NOVEL NEXT Chapter 50: The Key to the Celestial Riddle
The Celestial Race," the old woman began, her voice thick with reverberations of reverence, "is divided into two sub-races: the Saint Race and the Immortal Race." Her words floated in the air like a delicate web of some ancient mystery. The shop hushed into deep contemplation; it seemed as if even the walls leaned in to hear the secrets about to unfold.
"Legend has it," she went on, her voice low and measured, "that once the cosmos had righted and the laws of the universe had been stabilized, the primordial chaos fractured. Out of this division came two opposing forces: the Law of Light and the Law of Shadow and Obscurity.
She paused for effect, her words hanging in the air like a half-formed constellation, until Nyxander interrupted, curiosity threading his voice. "If both laws are opposing forces, how could the Law of Chaos itself remain stable without collapsing under their conflict?"
A faint smile arced the corners of her lips. "Very perceptive," she said with a frail voice, yet imbuing the tone with approval. These two laws were said to dominate the chaos because they represent its most potent forces. In their midst, however, lies another law-a bridge, if you will-which keeps them from colliding. It is the Law of Nothingness and Nullification. This law, though independent, is embedded within the very fabric of chaos. It absorbs and nullifies any imbalance that may arise between the two opposing forces.
Her explanation had painted vivid imagery in Nyxander's mind, and he spoke again this time with a contemplative cadence. "So, this law serves as a mediator, stabilizing the chaos by keeping the extremes in check."
Both the old woman and Beorn regarded him with wide-eyed amazement, as if his words had unlocked some long-forgotten truth. She nodded slowly, her voice gathering strength. "Precisely. Without it, the cosmos would unravel into discord."
She cleared her throat and continued. "As the Law of Chaos fractured, the Law of Light rose towards the heavens and the Law of Shadow and Obscurity sank deep into hell. As the Law of Light pierced the first heaven, it was once more broken, this time shattering into innumerable pieces of light. The Saint Race was formed from the most resplendent part, while the inferior light produced the Immortal Race. According to legend, it was these random rays that spawned the angels.
Her words painted a heavenly tableau, a cosmic drama inscribed upon the heavens and the void. She continued, with growing wonder in her voice. "The Saint Race, forged from the strongest light, innately understand the laws of the cosmos.
Their heavenly constitution allows them to create techniques in harmony with the laws, propelling them toward godhood. It is attainable because of their physique and talent. We, the Immortal Race, are bound by a different fate. Born of weaker light, we must attach ourselves to a deity whose nature aligns with our own. Only by doing so can we ascend to the realm of False God, where we can finally wield power independent of divine aid."
She paused for breath, the weight of her words settling in the minds of her listeners like ancient runes etched in stone.
Nyxander's voice cut through the silence, his curiosity still unsated. "I have another question. If gods spring from light, then should their powers not be confined to the usage of light alone? And why should you depend on gods for strength when you, too, are born of light?"
The old woman's gaze sharpened, her expression both contemplative and resolute. "Our birth from light decides the extent of our talent and constitution we inherit. The Saint Race, blessed by the strongest light, can fathom the essence of their physique and cultivate techniques attuned to it. As the fractured lights journeyed across the heavens, each shard of light interacted with the cosmic laws they crossed. At the moment of enlightenment, the light gave birth to the celestial beings, and each deity embodied a fragment of the law they comprehended."
She paused, her words carefully chosen, then continued. "For us, the Immortal Race, our weaker origin shapes us differently. Our bodies are merely vessels designed to align with a single aspect of the law. Until we reach the realm of False God, we lack the ability to wield independent power. Instead, we rely on divine tools and artifacts to channel our strength. Only when we break free of these constraints can we truly claim our place among the gods."
Her explanation was filled with cosmic imagery, and Nyxander's mind struggled to put together the fragments of this deep narrative.
Beorn furrowed his brow and, breaking the silence, pulled at a thread of conversation that Nyxander had almost forgotten.
"This also relates to the virtual system you asked about earlier," he said, irritation underlying his tone, as if the mere mention of it brought a sour taste to his tongue.
"What do you mean by that?" Nyxander asked, for in Beorn's tone, he had sensed a deeper undercurrent of pain and resentment.
Beorn's lips pressed into a thin line before he replied, the words laced with bitterness, as if from one shackled by invisible chains. "To make sure we Immortals never gain independence, the virtual system was shackled upon us, binding us even as we reach the cusp of False Godhood."
Before Nyxander could absorb this, the old lady interrupted; her voice was laced with resignation. "Indeed, it wasn't originally that way with the system. First, it had been a tool to keep mortals under control-a binding force to keep mortals attached to the gods with threads of fate.
The gods required believers as an amplifier of their divine powers; thus, the virtual system had been established among the mortal realms. However, as time passed, gods became greedy; their ambitions expanded beyond the realms of mortals. Thus, they chose to extend this very system to us, forcing us into servitude for their vassalage to further strengthen their divine powers.
Her words were in a sad cadence, as if speaking about a betrayal too deep to be remembered. Nyxander's jaw clenched, and a mutter escaped his lips, the tone bitter with indignation. "So they go to such lengths to suppress even their kin?"
She let out a deep sigh, her face clouded by the weight of centuries. "Perhaps not at first, but in time, it came to be born of necessity, which morphed into a tool of oppression to keep us Immortals bound. Those that would rise too high find themselves shackled, unable to transcend without the permissions of the gods."
Nyxander straightened, his eyes sharp and unyielding. "Thank you for your time and for sharing this knowledge with us, but I assure you, I am not one of them."
His voice carried conviction, but in the woman's cautious eyes that watched him he remained unconvinced. Before she had time to raise her doubts aloud, Beorn stepped in to intervene, with warmth and in quiet resolution: "Miss Bertha," he spoke now with softened tone, "whether he is or not, one thing is sure-he is different from the others."
His words seemed to allay her fears. The tension in her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled slightly. "Alright," she said with a small nod. "I'll take your word, young master. Thank you both for your help and your kindness."
She bowed slightly, her gesture humble yet sincere.
Nyxander returned her bow with a slight dip of his head, his expression softening. "We won't take up any more of your time. We'll be on our way."
As they turned to leave, Nyxander waved at the old woman, his gesture casual yet respectful. She returned the wave, bowing once more as they stepped out of the store. As they walked away, Miss Bertha stood in the doorway, watching their retreating figures with a mix of hope and lingering curiosity.
As they walked toward their patrol area, Nyxander's thoughts swirled like a whirlwind, each revelation a puzzle piece fitting into a grander, more enigmatic picture. His gaze fixed on the ground, his voice a quiet murmur to himself. "Could the mortals she mentioned be humans? If so, what could that god have done to my old planet? There are gaps in my knowledge, fragments I need to gather, piece by piece."
His mind raced, unraveling the possibilities until a distant commotion snapped his thoughts like a taut string suddenly severed.
A sharp noise, a cacophony of raised voices, pulled his attention. His head jerked upward, his sharp gaze locking onto the source.
Two men loomed ahead, their presence an unwelcome storm in the bustling market district. Each bore an axe slung across his back, their faces hardened like weathered stone. They disrupted the merchants and townsfolk, demanding taxes and debts with the air of self-appointed enforcers.
"What? Bandits?" Nyxander's voice rang out, an electrified blend of disbelief and seething anger. His words cut through the air, his body taut with restrained energy.
Beorn's gaze darted between the scene unfolding ahead and Nyxander's reaction, his face pale and slick with sweat. Fear etched deep lines into his features, as though the weight of the bandits' presence pressed heavily on his chest.