【AllKlein】[Arab AU] Pomegranate Poet

石榴诗人

Author: 光谱密度

The Arabian

moon goddess Amanissis, the traveler Crane, the poet Adros

"until the sea covers the snow-capped mountains and the desert, until the moon no longer rises"

https://old.hellowland.com/cid6482469

【NightKlein】Comet Hanging Poem

【黑夜克】彗星悬诗

Rating AdultDiversity

Warning: Departure from the prototype

Prototype Lord of Mysteries Klein, Amanissis

Tags: Night Gram

Collected Works of Pomegranate Poets

785 17 2021-6-18 20:41

https://old.hellowland.com/wid5908354

Introduction

My inner peace has been ravaged by your love.

Your love has freed me from the bonds of flesh.

Lower your head and leave it all.

The tall cypress tree is beyond the reach of those with short arms.

Burning love arrives, destroying everything except the beloved.

Sit down joyfully and smile with bliss, as everything burns.

—Rumi

On the second night after his fever subsided, the patient had a peaceful dream. The dream featured a recurring moon. He saw a dim crescent moon floating on the dark waters of the Persian Gulf, a pale yellow half-moon reflected in the deep well of a desert inn, and a silvery full moon hanging high in the deep blue sky, its bright light illuminating his face and the dark-haired girl's. They sat by the campfire, discussing the long journeys of the merchants, ancient myths, and the legend of the moon. He gave the girl a gardenia. The tree, brought from a distant homeland, couldn't adapt to the desert's dryness. It was the only bud that blossomed before the tree withered. Her face, veiled behind a wisp of black veil, scrutinized the source of the sweet fragrance, a smile seemingly etched on her face. He saw her thick eyelashes bathed in a pool of moonlight like condensed milk, which flowed through her long hair, slowly and gently engulfing him... When the patient finally awoke, it was as if he had survived a silent shipwreck, the illusion of drowning causing his breathing to accelerate.

The patient opened his brown eyes, his vacant gaze sweeping across the narrative painting on the dome. He saw the demonic wolf crossing the sea, galloping across the vast desert, and establishing a miraculous city deep within. He gazed up at the silvery moon at the center of the mural, imagining himself drowning in the silver tide, until a hand gently covered his eyes. A familiar plant fragrance lingered in the patient's nostrils, the delicate scent of the slumber flower soothing his chaotic thoughts, and his heart was immersed in a tranquil peace.

The silent caretaker dipped his fingers into the ointment, first touching his forehead beneath the fine black hair, then spreading it evenly along the bridge of his nose. The gauze tightly covered the fragile new eyeballs, and the ointment on his skin brought a cool, subtle sting. In the returning darkness, the patient heard the sticky sound of the pestle pounding the plant stems and leaves in the stone bowl, and the rustle of the black gauze curtains hanging around the bed in the breeze. Unlike the dry, hot desert wind that whipped up dust, the wind in the sanctuary was calm and moist, bringing the scent of tuberose and jasmine to the patient's sleepless night, like a fragrant ghost caressing the back of the patient's hand.

The black cardinals who examined him had told him that this was the earthly kingdom of the Moon Goddess, the City of Tranquility. This city-state, hidden within a mirage, belonged to the Goddess of Night, the ruler of the demonic wolves and the holder of power over doom and sleep.

The patient was housed in the temple's sanatorium by the monks of the Church of Night. His solitary room adjoined the Goddess's garden, warm and humid under the eternal moonlit night. In the City of Tranquility, rain was never scarce; its springs never dried up. The patient often heard the howling of wolves from the depths of the garden. The bright moonlight easily agitated these mythical creatures, awakening the souls slumbering within the flower stamens.

Those tranquil souls had been devout believers in life. Death was not a harsh word or a vague concept to the followers of the Goddess of Night. To them, death is more like a long-lost friend, destined to visit someday and lead their souls to a pilgrimage site of eternal peace, the kingdom of God enshrined in the Apocalypse of Night, where the dead rest in blissful moonlight amidst a sea of cerulean flowers.

But the unbeliever from a foreign land is denied such a boon. Death itself exempts him, and his return to the mortal world is a long and arduous journey. Souls drowned in the Styx are left utterly damaged, like a jigsaw puzzle, roughly dismembered and haphazardly reassembled, its mismatched pieces forced together. The patient's memories are shattered along with them, and the "diviner's" spiritual power offers no help in recovering any more memories. His past life is like a weathered and dilapidated stone tablet in the desert, its marks barely discernible.

Such severe aftereffects are the result of the witch's seal, its chilling aura corroding his psyche. Eager to free their god from his imprisonment, the witches collaborated with the followers of the fallen Creator, spreading a plague and harvesting the resentment and flesh of ordinary people, creating a breeding ground for the evil god. The foreigner who destroyed the altar and forcibly ended the ritual at the crucial moment of summoning the fallen god naturally became the conspirators' common enemy. During the hunt after the altar collapsed, his chest was pierced by the weapon of the enraged cultist, and the witches inflicted a curse on his wound. The patient could barely recall the witch's hateful eyes, her black hair swirling and twisting, its tips forming fanged snake heads. Amidst the hissing whispers of venomous snakes, the witch, clutching a sinister statue, chanted: "May this black flame dwell in filthy souls, ever more fervently fueled by the suffering of sinners, until all is consumed—"

But when the patient raised his bandaged arm and touched the hideous hollow in his chest through the gauze with his fingertips, the first thing that came to mind wasn't the excruciating pain of the cold flames devouring his flesh. The cleansing of holy water had removed the remaining poison of the curse, and new fascia and bone would eventually fill the wound. Yet, the patient still couldn't shake the stranger's cries in his dreams.

After waking in the Temple of Night, the patient took a moment to recall his own name. The first syllable that came to mind was a crisp, clear "Klein." Perhaps he once had a completely different name, but Klein only remembered gardenias, a silver full moon, fiery clouds, and a midnight bonfire in the oasis. These fragments were as blurry as the reflections drifting across the water. Like quicksand, the more he tried to grasp it, the more it slipped through his fingers in vain. Only the cries of the victims were clear. He remembered the ordinary people pursued by the plague, like hollow straw in the face of death, never understanding the cause of this disaster until they collapsed. Those forced to flee their homes, those who buried their loved ones alone, hopefully, never knew in their lifetimes that in the game between the gods, the tears and pain of mortals were not even worthy of being the cheapest bargaining chips.

Klein was too exhausted to feel anger or sorrow. He was too tired, his consciousness drifting in a drowsy sleep, drifting with the current, lying on his back under the silvery moonlight of his dreams.

"My beloved!

Everyone is with his soulmate.

Everyone is with the beloved he deserves."

(Note: Excerpted from Rumi's poetry)

In his dream, the patient encountered the woman in black again, her beautiful face still veiled by the misty night. Silently contemplating by the fire, she resembled a beautiful but lifeless statue. But as Klein approached her, the silver glint in her dark eyes, as she gazed at the young man, was more captivating than any true morning star.

The mysterious visitor called out to him through the ripples of dreams and memories: "My friend, do you see? Today is the night of the full moon."

Yes, when Klein met this woman in the oasis amid the sand dunes, it was the second month since he and his fellow merchants arrived in Arabia. The peninsula had entered its hottest season of the year, and breeding moths were frantic, swarming around the ripe buds of the cactus to mate. Eastern merchants traded silk and porcelain for gems, camels, and expensive spices from the locals. Klein took time to treat several elderly nomads, who, in gratitude for the kindhearted doctor, gifted him with fresh goat's milk and dates.

When the caravan learned they planned to cross the Crescent Sand Dunes to the next city, the elderly men looked solemn. The leading nomad whispered to the doctor that the true owner of the dunes wasn't the Caliph, but rather the domain of the gods. Their ancestors had encountered enormous, eight-legged demonic wolves in the Crescent Sand Dunes. The wolves roamed in the moonlight, guarding the gods who controlled the moon and the stars. The mysterious Holy Spirit, wielding a massive scythe, would punish any trespasser, casting the despicable souls of those crimes into the inky darkness. "Stranger, remember this: believe in the power of the gods."

"In this land, any word of promise is binding. Doctor, remember not to underestimate the power of promises."

"Especially remember not to easily accept gifts from strangers without a reason. They are all paid scams, and could very well be temptations from the devil."

Klein remembered thanking the herders one by one. A few months ago, he might have been skeptical of the old man's warning. But before that, he had said goodbye to a passionate poet, who was actually a mischievous mirror with magical powers, convinced that Klein was his destined master. After experiencing a series of events that could only be explained by the occult, the former atheist was forced to accept the truth—unlike his homeland, in this distant land, magic and gods were real things, not just fantasies in legends.

The journey that followed was smoother than Klein's most optimistic expectations. The caravan encountered no sandstorms or robbers, and even fewer of the wolves the herders had mentioned. Despite the scorching sun, fortunately, no one suffered heatstroke. Most of the caravan were accustomed to the intense heat and had stockpiled plenty of fresh water and dry food before setting off. On the third day, the caravan crossed the sand dunes and arrived at a small city built on an oasis at the edge of the desert. Stone statues of demonic wolves adorned the city gates, and almost all the residents worshipped the Goddess of Night.

The strangers arrived just before the full moon, and the warm residents cordially invited the merchants to stay a few days to join in their full moon celebrations. Every year in the second week of July, the Church of Night celebrates its Harvest Festival. Followers celebrate with singing and dancing, and a mass wedding takes place in the church's open-air hall. On this day, anyone who enters the hall, regardless of whether they are followers of the goddess or not, is invited to sit at the feast, share the delicious food, and bask in the goddess's blessings and glory.

In a rare moment of lucidity, Klein decided to share his dream with his caretaker. People tend to remember words more easily when they speak them, like a child learning a language from scratch, their vocal cords vibrating as they gradually become familiar with the syllables written on paper. Klein hoped to remember those dreams, echoes from the past. He needed those fragmented memories to confirm his identity and place.

He didn't expect a response. The caregiver's unwavering silence was, in this moment, the best encouragement. The patient could let down his guard in front of a complete stranger, revealing his true feelings behind the mask, especially when he knew he wouldn't receive any response. Whether it was sympathy, indifference, or curiosity, he didn't want to accept any emotional response.

The Moon God's monks were all silent. Klein didn't know the caregiver's name, age, or origins. Only when changing the dressings did he truly feel the texture of her fingers, like cool jade, or delicate moonlight. Somehow, the patient instinctively determined that the caregiver was a woman. But that was all. Klein had never seen the other person's face clearly. To him, this stranger, with whom he spent every day, was more like a ghost with a blank face, a fleeting evening breeze, spreading the fragrance of deep sleep flowers and nightshade as it moved. He could speak to this blank person about his dreams, the Beyonders, his lost names, and the direction he had taken.

It must have been a cool morning when Klein was led by his caregiver's hand into the garden. His sense of smell and hearing temporarily served as the patient's eyes, helping him perceive the unfamiliar surroundings. Klein could smell the scent of rain, the unique aroma of damp soil and plants, and the chirping of thrushes and leafbill birds in the shade of the banyan tree. The caregiver walked slowly, matching the patient's pace, and silently supported Klein's arm when he grew tired. They seemed to be the only ones strolling through the vast garden. The caregiver had the patient sit on a bench under the wisteria trellis, unfolding a cashmere shawl and gently draping it over his shoulders. "You always remind me of a friend," Klein would begin, perhaps suggesting that those who worship the Night Goddess share certain qualities, such as a calm demeanor and a fragrant aroma.

He still remembered the bright moonlight of a full moon night, the air burning, bats frolicking in the shade of the trees. Men and women dressed in their finest attire, quaffing fine wine, singing and dancing around the bonfire. Klein, not a skilled dancer, was left alone. A dark-haired woman, also alone, sat on a bench away from the crowd, her chin resting on her hand as she watched silently.

The occasion for their conversation had long been forgotten. The woman who called herself "Niya" was flipping through his notes in the firelight. Klein had recorded the various mysterious creatures he encountered on his travels in his notebook, accompanying each sketch with a detailed description. Niya, well-versed in mysticism, pointed out errors in his annotations and explained that the wolf pack's ancestor was a mad god known as the Destroyer Wolf. They discussed the cycles between the moon phases and tides, the migration of migratory birds, the self-igniting fanatic, and the legend of the moon god. The dark-haired woman served as Klein's introductory teacher in the mystic world. Her gentle voice explained that all coincidences and gifts in the extraordinary world held hidden destiny. Those with similar paths were destined enemies; if they knew the loopholes in the rules, even the most incompetent ferryman could secretly conceal a soul that was meant to be gone; those peddling witchcraft secrets on the streets were often novice pharmacists, their so-called secret potions merely defective products...

Niya gazed at the itinerant doctor's notes, her fingertips brushing against the neat handwriting, moonlight streaming down her lashes and across her face. As a thank you for borrowing the notes, she invited the young man to share a pomegranate with her. Klein received half a ripe, crimson fruit, its sweet juice overflowing his palm.

In the end, they discussed this still-young world, where a thin curtain separated the gods who walked the earth from humans, but the extraordinary world behind this curtain was only open to those lucky enough to drink the potion. Perhaps it should be called luck, Niya slowly recounted. Entering the extraordinary world also means entering into madness and loss of control. No one can escape the potion's corrupting influence. While gaining power, one also grasps the blade, walking on a tightrope where a single mistake could lead to a plunge into the abyss. Even the most steadfast believers are inevitably subject to fall. Even angels and gods rely on believers as an anchor to anchor their own concepts. But unlike the "gods" you know, they do not create. Everything they give comes with a demand. They are stingy shepherds, solely concerned with their own flocks, and they will not hesitate to sacrifice the lives of their lambs when necessary.

Dear stranger, why do you pursue this power that is tainted from its very roots? What were you thinking when you accepted your first dose of the fortune teller's potion?

He pondered the nature of this world and the possibility of returning home.

After consuming the blue, gel-like potion, Klein briefly tormented by the ravings of madness, but more than that, he was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of this new, extraordinary world. It was like seeing everything around him with a new third eye. Clairvoyance and divination opened up a broader perspective for the young man. As an ordinary person, Klein was separated from that mysterious world by an impenetrable curtain. The potion helped him lift a corner of that curtain, like glasses for a nearsighted person, revealing every detail that his dulled senses had overlooked.

The shock of that moment felt like the end of childhood. From then on, this crazy and vast world no longer held any secrets from him.

The patient groped for a wet bud on the bench. He tried to bend his knuckles and touch the rain-soaked petals, savoring the delicate touch, almost like silk.

The caretaker understood the extent to which the bishops of night had altered his body. The goddess who wielded the power of sleep and doom had chosen him for some unknown reason, commanding her knights to bring the fortuneteller's body back to the temple and divert his soul from its path to the netherworld. The witch's curse was so vicious that Klein's body had been corroded into a hollow, broken vessel. The bishops would temporarily replace the original organs with new fillings.

He recalled the time of deep sleep when the monks of the Church of Night had scavenged his rotten flesh and replaced his decaying bones. Through a layer of soft spider silk gloves, the monks' fingers penetrated the fortuneteller's body, dissecting him open and examining him. The anesthetic dulled the pain, allowing Klein to lie comfortably on the operating table. Precious metals replaced his bones, and pure silver charms powered the bearings. The monk reassured him that once the Seer ascended to the demigod level, his body would no longer need these parts during the transformation into a mythical creature. By the end of the long surgery, the crescent moon had risen. Klein, struggling against the sticky sleep, grasped a hand. He still had questions he needed to confirm. The unknown monk crouched down, pressing his ear to the patient's pale lips, listening for his faint voice.

Is the plague truly over?

It is, Your Majesty. You have successfully prevented this disaster.

What about my fellow countrymen and friends?

They are all safe. Your fellow countrymen have heeded your advice and traveled to the European continent.

Klein blinked doubtfully at the last question. His eyeball had been successfully saved, though he still couldn't see.

I remember I was supposed to be dead.

Your Majesty, you simply need time to recover. The Lord is watching over you. You will recover soon. But he wasn't a follower of the goddess. Those without faith receive no mercy from the gods, while those with faith condemn them as uninspired black sheep. But Klein had already incurred a significant debt; the monks had even used sacred artifacts to save him. This gift must come with a hefty reward.

"It's better to serve a benevolent monarch than a tyrant, isn't it?"

On the way back to his residence, Klein said to the Caretaker. "I've learned about the teachings of the Church of Night. At least your god encourages mutual support and assistance, and teaches believers not to treat women as subordinates. His eyes are on the weak, and His Nightwatchmen truly carry out His will. With that in mind, I'm less worried about the labor I'll have to perform."

The Caretaker remained silent on his bold words. She plucked a bunch of irises from the garden, took Klein's hand, and let him touch the deep blue, curling petals. The patient sat obediently by the bed, cooperatively extending his hand, waiting for his caretaker to trim his nails. This body had regained its vitality after more than two weeks of recuperation.

Klein now had a room overlooking the garden. If not for his debt to the goddess, his life would be more comfortable than the translator the king had summoned. The diviner's spirit warned him that this peaceful time would not last. Sooner or later, after he fully recovered, the divine test would come. The citrine pendulum had been recovered by the monk. This old artifact, a link to the past, brought Klein a sense of comfort; it was his small anchor.

He clutched the cheap citrine tightly and buried his face in the pillow as the evening bells rang.

The young visitor from the East, a third-rate itinerant doctor, and a dedicated diviner, curled up under the thin blanket, like a hard fruit core, a stubborn lead heart. On this beautiful night, with the gentle breeze and the blooming tuberose and water lilies, the stranger felt a deep loneliness, a loneliness that brought an inexorable sense of confusion and fear. Klein understood that even from the moment he was first rejected by death, he had already departed from the ordinary path. He was a survivor, cast aside by the tides of fate, stranded on unfamiliar shores.

My name is Klein, that's my given name, but I'm also Zhou Mingrui, my original name. The fortuneteller repeated these two names silently in his mind several times, ensuring he wouldn't forget them upon waking. And then there was his distant homeland, the gardenias that didn't grow in the desert. Perhaps one day, he could find a ship to the East. Without such hope, he couldn't find his way forward.

"Heart!

Though you dare to pursue the lion, beware of the antelope.

In her eyes, the lion is vulnerable.

Her eyes are the eyes of the antelope."

(Note: Excerpted from a lyric poem by Rumi)

He once again stepped into this ocean of moonlight. Under the clear silver light, the angel statues in the church looked solemn and beautiful. Klein walked past the angels wielding sickles or trumpets. Niya waited at the pulpit, her black hair and black gauze dress gleaming like scattered diamonds. Klein inhaled her rich fragrance: the scent of slumber flowers and nightshade, the very same scent as that of the silent caretaker. Klein stopped beside Niya, and together they gazed up at the narrative painting on the dome: wolves roaming, the war of the gods, hidden realms, a long history condensed within the scroll. Klein wanted to ask, "How long have you been gazing at me? What do you want from me?" But in the end, he said nothing. The two of them simply stood in the empty church, listening to the rain fall and lost swallows fly into the eaves.

Her face, hidden beneath the veil, turned to him: "I remember you said you initially accepted the Diviner's Potion to find your way home."

"Yes," Klein nodded. "I remember telling you about my dream. It was after my first resurrection from the dead. I remember that I was supposed to live in another, more prosperous era. I tried many things to pursue that world, but I failed." The Seer threw his hands helplessly. "Now I've squandered my second chance at resurrection, and I can't even return to my hometown. You want my secret, right? The power that brought me back to life."

Amanesis shook his head gently.

"Not entirely. After meeting you in person, I've had new thoughts. You haven't told me yet, after becoming a Seer, do you still consider yourself one of the ordinary people?"

"I still do. Ultimately, what's the difference between me and them?"

They were all born on earth, laughing when happy, crying when sad, and possessing all sorts of desires. Even though their skin color and language differed, the friendship and kindness Klein had received were genuine, so he couldn't ignore the suffering of the foreigners. The gods wouldn't understand that the ants they see are also the masters of this world. The lives of ordinary people are the underlying color of history. "I can hardly be called human now, right? But even so, I still harbor hope, and there's still much I need to accomplish. Human emotions, and memories of my homeland, still comfort me to this day."

He seemed to be smiling, and Klein was glad it wasn't irony. The hidden deity now looked like the ordinary young girl he remembered.

"Then please continue to have this faith. You will forget these memories upon waking. Until the day you truly escape the Styx, I will continue to watch over you, until the plateau is submerged by the sea, until the moon ceases to rise."

When the patient awoke to the sound of the morning bell, he remembered only what seemed to be a long dream. He dreamed he was still a mediocre itinerant doctor, traveling with a caravan. He had encountered a woman at a White City celebration in the desert. Her expensive jewelry and elegant demeanor had briefly led him to believe the dark-haired woman was a princess of some kingdom. As a poor man with neither a date palm grove nor a camel to offer as a betrothal gift, Klein initially worried that the princess's attendants would suddenly appear and tackle him, a rude foreigner. But they unexpectedly struck up a conversation. The two young men sat by the campfire, discussing the Caliph's House of Wisdom, philosophers' debates, poets' poetry competitions, astrology, and the emerging hospitals. The world was still young, waiting for prophets to explore. The princess shared a pomegranate with him, telling the stranger that it was a legendary fruit born from the underworld, capable of retaining souls. The sweet juice flowed along his fingers, its crimson color resembling fresh ox blood or the ink used to sign a contract. Before parting, the girl calling herself Niya asked the young man from the East if he would return, if she would see him again. Klein calculated the upcoming journey, the monsoons, and the phases of the moon. At the end of the dream, he made a promise to the princess:

"I will return here. As long as I live, I will answer your call."

He always kept his promises.

【NightK】Moonrise Kingdom

【黑夜克】月升王国

Rating: Adult+Diversity

Warning: Departure from the prototype

Prototype Lord of Mysteries Klein Amanisis

Tags: Night Gram

Collected Works of Pomegranate Poets

1158 31 2021-6-18 20:33

https://old.hellowland.com/wid266396

Introduction

The Church, the Eastern Caravan, pearls, floods, pomegranates, the eyes of wolves.

Hanging Gardens, the plague, a thousand kingdoms, the goddess of the night, and her saint who reads love stories.

Gunshots ring so brightly

I'm coming home tonight,

my loneliness was killing me.

The traveler returned at the end of June, when moth-yellow roses and tuberoses were in full bloom. The path of Sirius happened to pass through the zodiacal constellations of Virgo and Fusiformes. Warm monsoon winds, born from the depths of the Indian Ocean, swept across the lavender dusks of East Africa and the mosaic blue dawns of Egypt, riding on the wings of albatrosses and storks, bringing with them humid, hot rain and dew. As the last heavy rains fell on the eastern Arabian Peninsula, he stepped into the quiet city at dawn, shrouded in the shadows of the stars. The long Arabian summer had arrived once again, as promised.

Klein followed the temple bells for morning prayers, walking along the dark and deep corridors straight to the altar. Along the way, ascetics in black silently saluted this agent of night. Mother Abbess Arianna waited at the pulpit. The faint morning light filtered through the dark stained glass windows, tinting the room with a deep, shifting blue. They felt as if they were walking on the clearest waters of the Gulf of Oman. Arianna accepted the pure silver box Klein entrusted to her, feeling the faint, rhythmic pulse from within the heavy box. She nodded to the dusty Night's Follower, "Please rest well first. May the Lord grant you sweet dreams."

The Follower was indeed too exhausted to utter a single word. He hadn't truly slept for seven days and nights, his worn metal joints clanking within his body. This time, his prey was cunning and cautious. Klein pursued his prey across the Arabian Peninsula and across the Red Sea, ultimately decapitating the evildoer who feasted on children's brains in the heart of the desert. The corrupted cultist's heart, even after being removed from his chest, still beat vibrantly. It had to be sealed in a pure silver vessel washed with holy water, and a secret potion of unicorn tears and moonflower seed powder had to be administered daily to hypnotize the beating heart, preventing it from forming a connection with the demons that roamed the land between day and night. Klein sleepwalked back to his room deep within the temple. As he pushed open the door in the darkness, he was greeted by a fragrant aroma. On the table, a ceramic jar overflowed with water. Fresh pomegranates, dates, and honeydew melons lay in a lemongrass-covered basket. The meat pie on the plate was still warm.

The follower stood in the darkness for a moment, unlit by candlelight or food. He drank the water, and the dryness in his throat eased. Now, all his physiological mechanisms gave way to sleep. The dark-haired young man collapsed onto the thick, soft Persian rug and quickly fell into the deepest dream.

Perhaps due to excessive fatigue, Klein's brain had no time to construct any logical plot. His dream consisted of a rapid, unconnected series of images, like a pantomime by a mad poet. He dreamed of the rosy lips of a one-eyed witch wandering the wilderness; the dazzling collection of gypsies' glass; and nomads holding poetry competitions in the oasis, the most beautiful rhymes written on the high hanging cloths. Elephants roamed the rainy grasslands, the legendary creatures that held up the four corners of the sky, possessing only a pair of pure white tusks, unable to save themselves from the hunters swarming southward from Europe. The Summer Triangle and the melancholy lions of courtship; flowers and sleepless snakes. And then there was the moon, the recurring moon, the massive silver full moon, the sickle-like blood moon, the pale golden moon hanging in the deep blue sky, the phantom moon floating over the Mediterranean. The moon that always watched him, its light flowing like condensed milk, slowly and gently drowning him...

So when Klein finally awoke, he was as exhausted as a sailor rising from the brink of drowning.

He blinked slowly, realizing he was still lying on the carpet woven with ivy and swans, but with a furry mass on his back.

The wolf legs resting on the young man's waist and knees relaxed their grip just in time, allowing him to roll over. Klein first caught the familiar scent of moonflower and sandalwood woven into the smooth fur. He raised his head in understanding, meeting a pair of serene, dark eyes. A demonic wolf, more robust than a full-grown lion, crouched behind Klein, enveloping the comparatively petite human in its warm embrace. God only knew when the elusive demonic wolf had arrived.

The eight-legged wolf lazily half-closed its eyes, delicately nuzzling the soft cheek of the person in its embrace. Klein couldn't help but laugh as its cold nose brushed against his neck, and with difficulty, he pulled his hand free to cup his friend's head. "Long time no see, Niya."

The demonic wolf returned his gaze with a gentle warmth, extending its rough tongue to slowly lick Klein's face. The barbs on its crimson tongue gently brushed against his dry skin, leaving a tingling sensation like being pricked by nettles. Klein let himself sink into the jet-black fur, more lustrous and beautiful than a golden fleece, taking a deep breath. But as the demon wolf licked the artery on his neck, the young man inopportunely recalled some of his absurd dreams. Facing the wolf's questioning gaze, he struggled with his hands and feet, pulling himself out of the warm, fluffy fur.

"Shh, good boy, let me eat something."

He stroked the wolf soothingly. It tilted its head, obediently closed its eyes, and lay back on the carpet.

According to the theory of the world of mysticism, mythical creatures under the gods' sway have no clear gender distinctions, but the demon wolf of the night always graciously responded to Klein's endless nicknames, such as beautiful lady, little boy, dear sir, or respectable sir. In a certain mystical sense, the demon wolf, walking between dreams and reality, can be seen as the eyes and hands of the gods, separated and free to roam, noble beings worshipped by believers and subjects in the territory ruled by the goddess of night. But Klein couldn't resist his advances. After all, Niya was always gentle and reliable in his presence. Who could resist the allure of a large furry ball? Not Klein, who had always wanted a furry pet.

Klein nibbled on a cold meat pie as he opened the window. His private residence, high atop the Temple of Night, afforded a clear view of the towering spires slicing through the orange clouds at dusk, and of most of the capital spread out beneath the hill where the temple stood. He slept through the entire day. The lingering sound of the second bell of evening prayer echoed through the layers of black towers. Pigeons fluttered home, and ascetics in black robes walked past flocks of white birds and pools of blooming water lilies, heading to the church for the day's final service. Niya quietly approached Klein, who was perched on the windowsill, watching. She rested her head on the wooden window frame, imitating human gestures. She placed a pomegranate in her mouth next to Klein's hand, who stroked the long, fluffy fur on the demon wolf's neck with his oil-free left hand. "Thank you."

Although he was nominally the Night Goddess's favored disciple and the agent of her will, Klein was not a devout Night believer. He had only skimmed through the church's holy book, The Revelation of Night. He could recite the doctrines and hymns fluently, but he had no deep understanding or conviction of their meaning. He had never taken the initiative to enter the confessional. After sensing the deity's implicit connivance, he even skipped morning and evening prayers altogether. In any other theocratic nation, a blasphemer like Klein would be judged by religious inquisition and sent to the stake or guillotine. But I don't believe in any gods myself. Even back home, I wouldn't go to the temple to burn incense and offer sacrifices unless it was a festival. Klein guiltily excused his laziness. He peeled a ripe fruit and tried to share half of the pomegranate seeds with Niya. The demon wolf licked the sweet and sour juice from his fingers and silently shook its head in defiance. Its jet-black fur shimmered with a rosy crimson glow.

"...Fire clouds, I'm feeling homesick again."

"There's a very old gardenia tree in my ancestral home. During flowering, its branches must be supported by bamboo poles, otherwise they'll be crushed by the buds."

The young man lost himself in memories, muttering to himself as he watched the lights gradually brighten outside the window. The crushed fruit oozed blood-red juice, dripping onto his white ankles. The long-lost fragrance drifted to his nose again as he recounted the trivialities. White, fragrant flowers bloomed on the branches. The demon wolf lay beside him, listening quietly and letting him snuggle. When Klein awoke from his flower-filled coffin, Niya was the first friend he met in the Church of Night, his memories shattered. The demonic wolf, fond of visiting late at night, never hesitated to use her magic to weave a sweet dream for the often insomniac youth. Klein trusted her as he would a brother or a sister. As he traversed the vast desert and trekked across rugged mountainous terrain in pursuit of the goddess's decree, the greatest surprise was when the demonic wolf, supposedly resident in the tranquil sanctuary, emerged from the deepest darkness to watch over the travelers' campfire until dawn. Niya was Klein's most loyal listener. The mute demonic wolf possessed more warmth and wisdom than many humans. He would only confide his lingering homesickness to this silent friend. Waiting for the sour emotions to subside, Klein rubbed his numb legs, stood up, and lit the candles in the room. After full darkness, a monk knocked on the door, bringing a wicker basket filled with warm food and brand new clothing. A sprig of nightshade rested on a linen handkerchief. Klein thanked him and accepted it, watching the monk disappear into the dim courtyard. After a moment's thought, the young man inserted the sprig of nightshade into the hollowed-out pattern of the hourglass.

As expected, he felt the hard corner of a book under the handkerchief. Papermaking had spread to the Western Regions with the arrival of merchants from the East, and the relatively inexpensive and portable paper was gaining increasing popularity. Even the Roman Catholic Church in Europe began using paper to copy canons, replacing the expensive and difficult-to-preserve parchment.

Klein flipped through the novel the monk had brought him. Niya approached curiously, lowering her head to examine the hard covers, stained with a dye extracted from plant stems and leaves. Atop the covers, depicting roses and swans, were gorgeously cursive letters. "Utopian Love Song," "The Poet of Love," and "The Sleeping Spring Garden." Klein couldn't help but sigh. He suspected the entire Church of Night had heard the rumors of his obsession with romance stories. Even with the widespread availability of papermaking, books like these, with their glossy paper and exquisite bindings, were still far beyond the reach of ordinary citizens. The books looked brand new. Imagine a night ascetic buying a romance novel from a bookseller. Klein silently sketched the outline of the moon on his chest. "Please forgive me, goddess."

But he couldn't deny that he truly enjoyed this precious gift. If his initial purpose in reading was to quickly master an unfamiliar language—after all, extensive reading and writing practice was more solid than relying solely on the instruction of ascetics—now Klein had truly fallen in love with the flowing, spring-like rhythm of a foreign tongue. He fell in love with the chanting tones and trembling tongue sounds, the beautiful language and words that gave rise to wise proverbs, the ingenious puzzles, and the countless wondrous stories.

Klein neatly stacked the new books on the wooden shelf beside his bed and took down his most-read pamphlet, his and Niya's favorite to date, "Kingdom of the Full Moon." The author is unknown, but the editor likely compiled tales from folk poets about a mysterious Eastern merchant and the princess of a small desert kingdom. After the sunset faded and before the moon climbed to the center of the sky, there was ample time for Klein to read aloud to himself and Niya the chapter where the protagonists met.

Come, Klein sat on the carpet, the demon wolf crouching behind him, its proud head tilted toward the young man reading beneath the candlelight. Come, before meeting the master of the City of Tranquility, forget the fatigue of the journey and the warm hearts of the villains, and immerse yourself once more in the fictional world of gorgeous words and great love.

...For many years thereafter, the princess kept the flower. The kingdom's sages froze the white bud's time before it withered, then sealed it in a mithril box. The princess wore this special ornament on a gold chain around her chest. The years of wear gave the silver box a warm touch, as if it were a part of her skin, swaying gently with her movements, echoing the princess's lonely heartbeat.

The face of the flower-bearer, along with this flower from the distant East, was frozen in her memory on that full-moon night. His eternally gentle smile, mingled with fragrance, was soaked in the silver moonlight. This was the only remaining token of her acquaintance with that young man from the East.

Her unknown friend, with black hair and eyes deeper than sandalwood, held a thousand dreams slumbering on his eyelashes. The princess tried to reconstruct the pearl-like, rich syllables he had taught her. His name lay hidden in this riddle, but she could never control her unruly tongue. The cunning Eastern language slipped through her grasping fingers like quicksand. Every time the princess gazed upon the silvery moonlight, she recalled the legend the boy had described in his broken Arabic. In his homeland, people believed that the moon was inhabited by lonely fairies and rabbits, and that its shadow was the cool shade of the lush branches of the osmanthus tree... The princess was captivated by his story. They had sat in the desert caravan camp, her noble boy, observing etiquette, sitting on the other side of the campfire, his eyes lowered to avoid meeting the princess's crimson veil. He was more reserved than she, an unengaged young woman, like a shy dream, lingering in the river of the princess's memory. (The two paragraphs are in Chinese, distinguished by a different font.)

As the moon rose above the spire of the mountaintop tower, Klein was walking alone along the quiet garden path, his graceful shadow falling on his loose robe. He could smell the sweet, rich fragrance of tuberose and gardenia. Passionflowers unfolded their symmetrical buds, their pollen-covered stigmas silently attracting moths. Araceae and Strelitzia reginae modestly stretched their branches under the bright moonlight. The gods' gardens were left to the care of the most silent believers. In this stagnant, warm, and eternal moonlit night, the flowers grew unrestrained, bearing fruit, while the souls of devout believers slept soundly within their stamens.

Silently, pitch-black demonic wolves emerged from the shade of the trees, bowing gently to their followers and rubbing their damp, cold noses against their arms—their way of expressing affection. Klein struggled to suppress the urge to stop and rub these furry servants. Now he wanted to meet the deity waiting for him deep in the garden and recount the story of this long hunt across the desert. He could already see the stars shining on the goddess's veil, flowing through the deep-sleeping flowers to form a galaxy on the ground.

Occasionally, Klein felt like the queen Scheherazade in Arabian legend, serving her ruler by telling fascinating and intriguing stories to satisfy his seemingly insatiable curiosity. The difference was that the wise young woman's purpose was to prevent her tyrannical husband from beheading more innocent brides, while his chief deity possessed virtues the king lacked: the god who protected the night was forgiving and wise.

Amanesis, the ruler of the tranquil city, sat amidst a sea of ethereal blue flowers. Moonlight dared not touch his jet-black hair or long skirt. In this haven shrouded in hidden power, Klein received his permission, exempting him from the tedious rituals of reverence. He delighted in having his only beloved crouch on his knees, baring his weary body and soul to the whispers of the dead. He would repeatedly stroke Klein's trembling eyelashes and cheeks, listening to his dreamlike voice as he recounted everything he had seen and heard on each of his journeys from the labyrinth of memory. The goddess's favored disciple knelt before her and pulled a pure silver casket from her sleeve. The heart of his target beat within the potion. A hidden aura surged silently, and Klein felt the stubborn organ return to a dead silence.

This mass of flesh and blood would drive any alchemist from the earthly kingdom mad. They spent their lives searching for materials that could bridge the land of the living and the underworld of the dead, refining them to near-pure elements. With their mortal bodies, they tirelessly explored the mysterious path to the gods' eternal paradise, recorded by ancient sages in the Dead Sea Scrolls. Yet, this priceless medium lay uncared for, carelessly placed among the flowers.

The Moon Goddess nodded in greeting to her favored disciple, and Klein began to narrate. He kept the hunt brief, knowing full well that the Moon Goddess sought details of the journey, matters unrelated to the mission. He delighted in learning about the various strangers Klein encountered, his brief encounters with them, the landscapes his eyes beheld, the objects his fingers touched. Such meticulous retelling always gave Klein the illusion that he was exposing his thoughts to Amanesis without reservation, like slowly unfolding a parchment scroll, revealing every word.

And yet, He never commented on Klein's stories. The Lord of the Silent City seemed content simply to listen.

"Like a tyrant lost in the elaborate plots his queen crafted every night, his exhausted wives wove love and betrayal with their bitter, dark-red lips. Countless stories were needed to fill their insatiable stomachs."

Klein occasionally entertained absurd speculations. Should he fear Amanesis? He knew there were other gods in this land, such as the Storm Lord, who stirred the tides and thunder, and the Eternal Sun, who ruled over contracts and the sun. They were powerful and arrogant. Klein had encountered their followers, fanatical devotees gifted with divine power, who fought for their master's will, punishing blasphemers with tsunamis, fire, and lightning. In comparison, the master of the City of Tranquility was too young. He had only been a few centuries away from becoming a fully formed god. This was enough time for humanity to destroy and rebuild ten kingdoms, but in the eyes of the gods, it was just a fleeting moment in the orbit of the stars.

But anyone who dared to disregard the young Moon God would pay the price for their arrogance. The sacred texts of the Church of Night detailed the trials that Amanesis underwent before becoming a god. The City of Tranquility was originally the domain of the Moon God's father, the "Destruction Wolf." This mad god was ultimately beheaded by his daughter, and his descendants and followers were slaughtered by Amanesis. The victor of the Bloody Night devoured the Father's godhood and held his coronation ceremony atop the burning mountain of the Wolf's corpses. "Burying the glory and evil of their fathers, thick blood and moonlight fell into the water, and the newborn god nurtured a brand new world from the ruins."

With ingenious strategy and immense power, he fearlessly faced the challenges that followed the initiation ceremony. The Lord of the Wolf Pack defended his territory and his followers. As the blood of the last challenger spilled onto the scorching sands, the old gods tacitly acknowledged the newborn goddess.

This history is recorded in the first volume of Revelation. It is the past of Amanesis, his exploits and glory. On Sunday evenings, Klein sat in the clean preaching hall, reading these old stories. The scent of blood, separated by time, surged beneath the sweet fragrance of tuberose flowers. Believing in the gods' power rather than expecting their mercy, Klein remained clear-headed. He did not believe that their preferential treatment was due to any special qualities on his part. Indeed, unlike those tyrannical gods, the Night does not view its subjects as straw to be harvested at will. It cherishes the lives of its believers, and the laws it promulgates serve as a shield for the weak. But Klein remained a hypocrite. He could identify with the Moon God's teachings, but he could not convert. He was a black sheep secretly yearning to cross the fence, yet the God always tolerated this rebellious lamb, requiring only that he recount his experiences each time he left the City of Tranquility.

The Moon God's followers encountered gem merchants, white-robed pagans, slave owners and gold, mysterious female fortune tellers, oasis inns, and lush date palm groves. Klein remembered the hospitable innkeeper, who owned two caravans, thirty horses, and a date palm grove. He tried to persuade the dark-haired young man to stay. Of course, Klein could not stay. No matter how tempting the promise, he still had debts to repay. Amanesis had promised him a deadline to return home. The figure of a demonic wolf emerged from the darkness. Niya approached silently, her warm breath caressing Klein's earlobe. She sniffed the young man's neck carefully, then leaned in close to his lips, her tail wagging in displeasure. The star-spangled, jet-black skirt swept through the flowers, its cool fragrance wafting over Klein. The Moon Goddess pressed her fingertips to his lips. Her cool skin felt like frozen moonlight, and the young man's back tensed like a bowstring at the sudden contact.

"You drank the wine given to you, the sweetness of figs and honey, didn't you?"

She asked the bewildered follower in a tone of assurance.

He understood, of course, that the gods knew all. They weren't confined to human bodies; they were merely vessels for their supreme spirits as they traversed the mortal world. Klein wasn't surprised the Night Goddess would observe him. But what he didn't understand was that she didn't care that some mortals had begun to embrace "The Fool," the most well-known of Klein's many facades. Amanesis never questioned why anyone would believe in his false godhood, yet pursue a cup of mead.

The demon wolf's fangs gently tugged at Klein's left shoulder, as if blaming him for his neglect. Klein finally remembered: before he left the oasis, the owner's young daughter had chased him out, nervously handing him a pure silver wine cup, whispering that it was a parting gift. Divination confirmed the wine was harmless, and Klein couldn't bear to refuse her kindness. Meeting the girl's expectant gaze, he downed the sweet mead in one gulp.

The goddess withdrew her hand, and he could no longer see her face hidden behind her veil. She didn't seem to intend to explain the question. Clouds obscured the moonlight, and the garden fell into a silent darkness. Klein heard the Moon Goddess say:

"Let us call it a day. There are two full moon nights left. You will complete all your labors, and I will fulfill my promise."

On the second night, they discussed the long journey, myths, and the moon. Never before had the princess engaged in such enthusiastic conversation with these Eastern visitors. They were unapproachable, their reserved natures making their smiles seem more like shields against prying eyes. How incredible! The young man, like most of his people, was atheist, neither believing in Allah nor the Roman Catholic Church, nor worshipping any other idols. The young man simply smiled as he listened to her questions. He stood tall and straight in his nomadic robes, his cheeks a charming blush like ripe figs in the flickering firelight.

The young man pondered for a moment, slowly choosing his words. "Of course we have our deities to worship—the gods of our myths and our ancestors—but we don't devote ourselves wholeheartedly. Look, didn't we set foot on this land on our own two feet?"

The princess, devoutly devoted to the moon god, easily forgave the young man's presumptuous words. If anyone else had so blasphemed the power of the gods before her, the priests would have gouged out the eyes of the arrogant sinner. Yet she couldn't scare him off again. Never before had the princess so carefully restrained her pride, like a rose curling its thorns. The other was a dandelion seed, ready to flee at any moment, or a docile yet stubborn bird; she had to slowly and tenderly ensnare him.

In the firelight, the boy's fingers were as pale as elderflowers. Years later, the princess, now replacing her brother as regent of the kingdom, occasionally wondered if they were hands unstained by the blood of her own kind, truly pure, the hands of a saint. Was the boy, from the land of poetry and song, so cautious because he could smell the scent of blood beneath her finery? The boy said he had no lover yet, and the princess wondered with regret and curiosity, what girl would be lucky enough to touch the shy Oriental's lovely face and taste whether those smiling lips were sweeter than honey. The princess and her subjects worshipped the all-knowing and all-powerful Moon God, the oldest deity of desert nomads. They firmly believed the deity would grant his followers everlasting water and lush date palm groves. He was their Heavenly Father, the "husband" of all creation.

A look of obvious surprise crossed the young man's face; he even glanced up at the noblewoman. "In contrast, in my homeland, the moon is a feminine, feminine image."

The princess's heart trembled at his abrupt averting gaze. "Moon God!" she thought. "Could anyone's gaze be so intense as a flame?" she thought.

The young man fell back into deep thought, and the princess keenly sensed it: a prelude to a farewell. With this surge of passion came the courage that compelled the young woman to abandon her reserve. The princess signaled her attendants to fetch her collection. "My friend, I would trade the most beautiful pearl I possess for a night of your time. Just sit here and speak to me in gentle tones, telling me of your wondrous experiences and distant homeland. Just don't leave so soon, on this beautiful night of the full moon!"

"A riddle: What burns the heart, yet also soothes it?"

As the cantar and tambourine played dance music, Crane recalled the riddle the princess had narrated in the novel.

The wedding guests were already dancing to the beat of the drums, hand in hand, laughing and dancing in the open-air hall. July was the harvest season for mare's milk grapes and late rice. The Church of Night designated the second week of July as the Harvest Festival, and the city-state's residents would specially choose to celebrate during this time of year. The monks decorated the church's vestibule with flowers and ribbons for the newlyweds and their guests to gather. During the festival, regardless of whether or not anyone entered the hall where the wedding banquet was being held, they were welcomed and treated with respect.

Klein had only intended to see the monks for a routine inspection, but as soon as he passed through the archway adorned with star reliefs, he was dragged without explanation into the revelry, as if he had been thrown headfirst into a swirling kaleidoscope. Strangers pulled him to dance, and someone crowned him with a flower crown. Men and women were dressed in festive attire, their intricately embroidered pleated skirts and robes blooming like flowers with their steps. Before the sixth waltz began, Klein finally pulled away from the dance floor. He could feel his heart beating happily within his body. The lively atmosphere finally infected him, briefly relieving the young man of his heavy heart.

The elderly women sitting at the table, chatting softly, made room for him. They wore exaggerated, wide-brimmed, pointed hats adorned with moth specimens, their hair whiter than purified rock salt, braided into intricate braids. Klein saw crimson dye painted on the old woman's fingers. They were worshippers of the Night Goddess, perhaps descended from a nomadic people whose name he didn't know. People living in the desert spent their lives chasing water, like rootless, migratory plants.

"Look at his black hair, and his eyes. My dear, you must be from the Eastern lands beyond the sea."

"In my youth, I met merchants from the Porcelain Kingdom. Their faces were just like yours, soft as silk."

"My dear, you smell strongly of moisture. You were once lost in a river and rescued, right?"

The three sisters enthusiastically offered to read Klein's palm. Their bony fingers traced the lines of the young man's palm, and Klein felt as if dried paper flowers were brushing against his palm. He himself was an expert in divination, but the answers to many questions couldn't be found through pendulums and rituals. The Night Monks were certainly happy to help those favored by the Goddess, but there were certain things Klein could only confide in Niya or strangers. The elders spoke in faint voices, interspersed with words he couldn't understand, likely their native language. The argument quickly concluded. The eldest of the three sisters, stringing rose beads, began by revealing her past to Klein: "You were born in a city beside a river, then journeyed to a distant land where the river of your homeland no longer flows, and finally returned to a ferryboat on a strange river."

The second-oldest elder woman said, "Now you have been brought back from the river by wolves, burdened with heavy wishes. My dear, you have the key to the mystery, but you turn a blind eye."

The youngest sister's prophecy sounded more like a riddle: "I see your future. The broken thread of life will be woven. At the end of the loop, a wedding and a vow await you."

But he clearly didn't have, and wouldn't have, a lover to be engaged to. While Klein hesitated to defend himself, the three sisters had already begun a heated discussion about love and marriage. He then learned of the myriad spells and rituals that hunt, plunder, and tear apart love. Daisy petals could be used to divine whether a secret crush was in love with him; nightingale tongues mixed with the juice of datura roots could be used to concoct a potion to seduce a beloved; a dagger, stolen hair, and a puppet could end a passionate love affair.

The three sisters also taught other curious guests the magic formula for a happy marriage: a little new, a little old, a little borrowed, and a little blue. On the wedding day, the bride's trousseau should include a brand new item and an old one, the old woman added, preferably something close-fitting, and something borrowed from family. Finally, the color blue symbolized the bride's inevitable sadness. Before Klein left, the young girl who had been listening nearby, after a few moments of laughing and jostling with her companions, shyly asked, "What if I want to capture someone's heart?"

"Dear, I remember an ancient sorcery that can help you capture the heart of any mortal," said the youngest of the three sisters. "Why not give the one you love a cup of mead?"

He had signed a contract with the Lord of the City of Tranquility. In return for saving his soul and mending his body, Klein would remain in his divine kingdom and serve him for seventy years. Upon completion, he would be free. For seventy years, Klein would be his steadfast arrow and loyal shield, piercing the chests of his enemies and defending the divine realm. The Goddess of Night granted him supernatural powers, granting him immortality, allowing him to change his appearance like flowing water and control the bodies of others like a puppeteer. By the time Klein realized the extraordinary nature of this gift, he had already been recognized as the goddess's favored one. The ascetics serving the deity also respected him, as if he were truly the Moon Goddess's favorite knight, rather than a servant with shaky faith.

The young man lay on his back on the examination table, gazing at the narrative painting on the high dome. Wolves galloped under the silver moonlight, running across the vast desert. The perfect full moon symbolized the goddess. He gazed up at the silvery moon, as if enveloped by the moonlight in the painting. The imagined gaze of the god gently brushed across his opened ribs, touching the beating heart. The silent monks, each clad in spider silk gloves, carefully used their blades to cut open the body reshaped by divine power. From the incisions flowed no longer the bright red blood of humankind, but transparent worms. He felt no pain, but no matter how many times he underwent examinations, Klein could never get used to the subtle shudder of having someone's fingers deeply touch his organs.

Through a layer of soft fabric, the monks' fingertips caressed the veins, muscles, and internal organs of the beloved, their delicate movements more like a silent caress. If it weren't for the anesthetic he'd taken beforehand, Klein might have leaped off the examination table, trembling, as his spine was scrubbed section by section. This inhuman body was dissected open, its bare bones exposed. The followers of the Night were about to remove the badly worn metal joints. A number of worms, adorned with mysterious runes, swarmed into the gaps. A mature swarm could mimic any organ. The living heart beat stubbornly in the monk's palm, like a juicy, overripe fruit. In fact, if anyone dared to taste it, they would discover that the flesh that had been torn off was also a disguise for the worms.

In the vast silence, only the crisp sound of metal instruments being placed on the porcelain basin was clear. Klein's fingers clenched the sheet beneath him. He was familiar with these fingers that had examined him. In his fragmented memories, these strong, steady fingers had once touched his lips in the dark church. For the first month after being brought back to the City of Tranquility by the Moon Goddess, the severely injured young man slept in a coma in the church's infirmary. During that agonizing time, a silent caregiver remained by his side. Klein still doesn't know the man's appearance or name. Even then, his eyes were bandaged with gauze. The caregiver could always detect the subtle changes in his breathing during each brief moment of lucidity. She would moisten his parched lips with lamb's milk, support his head with her arms, and feed him warm milk. That unknown guardian, his fingers and embrace lingered with the enchanting fragrance of slumberweed and tuberose. His skin, like the cool texture of jade and delicate moonlight, soothed the soul wandering on the border between the Styx and the mortal world. After Klein was able to walk, his caregiver disappeared. Lady Arianna, the goddess' servant, led him to the main hall of the Church of Night. The bishops baptized him in the clear spring waters. The ascetic of the night said:

"You are different. You are the Lord's one and only favored one. It was the God who lifted you from the water and brought you back to His kingdom."

The water flowed across his forehead, as if this was his second rebirth, a celebration of the resurrected from the dead. From that day on, he was both Zhou Mingrui and Klein. His fragmented memories contained only the direction of his homeland and a vague memory of his journey. He had once lain in a boat laden with flowers. He had traveled with merchants to the foreign lands of the West, documenting the customs and people he encountered along the way. Unlike his homeland, the idols worshipped here truly pointed to some great, indescribable being. Who had once told him, on a starry night, that the gods were real in this land, ruling over mortals and seizing the faith and fear of these ants? The foreigner who died of the plague was so young. Those rescued by the foreigner dressed his body in pristine white. The sleeping youth was pushed into the river along with the wooden boat. Since hypocrites are detested by any god, why did the Goddess of Night grant him favor and privilege? Niya couldn't answer him. Klein could only wait for his labor to end. Travelers from the distant East were forced to learn a strange language and sing a song-like tone. Even after living in foreign lands for so long, the more he became familiar with their history, music, and suffering, the more Klein yearned for his homeland. The longing was so deep that even the forget-me-not fruit in heroic epics couldn't numb the pangs of homesickness.

But he could only confess this longing to his silent friend. Niya accompanied Klein on his first mission to a foreign land. The desert on a full-moon night resembled a snowy plain or a frozen shallow sea. The weary follower rested on the wolf's mane, murmuring in the gap between dream and reality. "Niya, I truly wish I could die in my hometown. Even if everything has changed by the time I return from my journey across the Silk Road, I still want to rest beneath the gardenia trees. That is my only hope for happiness."

The traveling horsemen played wooden zithers. What kind of music was that? The princess looked at the young man and his tribesmen. Why did their music seem to me sad? The young man replied, "It's a song of homesickness. It's easy to miss our homeland and the loved ones we left behind."

He sang for his distinguished guests in the Eastern language. Ah, years later, she could still hum fragments of that song, a melancholy melody from the land of silk and porcelain, sung by the young man's clear voice. She swore to the moon god, his voice was gentler than any man she had ever heard, sincere and peaceful, like the clear waters of a stream flowing slowly beneath a rock. His nimble fingers and coral-red lips—why hadn't she traded all her jewels and gold for the right to touch them? Now, she could only hold the silver casket in memory of the saint she would never see again. Under the gaze of the moon god, they had discussed the direction of the monsoon and the sea, alchemy, plague, nomadic music, springs and frankincense, and the Caliph's observatory. The world was still young, full of unknowns waiting to be explored.

I clearly foresaw his fate. Years later, the princess would fumble with the silver casket. The unbelievers from foreign lands would encounter plague and war. He would die from his nobility, from his unyielding conscience. Why didn't I insist once more? Should I have begged him to stay again? There were so many spells and sorceries that could help me capture that golden heart. If I had only given him a cup of enchanted mead, looked him in the eye, and let him drink, my saint would be as inseparable from me as wheat clung to honey. Why did I have to cling to my pride and allow him to embark on his destined fate? Humans are such fragile creatures. My saint, I will only allow him to step into the Styx once!

He had once dreamed a wild and voluptuous dream in the God's Garden. A follower of the Moon God had been wounded while hunting, and the God Himself had welcomed him, healed him, and allowed him to sleep peacefully in the Garden of Eternal Night. As the Silver Moon climbed the highest spire in the capital, Klein awoke from his blasphemous dream, shuddering, his black robe soaked with sweat. Unsurprisingly, he felt an erection. The demonic wolf emerged from the night, its dark eyes fixed upon him. Its thorny tongue slowly licked Klein's protruding Adam's apple, the tingling, slightly tingling sensation echoing the transgressive intimacy of his dream. Or was reality a continuation of the dream, a faithful reflection of the unspoken fantasies of waking life? Had he entertained erotic fantasies about his silent friend? Otherwise, how else could he explain his dream of lying amidst the slumbering flowers, obediently embracing the demonic wolf's neck, kissing its fangs, and sucking the tip of its thorny tongue with his open mouth? Niya, his Niya. The wolf's sharp claws peeled away the black robes that enveloped him, revealing the pale body. They licked the healed, pale red wounds across his chest, inflicting an unbearable itch on the newly formed skin. He clung to the beautiful mythical creature, dazed and captivated. It was a black cloud that engulfed him, brewing a storm of lust. Klein recalled his own alienated body. He moaned between fierce caresses and deep kisses, fashioning thick, fleshy lips and a womb capable of holding his semen for the lover who would soon possess him. His penis sank into the moist passage, his wolf's sharp teeth sank into a transparent bed of insects. His fingers caressed the white ribs and beating heart of the black-haired traveler from the East, leaving behind the enchanting fragrance of slumberweed and tuberose. He had seen that face before, hidden in the peaceful darkness of the night. A god too young, like an old soul temporarily residing in the skin of a young girl, its gaze omnipresent.

He awoke from this sweet, blasphemous dream, seeing a star-studded skirt brushing against the flowers. Klein remembered that he had come to bid farewell to the master of the City of Tranquility. Seventy years of labor were complete, and he would cross deserts, peninsulas, bays, and mountains, returning to his long-lost homeland.

He bent down and kissed the traveler's forehead. A divine kiss could surprisingly be warm. The familiar scent of flowers fell upon his eyes as He spoke:

"Farewell, my saint."

He raised his head again, trying to find the stars of Orion in the full moon's glow. In mid-September on the southern peninsula, it was hard to find any trace of the pale yellow roses. The camel that accompanied him on his long journey was chosen by the monks. This rare and docile old camel remembered every hidden water source in the sand dunes and would not abandon its owner to escape alone when a sandstorm struck. The night wind was cold. Under the silver moonlight, the rolling dunes seemed like a boundless sea, and he was the sole navigator. The day after his departure, Klein encountered a caravan. The spice traders discussed the war in the north and the emerging kingdoms that had cut off the land trade routes to the Far East. They kindly advised the lone traveler not to proceed rashly. But where else could he go? Klein recalled his original name, the gardenia tree planted by his elders, and the hazy veil between his lost first half of life and his second half, a life spent in a foreign land. A man without a name, a man without roots... Klein knew his journey was destined to be difficult. After such a long time, he knew he would never see his family and friends again. He was no longer human, but neither was he a born god. Worms murmured beneath a shifting surface, and moonlight slowly drowned the traveler's dreams.

"Have you never loved?" the girl from the oasis asked dejectedly.

"You are the new king of those resurrected from the dead." The three sisters gave him a mysterious smile.

It's not that he hadn't loved this paradise, its song-like language, its tranquil gardens, its fate intertwined with joy and pain. But even after dying once, his memories washed by the Styx, reduced to mere fragments of words, he still followed the inertia of his soul, wearily tracing back like a swallow, repeating the seventy-year cycle over and over again.

The demon wolf walked down the sand dune, its jet-black fur more lustrous and beautiful than the mythical Golden Fleece. Niya nuzzled the still-disintegrating half-figure on the sand. Then it bent down, its long skirt studded with countless stars coming into Klein's view. He scooped up the transparent insect swarm in his hands and patiently pieced it together, just as he had done on any previous reunion.

The crumbling young god gazed at him with unmelted brown eyes. The insect swarm whispered, accompanying Klein's sighs as they flowed across the sand.

"I remember now. I should have died long ago, during the plague centuries ago... It was you who brought my coffin back."

Amanesis replied cheerfully, "It seems you've regained consciousness more quickly than last time."

He soothed the restless insect swarm, allowing it to fill Klein's bones and abdomen. The gods born here could not stray too far from their divine kingdom. They were strengthened by their faith, yet bound by it. He did not doubt his follower's potential. One day, he, too, would transform into a god as pure as himself, a complete fellow, his soul no longer torn by questions about his identity. His saint whispered, "Will you not grow weary? What if this cycle of death continues?"

He answered in a low voice, like reciting a poem on a fluttering banner, like reading a command inscribed on a relic stone tablet. His words held a rhythm washed by the wind and light of the wilderness, and the weight of his promise was equal to the truth tested by time. This was a promise uttered by a god, destined to be fulfilled the moment it was spoken. Its validity would last until the end of the life of the one who made the promise, the twilight that all gods ultimately embrace. The duration of this promise would approach infinitely close to "eternity." Under the bright silver light of the eternal stars, He promised him this:

"Until the seas flood the snow-capped mountains of the equator, and the deserts once again rumble with the sound of swamps. Until all the great empires of the earth are destroyed in fire, and the seeds of glorious civilizations no longer sprout. Until the day comes when all the stars are extinguished and the moon no longer rises, I will walk with you, sharing the paradise and the crown with you. I will fish your soul out of the rivers of death again and again, until the end, which even time cannot reach, arrives.

"And then, together, we will share the joy of sleep."

The Moon God gently lifted His saint, His bride, and they bathed in starlight, walking across the snow-white desert, heading towards the city-state where the moon rises.

【ArrodesKlein】The Poet in Love

【镜克】热恋的诗人

https://42milk.lofter.com/post/31ed617b_1cc13ec35

☞Atypical mirrorK

Ancient Arabian pa/Moonrise Kingdom same background

My beloved, please don't leave us!

Free us from torment and sorrow.

Find happiness in sadness.

Stay faithful in this faithless world.

—Rumi

When the amazing grace descended upon Arrodes' fate, He was surprised by the sharp clamor of the spirit, which was really unusual for the magic mirror that knew everything. The silver-haired young man sat under the shade of the date palm grove, listening casually to the humans beside him discussing the rhyme and rhythm of poetry. The poets were arguing about what kind of image to use to compare love. The corners of Arrodes' mouth were slightly raised, the arc was between sarcasm and enthusiasm, and his dark eyes reflected the ripples of the oasis spring water. In fact, He didn't hate poets that much. Most humans were mediocre creations, and the thoughts in their brains were disorderly and noisy. Arrodes would only distinguish them slightly carefully when he was having fun. But the real poets were different. Their inspired voices were like a flock of flying birds. Arrodes had to admit that the poems and sporadic words created by these sensitive humans had touched the curtain of eternal beauty.

As dusk approached, caravans arrived at the oasis camp in the heart of the desert. The crisp sound of camel bells echoed under the orange-red sunset, accompanied by the melody of the santa and hand drums, and the singing echoed in the camp. Camel traders lit a bonfire in the open space. Along with the noisy voices, the thick soup on the fire was boiling, and the fragrance of cinnamon and frankincense was overflowing. Arrodes stood outside the dining group, still wearing that impeccable smile on his face, trying to search for hints about himself from the spiritual world. The silver-haired magic mirror heard a soft reply like a bird chirping. It was a group of black-haired and yellow-skinned foreigners. He knew that they were travelers from the far east. Strangers had to cross snow-capped mountains and plains, sail across oceans and straits, follow the guidance of the stars and compasses, and only when they crossed the hot equatorial wind could they reach the depths of the desert.

A traveler in a white robe left his companions who were sorting the goods, approached the woods, and looked up at the curtains that the poets hung on the towering masts. The hood slipped off as the traveler moved, revealing a young face. The firelight reflected the black hair and black eyes that were darker than sandalwood, and painted a layer of warm red on the young traveler's lips. A thousand dreams were sleeping on his eyelashes. The traveler looked around the camp curiously and saw the silent Arrodes. The young man greeted Him with local etiquette, pointed to the fluttering hanging poems (Note: the ancient Arabs would copy the selected beautiful poems on the curtains and hang them high up), and asked in unskilled Arabic, "Sir, what is that?"

He could not answer. The moment the traveler's face was revealed in the dancing flames, Arrodes froze in place. Great joy and great fear poured toward him, engulfing him like a tsunami. Arrodes could not hear the noisy voices of other creatures in the world, except for that question, the gentle inquiry of the only great existence, the only gospel worth listening to. He trembled and approached the traveler in his puzzled eyes, approaching his destiny, his destined master. He prostrated himself in the dust with great happiness, prostrated himself at the feet of his master, restraining the ecstasy that almost tore him apart. Before the traveler jumped away in fear, he bowed his head and kissed the tip of his shoe devoutly.

"That is a hanging poem, Master. The great and supreme Master! Can you allow Arrodes, a foolish and humble servant, to serve you and follow in your footsteps?"

The omniscient magic mirror reflected on his recklessness countless times afterwards. He failed to leave a good impression on his master when they first met. The frightened master did not accept him, and after the presumptuous kiss, he fled away nimbly like a swift. What's worse is that after the turmoil that night, the master's companions began to be wary of him. Once they found Arrodes approaching their camp, they would be very alert, not to mention letting him meet Zhou Mingrui.

Zhou Mingrui, He recited this name silently with fascination, wishing that He could chew these syllables carefully and make them a part of His essence.

The young man from the East had some knowledge of herbal medicine, and in his spare time, he would help people with minor illnesses such as headaches and fevers for free. In less than two days, even the most caustic spice merchant in the oasis camp was willing to take the initiative to greet Zhou Mingrui. The young itinerant doctor liked to laugh, liked exquisite handicrafts, and liked to taste all kinds of food. Arrodes knew that his master's bulging pockets were always full of dates and mints secretly stuffed by the children. He also knew that his master preferred the delicate taste of hummus. The itinerant doctor asked the chef of the caravan next door for the recipe and made other attempts on this basis: reducing the garlic paste, increasing lemon juice and rosemary, and using more chili sauce instead of cheese. The improved hummus received many compliments.

Arrodes watched his master make new friends and watched the human cubs put myrtle wreaths on the good-tempered master's head. He was jealous but also quite proud. His master should be loved like this! Sooner or later, the lambs of this land will believe in him and follow him. At that time, what should be worn on the noble head of the master should not be a crude wreath, but a crown of pure gold, embellished with gems praised by the Caliph. Arrodes knew every ancient treasure buried in the desert. As long as the master needed it, he was willing to collect all the treasures and present them to him. But the cunning mirror knew that he couldn't act too hastily. The master was different from those fools who were blinded by greed. The young itinerant doctor liked fair trade. The reserve and restraint cultivated by his hometown have become the basis of his code of conduct. Being too eager will only backfire, making cautious strangers suspect that this unprovoked hospitality has another price, and thus stay away from him.

But Arrodes did not expect that His gospel would come again so soon. At that time, He sat under the wall outside the hotel, staring at the pale blue veronica blooming in the corner in a daze. The object of His longing was in the inn behind the wall, perhaps sitting in front of the window of the cool room, spreading out his notes on the long table, recording the fresh experiences of the journey, and the black-haired young man might also complain about a nagging stranger in his notes (the humble servant did not dare to expect such a kind reward - what an honor it would be to have his name written on paper by the great master himself!). Arrodes imagined that the dark blue ink that was fortunate enough to be used by the master, while the young man was meditating, was stained on his slender fingers, leaving an indelible blue mark on the master's knuckles. Because of this secret imagination, He felt a little satisfied and even more intense emptiness. Arrodes did not dare to risk being bored by the master and waited under his window sill, but he could not bear the distance that was too far. Just like this, wandering and waiting outside the hotel where the master stayed, made Arrodes feel intoxicated with happiness. The magic mirror listened carefully to the sound coming from the other side of the wall. His master was there, sharing the same clear sky and hot midday breeze with his great master. Arrodes was almost as drunk as those rude drunkards for this sense of happiness. His spiritual intuition was clamoring again. The young itinerant doctor in white robes walked out of the gate of the hotel and saw the silver-haired young man sitting under the wall. He sighed half with a headache and half with helplessness.

"Hello, Mr. Arrodes," Zhou Mingrui slowly organized his words, "Can you please come in for a drink? I think we need to talk."

It is difficult to say what kind of suffering the unfortunate young man suffered during this period of time.

When Arrodes followed Zhou Mingrui's caravan and passed the fourth town, the anecdotes about them had spread among the gossipers. "The poet's heart was captured by a young man from the East. After a failed passionate confession, the poet persevered and continued to follow his muse."

Zhou Mingrui prayed countless times that this damned scandal would disappear quickly. Even his fellow villagers would jokingly ask him if he had cast a spell on that strange guy. It is better to suffer a short pain than a long one. Zhou Mingrui made up his mind to have a frank talk with that gentleman before he completely died socially, hoping to save himself from the predicament, but the facts proved that he was too optimistic.

"Excuse me, you may have recognized the wrong person. I am not the great master, the master of the spirit world, or, uh, the beacon of time and space you mentioned?" The young man took a big gulp of fresh pomegranate juice to calm his nerves. He had just heard Arrodes tell an incredible story about fate, the master of the spirit world, extraordinary people and gods. Zhou Mingrui suppressed his shame and repeated those strange middle school titles. At the same time, he was glad that the tavern was noisy enough, and the diners playing cards at the next table would not hear their conversation.

Arrodes sat upright opposite him, holding the glass of absinthe that Zhou Mingrui paid for, his pale cheeks flushed with excitement, he didn't even dare to look at him directly, staring at the lines on the table stiffly. This appearance made him look a little pitiful, and compared to a passionate stalker, he was more like a prisoner waiting for judgment in the dock. Under Zhou Mingrui's strong request, he finally stopped kissing the tip of his shoe, otherwise the young man might have run away again. But no matter how sincerely Zhou Mingrui explained that he was just an ordinary person who followed his elders to see the world, he was unwilling to change his words and insisted on calling him master.

"My merciful great master, you have not yet stepped into the realm of the extraordinary world. Otherwise, with your wisdom and keenness, you would not fail to notice the difference in your destiny..."

The seal that escaped from the Church of the God of Craftsmen hated his clumsy tongue for the first time. How should he explain and tell it to make his master realize how unique he is. The young man who knew nothing about mysticism and the extraordinary world certainly couldn't see that his fate line had been broken and forcibly grafted, full of inharmonious traces of modification. Since he set foot on this land ruled by the gods, he has attracted the attention of several gods. Even though Arrodes was born in the source chaos sea that represents the authority of "omniscience and omnipotence", he still couldn't see the fate of his master covered by gray fog. To him, the young man was like an overly magnificent poem and an overly grand concerto. His existence itself was magnificent and almost violent. Arrodes had to mobilize all his senses to take on this magnificent feast. It doesn't matter. When the destined fate comes, his master will always understand that his loyal servant is telling the truth. He will eventually get the Lord's mercy and give him the love of a god.

Love, this word hit him, and this blasphemous delusion made the magic mirror panic and happy. As long as the master is willing to take me with him, it is enough, Arrodes prayed painfully. If he is willing to show mercy and wipe the tiny servant with a handkerchief, he will be happy to compose a thousand hymns for the kind master. As for his love, alas, at least the great master is willing to pay him for a glass of wine, and this generous gift is enough for the magic mirror to set off fireworks for a century.

Zhou Mingrui was suspicious that this strange poet would suddenly fall to the ground. The silver-haired young man's eyes wandered, and the suspicious blush on his face showed no sign of fading. "I'm just a dead science and engineering dog who works part-time as a third-rate quack doctor," Zhou Mingrui covered his expression with a cup, and his mind was madly roaring, "I'm not good at rescue!"

Although the other party knew the biggest secret of his "resurrection from the dead", and he encountered many mysterious events that could not be explained by scientific principles after arriving in the desert, the former atheist and keyboard expert still tried to struggle. According to the "principle of equality" mentioned by Arrodes, he could ask any questions to the other party, and the price was to answer Arrodes' questions. Or accept the punishment. Zhou Mingrui still remembered the unlucky guy who was used as a demonstration by Arrodes. The unfortunate middle-aged man decisively chose the latter between answering "the real gender of the object of your last erotic dream" in public and accepting the punishment, and then he was struck by a lightning bolt from the sky and fell down with convulsions all over his body.

"Supreme Great Master, I'm sorry, but based on the principle of reciprocity, I must ask you a question." The silver-haired young man was even more terrified than the victim when he explained.

Zhou Mingrui looked at the ancient silver mirror in the young man's hand with curiosity. According to Arrodes, that was his true form. At the poet's kind invitation, the traveling doctor tentatively touched the pair of gemstones used for decoration on the frame, which caused the former to twitch like an epileptic seizure. Before Arrodes muttered happily like a drunk and wanted to kneel down to thank the great master, Zhou Mingrui tried his best to stop him at the first time.

"You make me feel that you actually hate me. This is not how humans express their emotions." The black-haired young man covered his face in frustration and gave up trying to persuade the other party to change his words.

"I'm sorry, but I can't agree to follow you. I can't accept gifts that are not commensurate with my own virtues with peace of mind, let alone enjoy the blind faith and obedience of others. What's the difference between this and treating you as a thing to be enslaved?"

But Arrodes only wanted to be enslaved by him. He was ultimately just a thing that had accidentally developed intelligence, a sealed object with life characteristics. His humanoid body was just a prop for him to walk in the world. After all, he was not a human being, and it was even difficult to define whether he belonged to a creature. The magic mirror had coldly watched the embarrassing situation of countless questioners, and boredly picked out secrets that would make them regret, lose, and suffer. Sealed objects would not empathize with humans. Now he also tasted his own pain. Arrodes clearly knew that he was rejected by his tolerant master.

The master's decision is always correct, this is an unchanging truth, so the problem can only be with himself. Is it because he is too dull and cannot show the master the way home that he is despised, or is it because the appearance of this body does not meet the master's aesthetic taste? As long as the master needs him, he can be the most professional butler in the world, the most intimate servant, no flatterer's tongue is more dexterous than his, and no slave is like him, eager to devote himself all the time. Wise, ruthless master, I belong to you, please use him mercilessly, enslave him, and squeeze his value and enthusiasm. If the master wants him to do this, Arrodes will not wait to send his neck to the gallows.

But the young man He was watching didn't need it. The itinerant doctor woke up in the morning, the bells echoed, and the melody of the hymn flowed in the cold air. The believers walked on the streets before sunrise and headed for the minaret. The young man met new friends and learned new words. Klein, his new friends appreciated his new name. Klein still had no faith. He didn't believe in any god. Even if he got the formula of the fortune teller's potion from the black market merchant, his attention was more on the lives of ordinary people. The young man recorded the spice market, the wood carvings of nomads, the proverb collection, the parrot vendors and the water hunters in his notes. They were a people who pursued water in the desert. Their noses could smell the slightest water vapor. They pressed their ears to the ground, listening to the whispers of water and the singing of underground rivers. The songs that only hunters could decipher guided them to find precious water sources. Arrodes knew that the young man's heart was stranded in his distant homeland. He missed the gardenias in early summer, which were delicate flowers that could only be nourished by land with abundant rain. Flowers in the desert are rare. He found a bunch of dead roses in the cracked riverbed. The remaining fragrance lingered like a ghost, disappearing with the dew under the scorching sun. Beside the campfire in another oasis, the traveling doctor described the rose bush to the black-haired stranger and ate the pomegranate she gave him. He didn't know that the silent guest was the god who ruled over sleep and death. Klein didn't know that the night had chosen him, watching him stretch his arms by the campfire and dance with strangers, with sweat and drum beats splashing on the gravel.

When they met again, the new fortune teller had a pendulum on his wrist. The texture of the yellow crystal was not pure. Arrodes almost sighed, you deserve better, you deserve wealth and power comparable to King Solomon.

The master knew nothing about his heart. The young man pressed his finger on the only mirror in the room. The fortuneteller, who had made up for the elementary mystic knowledge, drew the symbol to summon Arrodes on the mirror. The dim mirror became deep, and the seal greeted the master who had reunited after a long absence in beautiful golden font: "Supreme and great master, your humble servant has finally caught up with you. May I ask if you have any questions for your servant when you summoned Arrodes this time?"

"..." Although he was mentally prepared, Klein, or Zhou Mingrui, was still shocked by the magic mirror's repeated breakthroughs in imagination and bottom line. Silent words are always better than face-to-face audio-visual execution. The young man who stepped into the strange and extraordinary world already knew the dangers of the sealed objects. The girl named Niya explained to him the meanings of the different levels of sealed objects, and Arrodes's obsession with him became even more strange. Each gift was marked with a price in advance. Zhou Mingrui thought with mixed feelings, what price should he pay for this preferential treatment?

The merchants from the East who came from afar have been stranded in the desert for too long. The caravan's original destination was the Eastern Roman Empire. They had already prepared supplies. If it weren't for the sudden plague, they would have chosen a day to go north. The origin of this plague is strange. The virus does not rely on rats, livestock or birds to spread, but is associated with sandstorms, lurking in the wind and sand of the desert to attack the city-state. Patients infected with the unknown plague will have a high fever and difficulty breathing. Their limbs will also swell and turn black as if bitten by a poisonous snake. Elderly people and young children with poor physical fitness will die quickly due to respiratory failure. The doctors are helpless. They have never seen such a strange infectious disease. Ordinary antipyretic drugs have limited effects. Zhou Mingrui has seen too many patients tortured by the disease when he volunteered to help in the hospital. The fortune teller's keen spiritual intuition prompted him to trace the source of the plague. The relevant divination was interfered with by a more powerful force, but Zhou Mingrui had already noticed the shadow of the Witch Church behind the incident. Summoning Arrodes was just to further confirm his speculation.

The mirror surface flickered with silver light, and grayish-white handwriting emerged one by one. Arrodes hesitated for the first time. The plague was only the beginning of the disaster. The pushers of this matter were not only the top leaders of the Witch Church, but also the fallen Creator. They wanted to prepare a hotbed of flesh and blood for the coming of the evil god. It was hard to say whether there were any neutral gods who chose to wait and see. His master had not yet fully recovered, and he hoped that he would not pursue this conspiracy involving the game of gods. However, the seal that followed the principle of equivalent question and answer could not lie, and he would never lie to his master. The fortune teller sighed as he looked at the answer that appeared on the mirror. Even though Arrodes' hint was vague due to the influence of a higher level, it was enough for him to get the correct answer.

The magic mirror greedily watched the solemn expression of its master. He was thinking. His strong sense of justice and compassion meant that Zhou Mingrui could not stay out of it. Even if Arrodes wanted to beg him not to interfere with the gods' plan, begging his master to leave this land that was about to fall into chaos and flee to the safe north where the plague could not contaminate it. But because his eyes had been following him for a long time, Arrodes knew very well that his master could not ignore those patients suffering from illness. He had heard people's cries and requests for help, so he would not be afraid of the cost of lending a helping hand.

Arrodes had already been completely disintegrated by him. In front of him, he was completely unarmed, like a newborn baby. On the silver mirror, pale golden words appeared one by one again:

"Merciful master, your humble and foolish servant asks you, if you have made up your mind, can you bring your loyal servant Arrodes with you?"

Once again, Arrodes' request was rejected.

Even though his master could not fully trust him, he was unwilling to let the Sealed Object that had helped him many times take risks. However, in a world dominated by Extraordinary Aggregation, exploitation and devouring are common sense, and the gods are just predators at the top of this bloody food chain. To survive, one must learn to judge the situation, appropriately abandon some bottom lines, and then make one's heart cold and hard as appropriate. The silver-haired poet recalled the helpless smile of the fortune teller when he rejected him. This was the object of his loyalty, such innocent kindness and extravagant tenderness. He and the solemn crowd lined up on the river beach, leaned over in the drifting bells and elegy, and presented the blue iris in his arms to the young man sleeping in the wooden boat. After becoming an Extraordinary, the young man often fell into deep thinking. He still liked to laugh, but there was a cloud of fatigue between his eyebrows. Now he can finally stop and take a rest in the coffin covered with flowers.

The followers of the night brought back Zhou Mingrui's body from the ruins of the cult's altar. No matter what method he used, the plague was indeed eliminated, and the sacrifice ceremony ended. Ordinary people only knew that this young oriental itinerant doctor saved many of their relatives and friends. He died to save the lives of strangers, so they should bid farewell to this unfortunate saint and hold the most solemn water burial for him. The corpse collector cleaned the young man's body, changed him into neat clothes, and covered his pierced chest. So the young man looked like he was in a quiet dream at this moment, and his slightly upturned mouth seemed to be waiting for a kiss. Arrodes wanted to kiss the pale saint, but he couldn't. The wooden boat was gently pushed into the river by the funeral priests and floated on the misty water. The goddess who holds the power of sleep and doom came from her kingdom of God. With the grief of the believers, the fruit grown in the underworld, and the promise of the young man, she found the unique soul from the Styx. The demon wolf's arms lifted the young man's body from the coffin. Amanesis covered the suffering follower with a black veil, and his deep eyes stared at the face shrouded in the black veil.

After a long time, in the tormented silence, Arrodes felt the god's gaze brushing across his trembling body.

The night took away his master, and death would exempt this lucky man favored by the moon god, and the magic mirror could not see through the secrets that the gods deliberately imposed. After that, Arrodes also encountered a difficult problem. The deacon of the god of craftsmen located his hiding place, and he had to waste some time to get rid of the difficult hound.

No wonder some people say that frustration and inspiration are a pair of tacit dance partners. The poems that Arrodes wrote for his master are enough to be collected into a book. The magic mirror wrote the blasphemous words that it dared not say directly into the poems. He knew that the great master had awakened and was wandering in a foreign land as the goddess's favored "German Sparrow". He was always watching, witnessing the fortune teller honing his skills in one hunt after another, digesting the potion, and being promoted to a clown, a magician, and then a faceless man. As he continued to move forward on the extraordinary road, he gradually bid farewell to his human identity. He watched his master rise and fall in the cycle of once every seventy years in order to fulfill the contract that could never be fulfilled. During this period, Arrodes was also summoned by Klein several times. That was often when the latter's mental state was good enough to piece together incoherent memories. The formula of the potion, the method of acting, the traces of the prey, the believers, the meaning of the anchor point, He still knew everything. The young man on the other side of the mirror thanked Him while observing calmly.

Death inevitably transforms youth, leaving some indelible marks. The face that Klein chose for the bounty hunter "German" is very similar to his original appearance, but this face looks cold and serious, and is not suitable for showing a sincere smile. Klein does not have so much time to taste delicious food. He is very busy, either rushing for new tasks or returning to the City of Tranquility to recuperate and prepare for the next long journey. Of course, he no longer dances. Arrodes still remembers Klein's light dance steps. He imitates the movements of the celebration dancers, clapping his hands while leaning over, and the lovely shape of his knees is looming under the fabric. He speaks Arabic fluently enough, and he doesn't need to brew the correct syllables before speaking, but he would rather talk to himself with the inferior topaz pendulum. Flowers born in the far east are difficult to transplant to the arid desert. Occasionally, Arrodes will be worried. He suspects that the person hiding behind the mask is gradually withering. But Klein simply accepted his unrecognizable fate with obedience, and he didn't even give himself the time to feel sorry for himself.

Perhaps because Arrodes could be considered a witness to a period of his past life, Klein acted more casually when facing him in private. Klein only asked Arrodes once about the reason for his loyalty, and the eloquent magic mirror rarely froze for a moment.

Supreme and great Master, it is because of your existence, like a lighthouse that always shines to guide the ship. Before this, your servants have been lost, and have never listened to the true gospel until you came... He was held in the palm of the silver-haired body, and he nervously stole glances at the Master's expression, hoping that the Master would be satisfied with His answer.

The young man dressed as a wandering magician just sat under the shade of the tree in the garden, not saying anything about His answer. This ruin in the heart of the desert was a good place that Klein accidentally discovered. Deep in the dilapidated courtyard, the spring had not yet dried up, and the water was nourishing this miniature garden. The magician and the poet rested here, and the night breeze was filled with the rich fragrance of tuberose. Klein pondered for a moment, and when there were no other spectators present, he did not put on his signature mysterious smile. Perhaps it was because with the help of Amanesis, Klein had his own believers, and he mastered the delicate balance in the long tug-of-war between the anchor and the divinity. He finally came to his own conclusion: "I remember that a long time ago, you also wanted to follow me. I thought this was blind obedience and blind faith."

"To this day, I still think so. I'll just take it as my human nature." He sighed self-deprecatingly and brushed off the petals that fell on the brim of his hat. "Arrodes, you know my past and present. You should understand that I am not omniscient and omnipotent. Will you be disappointed?"

And He only wanted to crawl on the ground, surrender to Klein, and kiss the back of His Master's feet.

How should He prove the loyalty of a tool, the love of an inhuman being, how should He explain that there are creatures in the world that rely on blind fanaticism and love to survive. As a seal born from the Chaos Sea, Arrodes knows all the secrets of the world, the answer to every riddle, and the thoughts and ideas of mortals and angels are all visible in front of the magic mirror. Of course, He also knows that Klein was once an ordinary mortal, and he is not perfect, but recognizing this does not damage the image of Klein in His heart. Even in the long pursuit of the kingship that has changed several times in the secular world, this image has been constantly filled, becoming more specific and more beautiful, and He is overwhelmed by deeper love. Please have mercy on me and kiss my lips, otherwise your poor servant will die of thirst for love and fall ill in the frenzy of love. Please have some pity on this dying patient! Arrodes imagined the mercy that he never got in his desperate love poems. Please caress Him gently, whip Him violently, and give Him shameful pain and expensive pleasure. Torturing him, torturing him, Arrodes dedicated all the damaged power, the pride of the sealed object, and the unspeakable desires to his master, the lovely and pitiful saint.

He tried to swallow this indecent blasphemous enthusiasm and not scare his master. After all, Klein had already had a headache because of those passionate poems. But the magician still found clues in his burning eyes. The remaining humanity was criticizing, which was not moral or reasonable at all. Klein almost muttered to himself in the end. The angel lost his temper and reached out to the anxious loyal servant: "Okay, I don't like to owe others. Magicians should have a mirror that can read minds. If this satisfies you--"

At this moment, He really became a foolish mute because of this belated promise. Even though in His false heart, there were three thousand hymns about those brown eyes, and in His empty stomach, there were ten thousand butterflies flapping their wings, He could only remain silent in front of the surging love. Arrodes bowed deeply, and reverently pressed his thirsty lips on the back of that lovely hand. He was filled with this unfortunate yet great grace, and He was already satisfied.

【AmanisesKlein】Comet Hanging Poems

【黑夜克】彗星悬诗

https://42milk.lofter.com/post/31ed617b_1cc1e7358

☞Arabic pa, same background as [Moonrise] and [Poet]

The story of the faithful during their rest in the temple

My inner peace has been ravaged by your love.

Your love frees me from the flesh.

Hang your head and walk away from it all.

The tall cypress trees are beyond the reach of those with short arms.

Burning love arrives and destroys everything except the beloved.

Sit down happily and smile happily while everything burns.

—Rumi

The patient had a peaceful dream on the second night after his high fever subsided. The moon reappeared repeatedly in his dream. He saw a dim new moon floating on the dark waters of the Persian Gulf. The moon reflected in the deep well of the desert post station was a pale yellow half-circle. The silver full moon hung high in the deep blue night sky. The bright moonlight illuminated his and the black-haired girl's faces. They sat by the campfire and talked about the long journey of merchants, ancient myths and legends of the moon. He gave the girl a gardenia. The flower tree that drifted from a distant homeland could not adapt to the dryness of the desert. It was the only bud that bloomed before the flower tree died. The girl's face was hidden behind a black veil like light smoke. She carefully looked at the source of the sweet fragrance and seemed to smile. He saw that her thick eyelashes were filled with a bay of condensed milk-like moonlight, which flowed along her long hair, slowly and gently drowning him... So when the patient finally woke up, it was as if he had survived a silent shipwreck, and the illusion of drowning made him breathe rapidly.

The patient opened his brown eyes and his distracted gaze swept across the narrative painting on the dome. He saw the demon wolf crossing the sea, running across the vast desert, and building a miraculous city in the depths of the desert. He looked up at the silvery moon in the center of the mural, imagining how he would drown in the silver tide, until a hand gently covered his eyes, the familiar plant fragrance lingered in the patient's nose, the light fragrance of the deep sleeping flower soothed the patient's chaotic thoughts, and his heart was immersed in quiet peace.

The silent caregiver dipped his fingers into the ointment, first on the forehead under the black hair, then evenly spread it along the bridge of the nose. The gauze tightly covered the fragile new eyeballs, and the ointment attached to the skin brought a cool and slight sting. In the darkness that fell again, the patient heard the sticky sound of the pestle pounding the stems and leaves of the plants in the stone bowl, and the rustling sound of the black gauze curtains hanging around the bed in the breeze. Unlike the dry and hot wind that blew up sand and dust in the desert, the wind in the church was calm and moist, bringing the scent of tuberose and jasmine on the patient's sleepless night, like a fragrant ghost caressing the back of the patient's hand.

The black-robed cardinals who examined him had told him that this was the earthly kingdom of the Moon God, the City of Tranquility. This city-state hidden in a mirage belonged to the goddess of night, the master of the demon wolves, who had the power of doom and sleep.

The patient was placed in the sanatorium of the church by the monks of the Church of Darkness. The room where he lived alone was adjacent to the goddess' garden. The garden, which was stagnant in the eternal moonlight, was warm and humid. In the city of tranquility, rainwater has never been a scarce thing, and the springs here never dry up. The patient often heard the howling of wolves from deep in the garden. The bright moonlight easily made these mythical creatures restless and awakened the dead souls sleeping in the stamens.

Those quiet souls were devout believers in their lifetime. Death is not a harsh word or an empty concept for the believers of the goddess of night. In their view, death is more like an old friend who will visit them one day in the future and lead their souls to the pilgrimage site of eternal peace, the kingdom of God recorded in the Apocalypse of Night, where the dead will enjoy a happy sleep in the blue sea of ​​flowers and bathe in the moonlight.

The unbeliever from a foreign land could not receive such a favor. He was exempted from death itself, but the process of returning to the mortal world was long and tortuous. The soul that was drowned in the Styx was damaged, like a jigsaw puzzle that was roughly dismembered and reassembled randomly, with mismatched pieces forced to fit together by mistake. The patient's memory was also shattered, and the spiritual power of the "fortune teller" could not help him recover more memories. His past life was like a weathered and dilapidated stone tablet in the desert, and it was difficult to recognize the marks of the past.

Such serious sequelae were caused by the witch's seal, and the cold breath directly corroded his soul. The witches were eager to help the gods they believed in get rid of the dilemma of being sealed. For this reason, they did not hesitate to cooperate with the believers of the fallen creator, spread the plague, harvest the resentment and flesh of ordinary people, and create a hotbed for hatching evil gods. The foreigner who destroyed the altar and forcibly terminated the ceremony at the critical moment of summoning the fallen gods naturally became the common enemy of the conspirators. During the hunt after the collapse of the altar, his chest was pierced by the murder weapon of the angry cultists, and the witch cast a curse on his wound.

The patient could still barely remember the witch's hateful eyes, her black hair swollen and twisted, the end of which turned into a snake head with bared fangs. Amid the hissing whispers of the venomous snake, the witch, holding an evil statue, chanted: "May this black flame stay in the filthy soul, and become more and more intense because of the suffering of sinners, until everything is burned up -"

But when the patient raised his bandaged arm and touched the hideous hole in his chest with his fingertips through the gauze, the first thing he thought of was not the severe pain of the cold flames devouring his flesh and blood. The cleansing of holy water removed the remaining poison of the curse, and the new fascia and bones would fill the wound sooner or later, but the patient still could not get rid of the cries of strangers in his dreams.

After waking up in the Temple of Night, the patient spent some time recalling his name. The first thing that came to his mind was a crisp syllable, Klein. Perhaps he had another completely different name, but Klein only remembered the gardenia, the silver full moon, the flaming clouds, and the midnight bonfire in the oasis. These fragments were as vague as the reflections flowing on the water. Like quicksand, the more you try to hold on, the more you will leak out from your fingers in vain. Only the cries of the victims were so clear. He remembered those ordinary people who were chased by the plague. They were like hollow straws in the face of death. They would not understand the cause of this disaster before they fell down. Those who were forced to flee their homeland and bury their loved ones alone, I hope they will never know in their entire lives that in the game of gods, the tears and pain of mortals are not even worthy of being the cheapest chips.

Klein didn't even have the energy to feel angry or sad about this. He was too tired. His consciousness was floating in his drowsiness, drifting with the flow, lying on his back under the silvery moonlight of his dream.

"My beloved!

Everyone is with his soul mate.

Everyone is with the loved one he deserves. "*

The patient met the black-veiled lady again in his dream. Her beautiful face was still hidden behind the veil that looked like the misty night. When she sat silently beside the fire and meditated, she looked like a beautiful but lifeless statue. But when Klein approached her, the silver stars twinkling in her dark eyes as she looked at the young man were more moving than any real morning star.

The mysterious visitor called him across the waves of dreams and memories: "My friend, do you see, today is the night of the full moon?"

Yes, when Crane met this girl in the oasis in the sand dunes, it was the second month since he and his fellow merchants arrived in Arabia. The peninsula ushered in the hottest season of the year, and the breeding moths went crazy, mating around the ripe buds of the cactus.

Eastern merchants traded silk and porcelain for gems, camels, and expensive spices from the locals. Klein took time to treat several elderly herders, and to thank the kind-hearted itinerant doctor, the herders gave him fresh goat milk and dates.

When they learned that the merchants were going to cross the Crescent Dunes to the next city, the old people looked solemn. The leading herdsman whispered to the itinerant doctor that the real owner of the dunes was not the caliph, but the territory of the gods. Their ancestors had encountered huge eight-legged demon wolves in the Crescent Dunes. The wolves walked in the moonlight, guarding the gods who controlled the moon and the stars. The mysterious Holy Spirit held a huge sickle. He would punish any villain who broke into the territory and sink those despicable souls who committed many crimes into the dark curtain.

"Strangers, you must remember and believe in the power of God."

"In this land, any language of promise is valid. Doctor, you must remember not to underestimate the power of promises."

"Especially remember not to easily accept gifts from strangers for no reason. They are all scams with a price, and may very well be temptations from the devil."

Klein remembered thanking the herdsmen one by one. If it were a few months ago, he might have doubted the old man's warning. But before that, he said goodbye to a fanatical poet, who was actually a mirror with magical powers and had a bad taste. He firmly believed that Klein was the master he was destined to follow. After experiencing a series of events that could only be explained by mysticism, the former atheist had to accept the facts - unlike his hometown, in this distant country, magic and gods are real things, not just fantasies that exist only in legends.

The journey that followed was smoother than Klein had expected. The caravan encountered no sandstorms or robbers, and did not see the wolf packs that the herdsmen had mentioned. Although the sun was scorching, fortunately no one suffered from heat stroke. Most people in the caravan were accustomed to the hot climate and stored enough fresh water and dry food before setting off. On the third day, the caravan crossed the sand dunes and arrived at a small town built on an oasis on the edge of the desert. The city gate was decorated with stone statues of magic wolves, and almost all the residents of the city-state believed in the goddess of night.

The strangers arrived just before the full moon night, and the enthusiastic residents sincerely invited the merchants to stay for a few more days to participate in their full moon celebration. The second week of July every year is the Harvest Festival of the Church of the Night. The believers will sing and dance during the festival and hold a collective wedding in the open-air hall of the church. On this day, all friends who enter the hall, whether they are believers of the goddess or not, will be invited to sit at the banquet, share the delicacies together, and bathe in the blessings and glory of the gods.

During one of his rare moments of lucidity, Crane decided to tell his caregiver about his dream.

People tend to remember more easily the words that are uttered by their lips and tongues, just like a child learning a language from scratch, gradually becoming familiar with the syllables written on paper as the vocal cords vibrate. Klein hopes that he can remember those dreams, echoes from the past. He needs those broken memories to confirm his identity and position.

He does not expect a response, and the caregiver's silence from beginning to end is the best encouragement at this moment. The patient can let down his guard in front of a complete stranger and reveal his inner voice behind the mask, especially when he knows that he will not get any response. Whether it is sympathy, indifference or curiosity, he does not want to receive any emotional response.

The monks of the Moon God were all silent. Klein did not know the name, age, or origin of the caregiver. Only when he changed the dressing did he truly feel the texture of the other person's fingers, which felt like cool jade or delicate moonlight. Out of some intuition, the patient judged that the caregiver was a woman.

But that was all. Klein had never seen the other person's face clearly. To him, this stranger who lived with him day and night was more like a ghost with a blank face, an uncertain evening breeze that spread the fragrance of deep sleeping flowers and night herbs as it moved. He could talk to this blank person about his dreams, the Beyonders, his lost names, and directions.

It must have been a cool morning. Klein was led into the garden by the hand of his caregiver. His sense of smell and hearing temporarily acted as the patient's eyes, helping him perceive the unfamiliar environment. Klein smelled the scent of rain, the unique smell of soil and plants when they were wet, and the thrush and leafbill chirped in the shade of the banyan tree. The caregiver walked slowly, matching the patient's pace, and silently supported Klein's arm when he was tired. It seemed that they were the only ones strolling in the huge garden. The caregiver asked the patient to sit on a bench under the wisteria trellis, unfolded a cashmere shawl, and gently covered the patient's shoulders.

"You always remind me of a friend." Klein would start like this, or perhaps people who believe in the Goddess of Night have something in common, such as a calm temperament and a fragrant scent.

He still remembered the bright moonlight on a full moon night, the air seemed to be burning, and bats were playing in the shade of the trees. Men and women dressed in their best clothes, drank fine wine, and sang and danced around the bonfire. Klein, who was not good at dancing, was left alone. The black-haired girl, who was also alone, sat on a bench away from the crowd, supporting her chin with one hand and watching silently.

He had forgotten the opportunity to talk. The girl who called herself "Niya" was looking through his notes under the firelight. Klein recorded the various mysterious creatures he encountered during his journey in his notebook, and accompanied each sketch with a detailed description. Niya was quite knowledgeable about mysticism. She pointed out the mistakes in his notes and told him that the ancestor of the wolf pack was a crazy god called the Destroyer Wolf. They talked about the cycle between the moon phases and tides, the migration of migratory birds, the legend of self-igniting fanatics and the moon god. The black-haired girl served as Klein's mystic enlightenment teacher. She explained in a soft voice that all coincidences and gifts in the extraordinary world implied the cause and effect of fate. Similar paths are destined enemies; if you are familiar with the loopholes in the rules, even the crappy ferryman can hide the soul that should have passed away; most of the people selling witchcraft secrets on the street are fledgling pharmacists, and the so-called secret medicine is just a failed defective product...

Niya stared at the doctor's notes, her fingertips brushing over the neat handwriting, and the moonlight on her eyelashes flowed across her face. As a thank you for borrowing the notes, she invited the young man to share a pomegranate with her. Klein received half of the ripe red fruit, and the sweet juice overflowed his palm.

At the end, they talk about this still young world, where there is a thin curtain between the gods who walk the earth and humans, but the extraordinary world behind the curtain is only open to those lucky enough to drink the potion.

Perhaps it should be called luck, Niya narrated slowly, stepping into the door of the extraordinary world also means walking with madness and loss of control. No one can escape the erosion brought by the magic potion. While gaining strength, you also hold the blade, walking on a tightrope, and you will fall into the abyss if you are not careful. The believers with the strongest beliefs will inevitably fall. Even angels or gods have to rely on believers as an "anchor" to determine their own concepts. But they are different from the "gods" you know. They do not create. Everything they give must be taken. They are all stingy shepherds who only care about their own flocks and will not hesitate to sacrifice the lives of lambs when necessary.

Dear stranger, why do you pursue this power that is polluted from the root? What were you thinking when you accepted the first dose of the fortune teller's potion?

He was thinking about the nature of this world and the possibility of returning home.

After swallowing the blue gel-like potion, Klein was tormented by the ravings of crazy talk, but more importantly, he was overwhelmed by the sight of a brand new extraordinary world. It was like using an extra third eye to look at everything around him again. Clairvoyance and divination opened up a broader horizon for the young man. When Klein was an ordinary person, he was separated from that mysterious world by an insurmountable curtain, and the potion helped him lift a corner of the curtain, just like putting glasses on a nearsighted person, and all the details that were ignored by the dull senses were revealed.

The shock at that moment seemed to be the end of his childhood. From then on, this crazy and vast world no longer had any secrets from him.

The patient groped for a wet flower bud on the bench. He tried to bend his knuckles and touch the petals wet by the rain, carefully feeling the delicate touch that was almost like silk.

The caretaker probably understood the extent to which the bishops of the night had transformed his body. The goddess who held the power of sleep and doom had chosen him for some reason and ordered her knights to bring the fortuneteller's body back to the temple and intercept his soul from the way to the underworld. The witch's curse was too vicious, and Klein's body was almost corroded into a hollow, broken vessel. The bishops had to temporarily replace the original organs with new fillers.

He recalled the time when he was in deep sleep, when the monks of the Church of Night removed his decayed flesh and replaced his decayed bones. Through a layer of soft spider silk gloves, the monk's fingers penetrated the body of the fortune teller. He was cut open and examined. The anesthetic relieved the pain, allowing Klein to lie safely on the operating table. Precious metals replaced his bones, and pure silver charms drove the bearings. The monk comforted him that as long as the fortune teller was promoted to the demigod sequence, he would no longer need these parts during the process of his body transforming into a mythical creature. At the end of the long operation, the new moon had risen. Klein struggled in the sticky sleepiness and grabbed a hand. He still had questions that he had to confirm. The unknown monk squatted down and put his ear close to the patient's pale lips to listen to his subtle voice.

Is the plague really over?

It's over, Your Majesty, you have successfully prevented this disaster.

How are my fellow countrymen and friends?

They are all safe, and your fellow countrymen have listened to your advice and gone to Europe.

Klein blinked in confusion at the last question. His eyeballs were successfully preserved, but he still couldn't see.

I remember I was supposed to be dead.

Your Majesty, you just need time to recover. The Lord is watching over you and you will recover soon.

But he was not a believer of the goddess. Those without faith were not favored by the gods, and those who believed condemned them as black sheep who were not inspired. But Klein had already owed a large debt, and in order to save him, the monks even used holy objects. This gift must be matched with a high return.

"It's better to serve a benevolent monarch than to follow a tyrant, right?"

On the way back to his residence, Klein said to the caretaker, "I have learned about the teachings of the Church of Evernight. At least your God encourages people to support and help each other, and teaches believers not to treat women as vassals of anyone. His eyes are also on the weak, and His Night Watchers are truly practicing His will. Thinking of this, I am not so worried about the labor I have to perform."

The caregiver did not comment on his bold words. She picked a bunch of irises from the garden, held Klein's hand, and asked him to touch the dark blue curly petals. The patient sat obediently by the bed, stretched out his hand cooperatively, and waited for the caregiver to trim his nails. This body had recovered its vitality after more than half a month of recuperation.

Now Klein has a room with a view of the garden. If he doesn't consider the debt he owes to the goddess, his life is better than the translator summoned by the king. The fortuneteller's spirit is warning that such a peaceful time will not last long. After he fully recovers, the test of the gods will come sooner or later. The yellow crystal pendulum was found by the monk. This old object that is connected to the past brought Klein a little comfort. This is his little anchor.

He clenched the cheap topaz and buried his face in the pillow as the evening bells rang.

The young oriental visitor, the third-rate itinerant doctor, and the dedicated fortune teller curled up under the thin blanket, like a hard fruit core and a stubborn lead heart. On this beautiful night with the breeze blowing and the night jasmine and water lilies blooming, the stranger felt a deep loneliness, and the confusion and fear brought by this loneliness could not be dispelled. Klein understood that as early as the first time he was rejected by death, he had already left the track of ordinary people. He was a survivor, a person thrown behind by the tide of fate, stranded on a strange beach.

My name is Klein, this is my name, but I am also Zhou Mingrui, this is my original name. The fortune teller silently repeated these two names several times in his heart, making sure that he would not forget them after waking up, as well as his distant hometown, the gardenia that would not grow in the desert, and maybe one day he would be able to find a ship to the East. If he did not hold on to such hope, he would not be able to find the direction to move forward.

"Heart!

While you dare to hunt that lion, be careful with this antelope.

In her eyes, the lion is vulnerable.

Her eyes are the eyes of an antelope."

(Note: Excerpted from Rumi's lyric poem)

He walked into the ocean of moonlight again. Under the clear silver light, the angel statues in the church looked solemn and beautiful. Klein walked past the angels holding sickles or horns. Niya was waiting in front of the pulpit. Her black hair and black gauze skirt were sparkling like broken diamonds. Klein smelled the rich fragrance on her body, which was the scent of deep sleeping flowers and night vanilla, exactly the same as the breath of the silent caretaker. Klein stood beside Niya and looked up at the narrative painting on the dome with her. The running wolves, the war of the gods, the secret kingdom, and the long history were condensed in the scroll. Klein wanted to ask, how long have you been watching me, what do you want to get from me? But in the end he said nothing. The two of them just stood in the empty church, listening to the rain falling and the lost swallows flying into the eaves.

His face hidden under the veil turned to him: "I remember you said that you initially accepted the Fortune Teller's Potion in order to find a way home."

"Yes." Klein nodded.

"I remember I once told you about my dream. It was after I came back to life for the first time. I remember that I should have lived in another more prosperous era. I tried many times to pursue that world, but I failed." The fortune teller spread his hands helplessly. "Now I have squandered the chance of resurrection for the second time, and I can't even go back to my hometown now. You want to get my secret, right? The power that brought me back to life."

Amanisis shook her head gently.

"Not exactly. After actually meeting you, I have a new idea. You haven't told me yet, after becoming a fortune teller, do you still feel that you are one of the ordinary people?"

"I still think so. What's the difference between me and them?"

They were also born on earth, laughed when they were happy, cried when they were sad, and had all kinds of wishes. Even though their skin colors and languages ​​were different, the friendship and kindness that Klein had gained were real, so he could not ignore the suffering of foreigners. The gods would not understand that the ants in their eyes were also the masters of this world, and the lives of ordinary people were the background of history.

"I can hardly be called a human being now, right? But even so, I still have hope, and there are still many things waiting for me to do. As a human emotion, and the memory of my hometown, they still comfort me today."

"She" seemed to be smiling, and Klein was glad that it was not irony. The secretive deity now looked like the ordinary young girl in his memory.

"Then please continue to believe this. You will forget these memories when you wake up. Until the day you are truly free from the Styx, I will continue to take care of you until the plateau is submerged by the sea and until the moon no longer rises."

When the patient woke up in the morning bell, he only remembered that he seemed to have had a long dream. He dreamed that he was still a poor traveling doctor, traveling around with a caravan. He met a girl at the White City Celebration in the desert. Her expensive jewelry and elegant manners made him think that the black-haired girl was the princess of a certain country. As a poor man with neither a date palm forest nor a camel as a betrothal gift, Klein was worried that the princess's servants would suddenly appear and push down the rude foreigner when they first talked. But they unexpectedly chatted very well. The two young people sat by the campfire and talked about the Caliph's Wisdom Palace, philosophers' debates, poets' poetry competitions, astrology, and emerging hospitals. The world is still young, waiting for the prophets to explore. The princess shared a pomegranate with him. She told the stranger that this was a fruit that was born from the underworld in the legend and could retain the souls of the dead. The sweet juice flowed along his fingers, and the deep red color was like fresh cow blood, and it was also like the ink used to sign a contract. Before parting, the girl who called herself Niya asked the young man from the East whether he would come back here again and whether she would see him again.

Klein calculated the next journey, the monsoon, and the moon phases. At the end of the dream, he made a promise to the princess:

"I will return here, and as long as I live, I will answer your call."

He always keeps his promises.

*Excerpted from Rumi's Lyrical Poems