Chapter 684 - 75: Innate Morality

Chapter 684: Chapter 75: Innate Morality

Murphy smiled.

"Clever."

The dragon’s eyelids drooped slightly, then lifted. "Three thousand years ago, how did you manage to wait for Him?"

Saladin recalled the white light from three thousand years ago. "It wasn’t just courage, will, and faith, as you said. It was that *everyone* possessed courage, will, and faith."

He thought of that pair of shoes, the one with the wolf’s fang tied to it.

"Even as a Legend, I have grown numb. But my numbness is not an indifference to death. It is a numbness I’ve embraced to defeat my enemies."

His voice began to tremble, but not from fear.

"The courage, will, and faith of the people at our backs—even in death—only grant me more strength. The courage, will, and faith of those who sacrifice themselves on the front lines likewise grant us all more strength."

As he spoke, the trembling in his voice vanished. Each word was resolute and resonant, filled with power.

"This is our courage, our will, our faith. The Divine Blood binds us together, and so our courage, will, and faith are also bound together, united. It was through our collective effort that we were able to await His arrival."

"Indeed."

Murphy was silent for a moment before finally speaking.

"A united people cannot be defeated. Even in failure, they are still on the correct Path. And though that Path may be arduous, it will always lead to the right destination."

He paused.

"I take back what I said. You didn’t wait for His arrival, nor did you wait for my arrival..."

He stopped abruptly.

A flash of insight shot through the depths of his mind—like lightning cleaving the night sky, like a sharp sword slicing through mist.

The words escaped his lips uncontrollably.

"Your unity attracted the Innate Morality, allowing us to encounter you."

’Innate Morality?’

’What is that?’

Murphy knew it was his Spirit Root at work—information received and interpreted by his human soul and Spirit Root, originating from some substance from the Dark World.

But he still didn’t understand what it meant and could only suppress his doubts.

Saladin, on the other hand, didn’t mind—he had already heard too many incomprehensible terms from Murphy.

Murphy reined in his thoughts. "The Divine Blood is remarkable, uniting you as one. But so far, merely spreading the faith of your ancestors is not enough to fully unleash the power of the Divine Blood."

"You need more—more connections, more unity, more of a net."

"A net?"

"Yes, a net. The power of a bloodline lies in connection and inheritance. I’ve seen in your memories that whenever a Demigod is born among you, the potency of the bloodline in all of you is enhanced, making it easier for more Demigods to emerge."

"That’s right! The will and faith of a Demigod will strengthen our power through the bloodline connection. The more Demigods are born, the more power we will have!"

"But if there’s a gap in the emergence of new Demigods, your people decline just as quickly, don’t they? I’ve accessed the villagers’ memories. Ten years ago, there was only one Demigod left in this world."

Saladin’s voice suddenly rose. "Impossible!"

But then he froze.

A complex emotion suddenly surfaced in the murky eyes set in his wizened face.

His lips trembled.

"Yes... We succeeded. Three thousand years ago, we succeeded, and so we ushered in three millennia of peace. The Demigods from that era had their blood and will forged in the fires of war, sublimated on the battlefield. It is only because we achieved peace that our numbers dwindled to a single Demigod."

As he spoke, Saladin’s eyes reddened.

Hot tears welled up in his cloudy eyes, streamed down his withered cheeks, and dripped onto the Crimson cocoon wall, spreading out in a small ripple.

He remembered his brothers who fell on the battlefield. He remembered the faces of those who drank the Divine Blood with him but never returned. He remembered the long ages spanning three thousand years when not a single new Demigod was born in this land.

Peace was bought with blood. But peace was also slowly grinding away the power contained within that blood.

But the thought of Murphy gave him pause.

"Is this the flaw in our Path?" his voice was hoarse. "If invaders come again, will we be powerless to resist?"

Murphy didn’t answer directly.

Crimson light spread from his cocoon—like tiny tendrils, they passed through the translucent wall and reached into Saladin’s cocoon.

When the light touched Saladin’s body, he felt a warm, comforting sensation, like soaking in warm water. It flowed through his blood vessels and spread along his nerves.

"No amount of words can compare to experiencing it firsthand. Feel it—feel the power of the net."

All the cocoons lit up.

In that instant, the translucent cocoons, which had been glowing with a soft Crimson light, all became dazzlingly bright.

Light surged from every cocoon, converging into ribbons of light that wove, interlaced, and entwined between them—forming a gigantic net that covered the entire village.

And the destination for all those ribbons of light was Saladin’s cocoon.

The Crimson light poured into Saladin’s body from all directions—gushing in from the crown of his head, surging up from the soles of his feet, seeping in through his back, and piercing through his chest.

His body snapped taut, like a fully drawn bow.

His arms spread wide, fingers reaching for the sky.

His mouth gaped open, his eyes wide and round.

The light flowed, surged, and converged within him—like rivers flowing into the sea, like beams of light gathering to form a Sun.

Then, Saladin felt as if his mind had been split open.

Things he hadn’t understood in his three thousand years of life suddenly became crystal clear.

He saw the village.

The houses built of stone, the wooden-framed windows, the dirt road, the stone steps—he had looked at them for centuries and never thought anything was amiss.

But now, it was as if someone had lit a lamp in his mind, illuminating all the darkness.

’Why must houses be built of stone?’

’On the other side of the mountain, there’s a type of gray soil. When mixed with water, it can be molded into any shape, and after drying, it becomes harder than stone and makes it easier to fashion doors and windows.’

’Why must the roads be made of dirt?’

’That same gray soil can be used to pave roads.’

’The resulting road surface would be flat and smooth, wouldn’t collect water or grow weeds, and carts wouldn’t jolt when traveling on it.’

’Why must clothes be woven from hemp?’

’There is a plant whose stalk fibers are finer, tougher, and longer than hemp.’

’The cloth woven from it is softer, fits better, and is more durable.’

’Why must lamps be lit with oil?’

’Deep underground, there’s a black liquid that can be extracted by digging a deep well.’

’That liquid can burn, and it burns brighter, longer, and with less smoke than oil.’

One after another, ideas burst forth from his mind—like a spring gushing from the earth, impossible to stop.

He knew how to make the village better—sturdier houses, smoother roads, more comfortable clothes, and brighter lights.

He knew how to make production more efficient—dig up that gray soil, mold it into bricks, dry them, fire them, and then lay them one by one.

Peel the bark from the stalks of that plant, soak it, beat it, spin it into thread, and weave it into cloth.

Dig a deep well, extract that black liquid, put it in jars, and light it to illuminate the entire village.

More and more ideas appeared in his mind—like a long scroll being painted, unrolling frame by frame, new strokes being added one by one.

Saladin saw the village’s future—stone houses became brick-and-tile houses, dirt roads became stone-paved roads, hemp clothes were replaced by cotton garments, and oil lamps became kerosene lamps.

He saw the village growing more beautiful, larger, and more prosperous.

He saw children running on the flat streets, women weaving under bright lamplight, men drinking and talking in sturdy houses, and the elderly basking in the warm sunlight.

Just as that long scroll was about to be completed, just as those new techniques were about to be perfected—

It all came to an abrupt halt.

As if someone had suddenly switched off the lamp, as if someone had suddenly dammed the river.

All the inspiration, all the ideas, all the images—vanished in that instant.

Saladin’s mind was completely empty. There was nothing left.

All that remained was the light that had just poured in, which hadn’t yet had time to settle. It drifted aimlessly in his mind like a startled swarm of fireflies.

"What’s next?"

Saladin’s voice was almost a roar—urgent, desperate.

"What comes next? How do you fire the bricks to make them stronger? How do you make the road surface smoother? How do you get that black liquid to flow more smoothly from the ground? What’s next? What in the world comes next?!"