Chapter 30
Faith was something fragile within Ling Xu's chest, more delicate than the skin over an unhealed wound, and at that moment, it felt as if consciousness itself had been forcibly pried open by a reality not yet fully believed.
She stood amid the ruins of certainty, while yesterday's words—or rather, those spoken earlier—lingered, settling in her mind like a poison that did not kill immediately but gnawed relentlessly at every remaining crevice.
That the Gods, beings long venerated, even held as the final embodiment of hope amid the world's disasters, long before the Harmony Conflict began, had been marked, designated as the foremost threat, a danger to be eradicated without residue.
The news was absurd, alien, yet piercingly sharp, impossible to ignore.
Her heart wavered, tossed between two currents, each seeking to overwhelm the other.
Between trust that grew doubtful, and doubt that grew trust.
Huan Zheng, a human who had long seemed indifferent, even cynical toward divinity, presented the facts, conveying them with undeniable frustration, making Ling Xu the final vessel to bear the burden too scorching to contain alone.
Despite the bitterness accompanying his tone, his words radiated, delivering a deeper pressure, a kind of insistence, negating the notion that this was mere idle talk from a weary man.
The truth was presented, unwelcome to be accepted, yet precisely because of that, Ling Xu remained vigilant, increasingly fearful to deny it.
Even in status—as a human cast from a high position—he carried, preserved, the echoes of former authority.
Whatever role he had once held before being ousted from power, whether strategist, bearer of commands, or merely a whisperer behind the throne, Ling Xu could not confirm.
But the fact that Huan Zheng had existed, had accompanied closely, had been nearer than anyone else to the heart of human governance, made him not someone to underestimate.
Ling Xu knew.
And she hated that fact with clarity.
So, in the suspended solitude of her mind, Ling Xu sought to untangle, to examine each layer of the lingering words.
If it were true that humanity was orchestrating, nearly completing, their intent of massacre, then she—though not always one of them—had no choice but to delve into the underlying will, to its deepest root.
Not for Huan Zheng.
Not on behalf of the other gods.
Only to ensure that she would not be left behind, unwillingly cast into an endless silence—a void where all faith had perished, leaving only decisions without foundation.
Even as a sliver of trust penetrated, stealthily sneaking past the walls of doubt, Ling Xu could not yet fully surrender to the thread of truth offered.
Huan Zheng's previous betrayal could not be buried; it still left embers that refused to die, a wound lingering not only on the surface but deep within her trust.
Faith, slowly rebuilt, seemed to walk on a floor so fragile it could break at any moment, liable to collapse.
Especially when echoes of the past resurfaced.
Yet still, Huan Zheng's bitter, maddening revelation of humanity's plan to annihilate the Gods without remainder had struck something older than mere emotion.
Instinct.
Behind her calm face, in a silence almost mistaken for confusion, from the very first moments, Ling Xu had issued instructions, commanding the Celestial Awareness to examine every contour, to observe the words spoken.
Each word was dissected, delved into, allowed to flow through the intuition of Awareness, meant to determine something more important than meaning alone.
A truth.
Not the content that disturbed, but whether the news arose from deception, or from the last candor spoken by the human named Huan Zheng.
From that depth emerged something quieter than the murmur of thought.
Once again, the Celestial Awareness, the noble subordinate long embedded within Ling Xu's body, began to respond.
Not from trivial summons or baseless curiosity, but as the result of a thorough analysis conducted silently, leaving no trace readable by outsiders.
Even Huan Zheng, standing before Ling Xu with a somber face and openly complaining, did not realize that he was being measured, evaluated, and deconstructed—not just by a disappointed goddess, but by an ancient entity bound within Celestial Supremacy.
The Celestial Awareness did not act out of anger, compassion, or familiar vengeance—emotions that often cloak mortal beings—especially when the Gods themselves had been overturned into useless existence.
It was pure, immutable, acting only when spiritual logic was established, concluding that the words just spoken were not idle.
Thus, from the analysis rooted in the clearest clarity, a response emerged.
Not from the mouth, but through intuition, a will beginning to sense the shape of truth, even if it meant revisiting unhealed wounds.
For the Celestial Awareness, the will of its Lord was a command, to be executed without condition, particularly when that will was a search for validity.
Ling Xu, now fully a vessel for the Celestial Awareness, desired something—an unspoken request of the body's former owner: a truth that could be measured, examined, and grasped like solid metal, resistant to distortion.
It must be said, such an act—pursuing clarity in the human words—was foreign, never required when the Old Lord roamed beneath the horizon.
Therefore, when the command arose, it signaled that Ling Xu's inner world had undergone a fundamental renewal, a subtle tremor invisible externally, yet shaking the deepest structure of existence.
Without raising a storm or making obvious gestures, the Celestial Awareness processed, accepting the request with a speed unimaginable to ordinary human thought.
In an instant, the processing concluded, and an answer began to arrange itself, forming a structure of undeniable meaning.
The evaluation of Huan Zheng's words, once merely winged sentences, was now transformed into a stone stele.
Solid, complete, and cold in certainty.
Firm without hesitation, the response materialized, flowing into Ling Xu's consciousness, determining that most, if not nearly all, of Huan Zheng's statements were grounded in actual truth.
No deceit, no subtle disguises, whether in irony or satire.
The words were not mere complaints, small protests from one once cast down by his own people, but part of a movement already in motion, arranging itself behind the scenes of civilization.
To be continued…