Chapter Twenty-Five: Blossoming

While Chen Ming was deep in slumber, elsewhere, another battle was about to begin.

In a shadowy place where the sunlight was completely shut out, a bone-chilling cold pervaded the air, unnatural for a clear summer day. Within this place, the High Priest stared in astonishment at Krim, who stood at the doorway. His eyes were clouded with confusion and rage.

“Krim! Who gave you permission to barge into this place?”

His voice thundered with fury, his face dark and menacing as he glared at Krim, clearly enraged. However, Krim seemed utterly unmoved by the High Priest’s wrath, as though the words were but a cold wind brushing past. His expression remained icy, eyes filled with murderous intent.

Behind Krim stood several tall warriors, their faces indifferent as they gazed at the High Priest. Instantly, the High Priest sensed something was amiss. Though he didn’t understand why things had come to this, he knew that under normal circumstances, his rebuke would have driven Krim to his knees, begging for mercy. Never would he have dared such defiance.

A shadow crossed the High Priest’s face as he looked at Krim, then toward the door, as if something had suddenly occurred to him.

Noticing his reaction, Krim and the others sneered.

“Don’t bother looking for your lackeys, High Priest. We’ve already sent them to join the ancestral spirits,” one of Krim’s men said coldly, his eyes glinting with frost.

“Impudence! How dare you offend the High Priest!” Before the High Priest could respond, a captain of the guards sprang forward with several soldiers, eager to prove himself.

The High Priest did not stop him, perhaps intending to use this as a test.

Krim, seeing the guards approach, did not move. He merely curled his lips into a mocking smile. “Good, take care of them.”

At his side, a dark-skinned, slightly plump man stepped forward, eyes filled with piety as he began to pray. Had Chen Ming been present, he would have recognized this man as his friend, Good, whose body he had once inhabited.

Good’s prayers grew in intensity, and behind him, a faint light shimmered. In the terrified eyes of the advancing guards, the light transformed into several spears that flew toward them at breathtaking speed.

Instinctively, the guards tried to dodge the deadly spears, but to their horror, they discovered that vines had crept up from below, binding their legs tightly.

Their last sensation was the light slicing through the air as the spears pierced their bodies, pinning them to the ground. Their cries of agony were brief—for as they struggled, the spears melted and then exploded, leaving only mangled corpses behind.

The High Priest’s pupils contracted at the sight, bewildered and unsettled. He did not ask why they had done this, but instead exclaimed in shock, “The power of the totems—how is it that you possess it as well?”

But as he spoke, he did not wait for an answer. His hands moved swiftly, producing a black object from his robes. Before the others could react, he hurled it toward them, his left hand clutching his staff, eyes fixed on his adversaries.

Krim and his men were caught off guard by the High Priest’s unorthodox move. Black miasma, mingled with the corruption of the ancestral spirits, erupted and surged toward them.

For a moment, it seemed as though Krim and his followers were doomed. But a faint, holy light enveloped them, and as the smoke cleared, their figures emerged—wounded, but alive. The divine power had shielded them at the last moment, blunting the worst of the attack, though they all bore injuries.

Without hesitation, the High Priest raised his staff, ready to unleash an even greater force. But Krim and his men gave him no chance.

A spear of divine power shot forward, knocking the staff from the High Priest’s hand. Krim charged, his fists blazing with fire, and struck the High Priest with a mighty blow.

With a thunderous crash, the High Priest was sent reeling, and in the next instant, a barrage of spears impaled him, turning him into a human pincushion—dead beyond any hope of recovery.

With the enemy vanquished, Krim could no longer restrain himself. He threw back his head and roared, eyes gleaming with savage satisfaction. Drawing a dagger, he severed the High Priest’s head. “The High Priest is dead! Quickly, inform our people to cleanse his followers!”

One of his men nodded silently, uttered a prayer, and unleashed a divine spell. In the sky, a subtle beam of divine light arced outward, linking to the divine realm. Gentle ripples spread, sensed by those attuned to such things.

Led by priests who had mastered divine magic, Chen Ming’s fervent followers surged forward, capturing the High Priest’s remaining guards one by one. When Krim flung out the severed head for all to see, resistance collapsed and the rest surrendered.

Riding this momentum, Krim and his allies swiftly subdued the entire tribe. Supported by his followers, Krim ascended to the position of chieftain. He immediately ordered the destruction of all ancestral totem statues, replacing them with new altars devoted to the God of Nature. He decreed that every tribesman must come to the altar to worship at dawn and dusk each day.

Meanwhile, in the place where Chen Ming himself resided, months had passed. With the absorption of fleeing tribes and wanderers, the Assyrian tribe’s numbers had swelled to three thousand, and signs of disarray began to appear.

After receiving Chen Ming’s command, Gram honored the sacred branch and established the church, spreading the faith far and wide. The movement flourished, and even rudimentary doctrines began to take shape.

As months rolled by, the influx of outsiders into the Assyrian tribe, thanks to Gram’s efforts, ensured that almost all had embraced the God of Nature and gradually integrated into the old community. The church took root, with a cadre of experienced missionary priests.

One day, on a meadow, Gram stood watering a patch of vibrant flowers. Though his body was wrinkled like a man of eighty, he was strong and hale, nourished by divine power. With his usual gentle demeanor, he watched the blossoms as a priest beside him quietly reported on the church’s affairs.

“Your Holiness, we now have more than three hundred priests capable of channeling divine magic. Of these, only thirty-seven belong to the core clergy of the church, most of whom are devout priests versed in at least nine spells.”

Gram nodded. “And the new church building—how goes the preparation?”

“The site has been chosen. It will be ready very soon.”

At this, Gram finally relaxed. He gazed at the ancient forest beyond, thinking to himself, “Once the church is fully established, life will surely become much easier.”

He glanced back at the towering ancient tree that stood behind him, a silent witness to the ages. Today, somehow, felt different.

He raised his eyes to the tree’s crown and beheld a miraculous sight—the once-closed, lustrous seeds on the branches had unfurled into tiny blossoms, each glowing with profound power, as if something was about to be born.

At that moment, a surge of divine energy blazed within Gram, as if something momentous was happening beyond mortal perception.

Nor was he alone in this. Throughout the land, as the ancient tree’s flowers bloomed, countless worshipers in prayer felt a stirring in their hearts—a subtle, shared awareness.

And in a sacred domain within a mountain tribe, a divine spirit awoke in a burst of pure light, opening bright, lucid eyes.