Chapter 685 - 76: Time Reversal

Chapter 685: Chapter 76: Time Reversal

"See? This is the power of the network. The power of being united."

Murphy spoke.

A river of crimson light flowed around his body.

Saladin took a deep breath.

As a Warrior who had died and risen again countless times on the battlefield, he gradually composed himself.

On his gaunt face, his cloudy eyes were fixed on Murphy.

"A network? United?"

Murphy nodded.

"That’s right. The *Holy Scripture* reads: ’Whether we are Moshti People or Fernan People... we were all baptized by one Holy Spirit to form one body... a body that is one, though it has many parts.’"

"The *Tao Te Ching* states: ’The Tao gave birth to the One. The One gave birth to the Two. The Two gave birth to the Three. The Three gave birth to the ten thousand things.’"

Saladin listened in silence.

He did not say a word.

"As individuals, we are flawed. These flaws are not of the body, the heart, or the spirit—they are flaws of comprehension, inspiration, and possibility."

"It’s just like how you are shackled by the will of your ancestors. Even with Extraordinary physiques and intellect, you can’t develop science and technology, let alone experience a social revolution."

"This is a matter of perspective, a flaw in logic. The fate one is born with is preordained."

"And yet, ’the number of the great extrapolation is fifty, but only forty-nine are used, for one has gone away.’ This world has not only constants, but also variables. If we take hold of that variable, we can change our own possibilities."

As he finished speaking,

Crimson light burst forth from Murphy’s body.

Blazing and brilliant, it was like the first light of Dawn as the Sun breaks the horizon.

The light surged into Sera’s cocoon, into Elder Darius’s cocoon, into Mira’s cocoon.

It surged into the Warriors’ cocoons, into all the villagers’ cocoons.

Then, the light surged out from every cocoon again, flowing toward Murphy.

It flooded into his cocoon, his scales, his very flesh and blood.

His body trembled slightly under the infusion of light—like a tree being nourished by spring rain, or a field basking in the Sun’s rays.

At the same time, even as he absorbed the light, he released it.

A constant ebb and flow.

The light grew more intense, more blinding.

It was as if the Sun itself had fallen from the sky to the earth.

Saladin watched all of this.

He did not try to stop it.

After what had just happened, he already understood what Murphy was doing.

He understood Murphy’s will even more deeply.

It wasn’t an understanding conveyed by words or deduced through logic—it was an inexplicable intuition, carried along the bond of the crimson light.

Just like the flashes of inspiration he’d had earlier.

He understood even better now.

Murphy was not a Wizard.

Saladin lowered his head, looking at his own gaunt, ashen, wrinkled hands.

A crimson light now flowed from those hands—originating from him, yet also from Murphy.

"May Your will be done, throughout all the heavens and myriad worlds."

...

Leander followed the High Priest down a corridor.

It was pitch-black underfoot.

It was pitch-black all around.

In the distance, starlight twinkled, point by point.

The High Priest walked ahead, his long, silver-white hair shimmering with a faint, cold light amid the stars.

"Tired?"

The High Priest’s gentle voice came from ahead.

Leander shook his head.

Then, realizing the High Priest couldn’t see him, he spoke, "I’m not tired."

"Our ancestors never cried exhaustion when they faced the invaders. Saladin—the legendary Spine-Shatterer, the hero of Legend who followed the Demigod Orestes three thousand years ago—died countless times on the battlefield, yet each time he climbed from the blood to fight again. To say nothing of Orestes, who walked into Ephialtes alone and never returned. The ancestors never tired. How could I, an inheritor of their Divine Blood, be tired?"

As he finished speaking, Leander felt a surge of heat in his chest.

It was as if someone had placed a warm hand on his heart, pouring a steady, warm stream of power into his veins.

His heartbeat quickened.

His breathing deepened and steadied.

He felt as if his feet had taken root, steadying his stance.

Every muscle in his body tightened, brimming with power.

The scar running from his brow to his cheekbone vanished completely, his skin returning to how it was before.

"Truly a promising one."

The High Priest’s voice came again, tinged with relief and approval. "Worthy of being a Warrior who inherits the will of our ancestors. The ancestors left their power within their will. The closer one aligns with that will, the stronger one’s power becomes."

Leander was stunned.

He thought of the Warriors on the front lines, growing more numerous and more powerful by the day. He thought of those who, like him, had returned to the battlefield; those who knew they might die but charged forward anyway, gritting their teeth; those who had held the line for days and nights on end, covered in wounds, yet never retreated a single step.

Every one of them grew stronger through combat. Each time they fell and rose again, they were more powerful than before.

At first, he had thought it was courage, or skill, or a result of developing one’s Divine Blood.

"So that’s how it works," Leander murmured.

But his expression suddenly changed.

"No, that’s not right." His voice grew urgent. "The will of our ancestors is only most manifest when invaders appear. Doesn’t that mean that without invaders... our world is weak?"

"As expected of a clever man. You grasped it immediately. That’s right."

The High Priest’s voice was unhurried.

Leander’s mind was buzzing.

He recalled the epic legends he had heard in the Holy Hall—of that age three thousand years ago, an era brimming with heroes.

Demigods burned away their lives on the battlefield, heroes of Legend fell one after another, and Divine Blood stained every inch of the land.

That was a world away from the situation just ten years ago, when there was only a single Demigod.