shimmered black pearls, countless, each pulsing faintly, as if with breath.

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  YiChen looked down. His body was whole.

  No ruptures. No bruises. Even the scars of fusion were gone.

  “This ground… it heals itself?”

  Shock jolted him. Then—his brother.

  He staggered to his feet, forgetting he was bare, rushing across the field.

  There, in a nest of light, ChengYu lay curled.

  Cocooned in heart-leaves pulsing with golden sparks.

  A living cradle.

  YiChen dropped beside him, peeling back the leaves. Relief surged hot in his chest. ChengYu was unharmed. More—his Pact Mark had changed.

  Shifted.

  Evolved.

  YiChen shook him gently.

  “Xiao Yu… wake.”

  Eyelashes fluttered. ChengYu blinked, dazed—then bolted upright.

  “Brother! Our wounds—?”

  He pawed at his chest, his arms. Whole.

  “All healed?! Even with spirit-flow, this should take half a month—at least!”

  YiChen only nodded, gaze fixed on the holy shimmer saturating the dome.

  Shadowfang slumbered within him. Steady. Recovering.

  At the far wall, neat racks of gray-blue robes awaited. The cut and fold were unmistakable—robes of the Church.

  The brothers bathed beneath falling curtains of water, washed away blood, and clothed themselves.

  When they stepped beyond the Hall of Healing—

  they froze.

  ?

  The Square

  A square.

  Hundreds of white-robed faithful sat cross-legged in silence, encircling the dome. Hoods hung low, faces veiled.

  Whispers of prayer rose and fell. Not loud.

  But resonant. Tidal.

  Light streamed between them, ribbons rising from palms and brows, weaving into an unseen net that fed the dome. The Hall glowed faintly in that tide—adrift like a miracle upon mist.

  YiChen whispered, “…This… is their true masterpiece.”

  Not medicine. Not herbs.

  But prayer—woven into soil, into grass, into miracle.

  A boy of sixteen approached.

  Dark-red robe. Clear eyes. A shy smile.

  “You’re awake. How do you feel?” His voice earnest, almost bright.

  YiChen inclined his head. “Better. Thank you. Our parents…?”

  The boy’s smile faltered.

  “I don’t know much. But when your mother was carried here, she still breathed. The Church… will do all it can.”

  YiChen bowed. “Then—please take us to Bishop Branden Wood.”

  “Of course.” The boy straightened slightly. “I’m William. Please, follow me.”

  They walked behind him, through the still ring of prayers.

  White cloaks rippled, wave-like.

  ChengYu whispered, “They sustain the Hall? This many… always?”

  William nodded, pride quiet in his tone.

  “This is the Hall of Sacred Healing. Raised just last year. My father helped build it.

  “These prayer-chains divide day and night. Their chants feed the holy grass. Any wound is healed here. No matter how grave.”

  YiChen asked softly, “How long… were we inside?”

  William hesitated. Then solemnly:

  “Nearly three days. Your injuries were dire. Many thought you would not return.”

  The brothers exchanged a look. Faces tightened. Together, they bowed low to the praying faithful.

  No one stirred.

  The tide of prayer flowed on, unbroken.

  Yet—one figure near the dome lifted her head. Only slightly.

  From beneath the hood, a glance. Calm. Serene. Like first light across water.

  Then she lowered her gaze again, lips moving in chant.

  William’s smile lingered. He said nothing—only turned, leading them deeper within.