Eriri's consciousness sank into a deep sleep, like a feather falling onto the surface of a still lake.
But gradually, the color of the lake changed—from clear to dark red. The warm bedding transformed into some kind of viscous liquid with a sweet, rusty smell, enveloping her and pulling her downward.
No, not sinking.
It was "watching."
Her perspective was forcibly lifted and stretched, like an invisible ghost suspended over an incomprehensible scene.
The first thing that entered her "sight" was an endless, scorching sun, distorting the air. The sky was a sickly pale blue, without a trace of clouds. The sun was like a red-hot soldering iron, nailed to the center of the sky, emitting pure, intense light and heat downward, almost burning the earth.
And then there was the temple.
A magnificent, ancient, Eastern-style temple of massive black stone stood in the middle of the barren land. The temple was unlike any shrine or temple she had ever seen—more severe and majestic, its corners sharp as blades, exuding a heavy, oppressive indigo glow—not painted, but as if the stone itself was infused with some immense power.
The square before the hall was shockingly vast, paved with the same huge stone slabs, dark red, dried blood seeping from the cracks.
And then there was the sound.
Not human voices, but continuous, faint, yet endless drip sounds, mixed with groans of pain, sobs of despair, and the slow dripping of some liquid. The sounds merged into a background that prickled the skin, filling the dead silence under the scorching sun.
Finally, her "gaze" focused, and she saw the source of the sound.
Before the temple, at the edge of the huge black stone square, row after row, densely packed to the limits of the field of view... wooden crosses.
Each cross was several meters tall, the rough logs driven deep into the hard ground.
And on each cross, thick, rusted iron nails were driven into "human" things.
No, not entirely "human."
Most were dressed in worn, old-fashioned hunting robes, shriveled or well-dressed, some still showing traces of exquisite past adornments. But now those clothes were soaked with dried, blackened blood, covered with salt frost from the scorching sun, and festering with their own filth.
Their bodies were fixed in various twisted, painful postures—wrists and ankles pierced by iron nails, some with horrible, bone-deep wounds on their chests, abdomens, and limbs, some even slowly oozing fresh blood, trickling down the stakes and quickly evaporating under the scorching sun, leaving winding, dark red trails.
Their faces—if they could be called "faces"—were contorted by intense pain, dehydration, and a kind of torture that transcended physiology. Some had eyes wide open, staring at the blazing empty sky, their eyes cloudy; some had heads lowered, their long hair scattered like dry grass; some had mouths open, but could only emit a hoarse ho-ho sound.
And their "appearances" were also strange. Some had twisted, short horns on their foreheads, some had skin covered in scales or bone armor, some had deformed leathery wings protruding from their backs, and some had limbs clearly different from ordinary people... But at this moment, no matter how strange their original power or noble bloodline, under the punishment of this scorching sun and cross, all mystery and majesty had vanished, leaving only the most primitive and tragic state exposed.
They were sorcerers.
From ancient times—sorcerers who had committed "sins."
Eriri felt intense nausea and dizziness. Even in her dream, the strong stench of blood, decay, and despair nearly drowned her. She wanted to look away, but her dream perspective was firmly fixed on this hellish scene.
Then her "gaze" was drawn into the open, deep doorway of the temple.
Inside the hall, it was dimly lit, unlike the fiery scene outside the door. There were no unnecessary decorations in the hall, only in the very center—a tall, simple throne, also carved from black stone.
On the throne sat a figure.
The indigo hunting robes shimmered faintly in the dim light. Black hair was partially tied up with a simple wooden hairpin, the rest spilling loose. The young face was almost invisible in the shadows, only those slightly narrowed, deep indigo eyes, like two cold, ancient wells, calmly and without a trace of emotion, through the main hall door, looking at the tragic forest of crosses on the square outside.
Zen'in Genji.
But this was not the calm, curious, and sometimes gentle and solitary Genji that Eriri knew.
At this moment, he was on the throne, and his entire body was filled with a suffocating, absolute majesty and coldness. Not killing intent, but a higher level of indifference, as if he were examining experimental samples or sweeping away dust.
"Brother."
A voice broke the pulsing silence in the hall.
Eriri's perspective shifted slightly, and she saw a figure standing before the throne.
It was a young man who looked younger than Genji on the throne, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. He was also dressed in simple dark clothes, with a tall figure and a calm demeanor. He had similar eyebrows and eye contours to Genji, but his eyes were sharper, like an unpolished blade, his whole being like a sword in its sheath.
The most special thing was the absence of any cursed energy fluctuation, yet he gave people a feeling of weight, like a mountain.
Zen'in Sei.
He frowned slightly, looking at his brother on the throne, then turned his head to look at the scene under the scorching sun outside the door. There was a hint of helplessness in his voice, but not sympathy, rather an objective statement in the face of a complex problem.
"The moral character of this group of ancient sorcerers... is almost nonexistent. The iron rules you proclaimed probably seem like a child's play to them. Nevertheless..."
He paused.
"Continuing with the public executions will backfire across the world. Because a large number of sorcerers have been imprisoned or executed, there is a serious shortage of personnel. Unfinished missions are piling up, and cursed spirit uprisings are becoming more widespread. In some places, villages..."
He didn't finish his sentence, but the implication was clear.
Establishing order through harsh punishment also led to a weakening of the power to maintain that order, causing backlash.
Genji on the throne still gazed out the door with narrowed eyes.
His fingers lightly tapped the armrest of the throne, producing a clear, steady sound that echoed through the empty hall.
"Moral character?" He spoke slowly, his voice not loud, but with a cold, piercing force, as if it could freeze the soul. "Sei, you think too highly of them. It's not that they lack 'morality.' They consider 'power is truth' and 'mortals are like grass' as their only morality."
"Sacrificing living people, feeding children to cursed spirits, torturing the weak for pleasure, killing their own kind for a small resource or secret technique... Isn't that still less than what's in the files you've read?"
His gaze swept over the variously shaped sorcerers on the crosses outside the door, and a faint, almost disgustingly cold light finally flickered beneath his deep indigo eyes.
"What they've done is enough to warrant a thousand cuts and the destruction of their souls. Being nailed here is just the beginning."
Sei was silent for a moment. He knew his brother was right.
He had followed his brother to various places, witnessing villages destroyed by sorcerers, mountains of innocent corpses, and mortals twisted and corrupted by forbidden experiments. Compared to that, enduring the scorching sun and being pierced by iron nails wasn't even cruelty—it was just the simplest "punishment."
"But order needs to be maintained, brother."
Sei reminded again, his tone calm and pragmatic.
"Cursed spirits won't stop multiplying just because we're cleaning up the internal corruption. Without enough sorcerers, civilian casualties will soar. That contradicts your original intention in establishing the 'Iron Rules.'"
"Original intention?" Genji finally slowly sat up straight on the throne. This simple action caused the air in the entire hall to compress. "My original intention was to build a world where 'sorcerers must not harm ordinary people without reason.' A world where the weak could at least live with dignity, and the strong had to abide by at least the most basic principles."
He stood up, the hem of his indigo hunting robes rustling without wind. He didn't look at his brother, but stepped forward and walked toward the main hall door.
As he walked, the scorching sunlight outside the door seemed to be dispersed by an invisible force, unable to penetrate within three feet of the main hall door.
He stopped at the threshold, turning his back to Sei, facing the forest of crosses bathed in the cruel sun.
"And now these so-called 'sorcerers,'" Genji said, his voice terrifyingly calm, but holding more scorching anger and determination than the sun outside the door. "Are using 'personnel shortage' and 'widespread cursed spirits' to blackmail me? Do they think that without them, cursed spirits can't be exorcised, and the world will collapse?"
He sneered, no warmth in the laugh, only endless mockery and a deeper, more terrifying will.
"They think too highly of themselves."
Sei stood half a step behind him, looking at his brother, who was tall yet seemed able to hold up the back of an entire era alone.
"Without them, I will still create the order I want," Genji paused, word by word, his voice not loud, but like the heaviest oath, imprinted in the air and also in Eriri's dream consciousness. "Torture can't be engraved in their minds. Then replace them with something more thorough."
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