Divine Flame Crystal

Chapter 634: Embers Not Extinguished

The wind howled and the fire flickered.

The entire land resembled a cauldron churned by the hand of a god, scattered with scorched earth and broken weapons, the air thick with the stink of blood and burnt stench. The fallen army had vanished, leaving behind only a hellish wasteland. The once-mighty legions of the Church of Light, the proud warriors of demigod blood, were now only broken limbs, flickering in the flames like ironic embers.

However, among the ruins, hoarse singing still echoes.

That is the prayer of the remaining Knights of Light.

Some had lost their arms, others had their chests pierced, yet they knelt on the scorched earth, gazing up at the sky of ashes, trembling as they raised their bloodstained swords. The blades had long been blunt and cracked, yet they were still held as symbols of faith. Blood dripped down the blades, splattering the ground like flowers blooming against the sunlight.

"The holy light... has not yet been extinguished."

"Even if we turn to ashes, the Holy Light will still shine upon the earth..."

The voice was low and filled with tearing pain, but it was particularly clear on the desolate battlefield.

After the rout, the survivors scattered like scattered sparks, blown to every corner by the wind. Yet, miraculously, they did not completely sink. Even without the protection of the demigod army, they still maintained an astonishing cohesion.

In the valleys of the West, a band of 13 Knights of Light remain. They survive, wounded, on wild fruits and carrion, yet each night they chant hymns before their campfires. Their leader, an old knight who has lost his left leg, unties the bandages whenever he reaches the line "The Holy Light Will Protect All," letting the blood drip from his broken leg into the fire. He says, "This is my offering, so that the Holy Light will remember us."

In the northern valley, another remnant of soldiers used blood as ink, carving holy symbols on the rock face. Even when their fingertips were raw and their blood dried, they continued to carve each stroke. The holy symbols gleamed with a residual light, like guardian eyes in the night.

These people were not powerful, far inferior to the former demigod army, but they had one thing that no one could destroy - piety.

Compared to the arrogance of demigod blood, these ordinary knights have no glory to rely on, they only have faith.

When the battlefield was ravaged, the descendants of the demigods panicked and wavered at the loss of their divine glory, some even fleeing. However, these knights saw defeat as a test, and suffering as a gift. They firmly believed that the Holy Light would not abandon them; it was merely a test of their worth as "true warriors."

One knight smiled before dying. His chest was pierced by a spear pierced by a demigod descendant, who had abandoned him in an attempt to escape. But with his last breath, he still said to his companions, "Don't cry. The Holy Light is watching."

There are also people who have been blind for a long time, but still raise their swords to the sky, because they are convinced that as long as there is light in their hearts, they can "see" God.

This devotion gradually coalesced into a strange power. Even without the gift of demigod blood, they still began to transform amidst the flames of war.

On the other side of the ash battlefield, the few surviving Archbishops of Light gathered at the dilapidated altar. Their robes were tattered, their holy symbols were cracked, but their eyes were filled with mad determination.

"The demigod army has fallen, but the faith remains."

"God will protect the most pious people, not the proud descendants of blood."

The archbishop raised his staff, the shattered gem atop it radiating a faint glow. Using their own blood as a medium, they connected with the remaining power of the Holy Light, summoning a phantom holy figure in the night sky.

The holy shadow was not clear, just a blurry light, but all the kneeling knights were in tears.

They believed that the Lord of Light was still watching over them.

Then, a command echoed in the void:

"Gather the remaining fire and ignite it into a holy flame."

When the oracle spread, the remaining troops scattered all over the place began to gather together.

Thirteen men from the West dragged their broken bodies, the Holy Symbol Carvers from the North carried fragments of the rock wall on their backs, and the hundred or so surviving knights from the South were wearing burnt armor. There were even some civilians who volunteered to join, even if it was just to carry rusty daggers.

Compared to the former demigod bloodline legion, these people seemed small and fragile, but they had something more terrifying - piety at all costs.

When the 1,011th remnant knelt on the scorched earth, flames ignited from the ashes, as if souls were gathering.

They called themselves the Embers of Holy Light.

On the third day, the wind from the west was as thin as a knife, sweeping across the charred wilderness, capable of sweeping away even a thought. The remnant of thirteen Knights of Light marched forward in the wind, their banner half-burned, leaving only a skein of white cloth, swaying like a trembling hand. The old knight in the lead, named Carloen, had a wooden leg securely bound to his thigh by an iron band. Every step he took made a click, as if to remind the rearguard: We're still alive, don't stop.

"Tuk-"

Following this sound, the team stepped down in unison.

"recite--"

They then whispered a prayer: "Holy light illuminates my steps, and ashes turn my body into firewood; if my body were firewood, I would burn it to illuminate the way."

Carron might not have been exceptional in other ways, but he possessed two things that made him incredibly steady: first, his wooden leg, which "never cramped"; and second, his rhythm. Thirteen men marched on his wooden leg, and it felt like a ritual. Even the wind gave way to this strange rhythm, skirting their white banners.

Their only food was moldy, dry biscuits. The young apprentice knight, Ilio, held the biscuits over the fire too close, charring the crust until it looked like a small shield. Carloen coughed, "Don't bake them into god-like biscuits. We're not the chief priests." Ilio quickly handed the "shield" to the female knight beside him. She wore tattered armor and looked calm. Her name was Celine. She took the biscuits and divided them into three portions. She gave the second portion to a child who had been marching with the troops—a town child too consumed by the flames of war to shed tears. She then stuffed the third portion back into Ilio's hands. Ilio took a bite and bared his teeth. "It's harder than iron." Celine said calmly, "Then think of it as chewing armor. Once armor is in your stomach, it won't break." Ilio laughed, but forced himself to hold his face back, afraid his laughter would disturb something it shouldn't.

At dusk, they encountered armored bandits. They formed a semicircle, their homemade iron spikes attached to long poles, attempting to chop these seemingly "poor but easy-to-handle" remnants into dust. Carlon rammed his flagpole into the ground, and with a thud of his wooden leg, thirteen knights knelt, chanting in unison: "By blood, by pain, by fragrance, by bones, by lamps—" The prayer emanated, like an invisible membrane expanding with a bang. The bandit leader took just the third step, his iron spike raised, when the ground beneath him gave way half an inch, like stepping on soft cotton. His face darkened, and he swore something harsh. Just as he was about to wave his hand, Celine appeared like a shadow, a broken sword at his throat. She didn't strike, but rather gently asked, "Are you seeking bread or atonement?" The bandit leader's throat churned, as if he were struggling to balance the pressure of iron against hunger. Carlon lifted the tattered helmet from his head and dusted it off. "Those who steal bread, their bread is gone; those who atone for their sins, their sins are gone, but they remain." The bandit leader snorted, threw away the iron spike, and knelt. Celine sheathed his sword, and the thirteen knights made way for him. The path was narrow, but it led to a way out.

The bandits dispersed. Elio was curious: "Captain, why don't you recruit them?" Carlon took a stomp forward and said calmly: "We don't need numbers, we need unity of heart. A sword can be sharpened, but a heart cannot. When the scales in his heart tilt towards the light, he will be considered ours."

At the same time, in the Northern Valley.

The wind grew colder, the water swifter. Seventeen knights raced along the river, carrying slabs of rock covered in blood-stained holy emblems. Each one carried a slab "requested" from the rock face of their homeland. Among the team was a monk named Mara, small in stature but with a straight back. As she walked, she recited a sacred tablet to the children beside her: "Chapter 37, The Law of the Prayer Song—United by the same tone, persevering by the same beat, gathering by the same will." The children had been targeted by a group of dandy lads of demigod blood. For the sole purpose of obtaining supplies, they had massacred the entire village. Only a few short children, who had managed to hide under their beds, had escaped. They had been soaked in a pool of blood, shivering, and nearly losing their breath, dying. They had run all the way from one end of the village, even losing their shoes. Now, after her nagging, their feet, now in new shoes, had slowly become less worn.