The Seventh Year the Demon King Captured the Holy Monarch

Langmuir had spent some time trying to understand the meaning of the prophet’s words.

During this time, his senses, which were on the verge of collapse, seemed to stretch out indefinitely.

A full fifteen years. It was once his everything.

After a long time, Langmuir finally asked softly, “Nothing?”

The prophet squinted his long eyes and slowly said, “Who knows? At least I’ve lived for one hundred and thirteen years, and I’ve never seen any manifestation of the Goddess in my life, nor have the elders who worship her.”

“Perhaps the Goddess once existed, but now She has abandoned Her believers and gone somewhere unknown—”

“And more likely, the Goddess is just a legend, a legend that has long been submerged in the river of history. Perhaps a long, long time ago, there was a foolish princess like you. She abandoned wealth and glory, walked into suffering, and foolishly hoped to illuminate the darkness with her own strength—then she died, as simple as that.”

“Death is just death, Son of God. How can the dead come back to life in this world? Suffering is just suffering, suffering cannot turn a corpse into a god.”

“You see, you’re here throwing tantrums, and I’m here spouting nonsense, and yet the Goddess hasn’t come down to punish us, has she?”

…Something was leaving him, Langmuir suddenly realized.

He was becoming an empty shell.

The instinct of a living being made the Son of God afraid, made him want to escape from the reality in front of him, to avoid the collapse of his self.

But he had already run away once when he was in the abyss.

So another will, contrary to instinct, firmly suppressed him, suppressed his desire to run away, and also tightly held his self that was on the verge of shattering.

Even if it brought torture-like pain.

Langmuir moaned. His vision was spinning, the sharp ringing in his ears was sometimes fast and sometimes slow, and the blood vessels in his brain were throbbing like a small drum.

“So, there are no gods?”

“No gods.”

“Never have been?”

“Never have been.”

“So, the devout good people…won’t be saved after death, won’t return to the Goddess’s side?”

“Whether it’s a good person or a bad person, when they die, they just become a corpse.”

“Then…” The blond young man put his hand on his heart and laughed in despair, his eyes turning into a patch of dried ashes, “The so-called chosen Son of God…the so-called destiny…”

“Oh, we need a child from the royal family, and you are the eldest son of the Holy Monarch, it’s that simple.”

“…You deceived the entire kingdom?”

“Deception?” The elder prophet widened his eyes in surprise, at this moment, he looked like a kindly old man who was good at persuading, “No, no, no, Langmuir.”

“Look at this kingdom, look at these ignorant people, can they live without the Goddess and the temple? It’s because the believers are so eager for faith, that the Temple of Light came into being…”

“—Shut up!!”

Langmuir yelled out in a mournful voice. The extreme grief made his whole body tremble. “A group of hypocritical sinners, you are also worthy to insult the simple people!”

The prophet laughed again.

“Langmuir, my Son of God, don’t look at me with those hateful eyes. You say your people are simple?”

“Then you can run to the street now and shout ‘There has never been a Goddess’, and see if those crazy believers who love you will choose to believe you, or will they think that the Son of God has been possessed by demons in the abyss?”

Langmuir stood there gritting his teeth, he glared at the prophet, the light in his eyes that had been ignited by anger slowly extinguished.

An endless sense of fatigue washed over him again.

He swayed slightly, supporting his heavy forehead.

The prophet looked at the young man in front of him who could hardly stand, with pity, and said, “You should know, the people believe in the Son of God, not Langmuir Brett.”

“Son of God, you still have one last chance to turn back. Think about it, as long as you are willing, everything can go back to the way it was.”

After saying this, the prophet picked up the staff on the ground and turned to leave.

Just as he stepped out of the door, there was a muffled sound behind him.

The prophet turned around.

Langmuir had fallen under the statue of the Goddess, he had fainted. His pale cheek rested on his golden hair, and the ends of his hair meandered on the exquisite marble floor like a stream.

****

Did I make a mistake, Langmuir thought.

If not, why would he be alone?

This was the third day the Son of God came to the barrier cliff.

It began to snow between the clouds.

Three days ago, Langmuir fainted in the prayer room due to consecutive shocks and blows. When he woke up, the old Holy Monarch and the old Holy Queen, as well as his younger brother Aiden, had come to his bedside.

The temple still stuck to the old story, claiming that the Son of God had lost his mind due to being bewitched by demons.

The old Holy Monarch knew the real reason, but he kept silent, instead he brought his wife and younger son to visit his eldest son, subtly hinting at Langmuir to let go of his obsession and return to his family.

Langmuir sat on the bed expressionlessly, his eyes unfocused.

Whatever the old Holy Monarch said, he just numbly nodded his head; when the attendant fed him food and water, he also absentmindedly opened his mouth to swallow. He didn’t say a word from beginning to end, wasn’t that just the appearance of a “possessed person”?

And this was exactly what the elders of the temple wanted to see.

That night, Langmuir came to the prophet.

The Son of God once again became docile in front of the elder prophet. He said he wanted to go to the barrier cliff to think quietly, hoping to be undisturbed by the outside world.

The elder prophet agreed. He saw that Langmuir had been pushed to a dead end, just one push away.

There would be no redemption on the barrier cliff, nor would there be any answers. There was only endless desolation and darkness, making it the last straw.

So, Langmuir came alone to the barrier cliff, this forbidden land that concealed secrets.

This time, he no longer prayed to the gods, nor did he recite the holy teachings, but questioned his own heart.

He pondered repeatedly, where exactly was the redemption for both humans and demons.

He pondered what was right and wrong, what was good and evil; what was god, what was human; what was history, and what was the present.

He pondered war, pondered responsibility, pondered the definition of love and hate; he pondered darkness, he pondered light, pondered everything that confused him.

But he still couldn’t find the answer.

One day passed, two days passed, three days passed.

The Son of God sat on the barrier cliff like a statue, either too immersed in thought or perhaps his spirit had indeed shattered. He gradually forgot to move, forgot to rest, and finally even forgot to eat and drink.

Langmuir weakened bit by bit, but he still sat upright in place.

The north wind stirred up the snow, which fell down one after another, making the barrier cliff colder and colder.

One flake after another of snow fell on the tiny figure.

Perhaps what his father said was right.

On the fourth day, Langmuir suddenly thought.

Two hundred years had passed, there was no perfect solution to resolve the hatred.

Perhaps acknowledging that the demons were the enemies of the human race was the only way to redemption.

Admit it, the demon whispered to him.

As long as you admit it, you are no longer a sinner.

But the protector of the kingdom, the exterminator of demons, the Son of God.

Who once was, and will be in the future.

You have not committed any mistakes, killing the Demon King is a glorious achievement. Tens of millions of people love you, and you also love tens of millions of people. Under the golden sun, you will have a good and bright life.

No.

Langmuir closed his eyes and sat quietly on the snowy cliff.

Even if he was stripped of everything, even if he became a shell with broken faith, he would never become a puppet of the temple.

If there really was no way out, he would rather embrace his sins and die stiff in the snow.

…….

When the snow was getting heavier, the elders of the temple were also looking towards the barrier cliff.

An elder asked, “Prophet, why are you so sure that the Son of God will succumb?”

“I’m not sure.” The elder prophet picked up the red tea in front of him and blew on it, “I say, there’s a 70% chance of submission, and a 30% chance of suicide.”

“What I want to ask is, why are you so sure that the Son of God will not continue to resist?”

The elder prophet took a leisurely sip of tea, in his deep-set eye sockets, the brown pupils flashed with a profound light.

“It’s simple, if he chooses to return to the human world, he still has everything; but if he chooses the abyss, he will have nothing…except endless pain.”

“By then, he will lose his relatives, lose his friends, lose the love of his people, lose the admiration of his believers, the demons will hate him, and the humans will also hate him. From then on, there will be no way forward and no way back, his soul will fall into a hell deeper than the abyss.”

“That’s not a pain that humans can bear.”

“In the end, human will is too fragile, that’s why they need to pray to god…but the Son of God has lost his god.”

“Now in this kingdom, there will be no power to support him. He can only sink, like drowning, at first he can struggle, but when his strength is exhausted, despair will swallow him.”

“Unless…”

Elder: “Unless?”

The prophet slowly laughed.

“Unless he is not a human, he is a god.”

“But where are there gods in this world?”

……..

On the fifth day, the physical pain was the most intense.

Hunger, thirst, cold, weakness, worry, grief, guilt, despair…when all of these exceeded the limits that humans could bear, Langmuir fell ill.

First, it was intermittent low fever, which had developed into a high fever by the afternoon.

He began to talk in his sleep, shaking his head and talking nonsense, his hands occasionally grasping desperately, but could only hold the cold snowflakes, which quickly melted into icy water.

On the sixth day, Langmuir could no longer maintain a sitting position, but quietly collapsed on the cliff. Sometimes he was awake, sometimes he fell into a semi-coma.

He still couldn’t find the answer, even though he was on the verge of death.

The snow wouldn’t stop, the cold wind blew all night, continuing until the next morning.

The seventh day had come.

The Son of God laid on his side on the cliff, his whole body was white, because the cold snow was pressing on him.

Langmuir no longer felt cold.

After fasting for five days and being sick for two days, even with the support of Mana, he was left with only a breath.

He couldn’t feel hunger, couldn’t feel thirst, couldn’t feel discomfort, and couldn’t feel his own limbs, he just drowsily half-slept and half-awake in the snow, his breathing gradually became slow and weak.

In the end, he still didn’t find the way to redemption. But fortunately, the long-lasting guilt and fatigue that had been tormenting him also gradually faded along with his consciousness.

The snow fell heavier and heavier, silently burying the most beautiful young man in the kingdom.

Langmuir closed his eyes, his eyelashes obediently drooping, his consciousness blurred, and even a hint of relief appeared at the corners of his pale lips.

One after another, near-death dreams played out. The bell rang, the hymn echoed, flowers and springs gathered on the surface of the earth, everything was bright and splendid.

Finally, everything turned into a dark lake. Warm and peaceful, like a baby returning to the womb.

He felt…so comfortable…

A white mist quietly flowed from Langmuir’s lips, his head drooped deeper. His cyanotic and cold fingertips slowly loosened…

Then a song sounded in the dream.

He heard someone singing. Hoarse, loud, with an ancient and tragic rhythm.

It was a tune he had never heard before, it disturbed the dark and serene lake, awakening the sinking consciousness.

“……”

Beside the cliff, Langmuir struggled to open his eyes a crack.

The snow on his body was so heavy.

Suddenly, the Son of God took a quick breath, and there was a glimmer of light in his eyes.

This song…

It’s not an illusion, this song!

In a flash, his consciousness was pressed back into this dying body, Langmuir struggled with all his might, the heavy snow pressed against his chest, he let out a weak breath from his throat!

His frozen hands and feet twitched and began to move, the snow on his body cracked open and fell to the ground with a thud.

“Cough, cough!”

Langmuir laid on the cliff coughing, struggling to crawl forward.

The song came from below the barrier. Closer, even closer, it was a voice he would never forget.

Langmuir listened incredulously, he crawled in the dirty snow water, almost crawling to the barrier with his hands, his ten fingers tightly pressed against the magic array—

He saw the barrier cliff in the abyss again.

A demon boy was hoarsely singing a song, walking alone on this barren cliff.

Hun Yao trudged through the snow that hadn’t passed his calves, and reached the top of the cliff.

He seemed even more desolate than before, the black scales on his body were almost nowhere intact, new wounds overlapped old ones; he was also thinner, under his ragged clothes, his ribs were faintly protruding.

He held a small skull in his arms, as if he was holding the last treasure in the world.

In an instant, Langmuir’s lips trembled violently!

His limbs became light, his heart seemed to be hit by a comet, his brain was as clear as if he had received an oracle. He thought his tears had long dried up, but now they were streaming down his face.

He thought, that little Demon King was already dead…

How did he survive?

In such an abyss.

Hun Yao raised his head in the snowstorm, under his messy hair were a pair of dark red eyes, in the depths burned a stubborn and unquenchable fire of hatred.

That hatred turned into flames, as if it had burned out of the Demon King’s pupils.

It burned through the heavy snow, burned through the barrier, turned into sparks and fell into the Son of God’s eyes.

In an instant, the original piece of dead ash suddenly burned, brighter than any time in the past fifteen years.

They shared the same handful of fire.

—“If I can survive… you also live… how about it?”

—“To the place where there is sunlight…”

Langmuir closed his eyes and tilted his head back, suddenly laughing miserably, but the tears couldn’t stop falling.

A brand new power poured into this repeatedly shattered shell, he gritted his teeth and grabbed the snow beside him, stuffed it into his mouth, desperately swallowing the cold snow water, moisturizing his parched throat.

Even the Demon King didn’t die, how could he just give up…!

He wanted to live, live until the Demon King conquered the abyss, opened the barrier, and came to the human world for revenge.

The world was white with snow, all was silent.

The barrier separated the vast land, and also separated the Son of God and the Demon King who should have been close at hand.

And not until a long, long time later, would Langmuir hear the old story in detail from Hun Yao’s mouth.

He would know that in that year, the little Demon King, without priests, without guards, lost his tribe, was betrayed by his relatives. He was repeatedly seriously injured, his body repeatedly damaged.

Born to be a king, but after the horn was broken, there was not even one tribe member who truly loved him; what he faced were only tribal leaders who wanted to kill him or enslave him for their own interests.

He would know that in that winter, across a barrier—

They were enemies of the world on their own lands, and only each other was their sole obsession.

Even at that time, this obsession had nothing to do with love.

…….

On the afternoon of the seventh day, the snow stopped.

The clergy stationed next to the barrier cliff reported to the Brett Temple in the royal city that the Son of God, Langmuir, had returned from the barrier cliff, his body was extremely weak, and he was receiving medical treatment.

The elder prophet immediately set off for the barrier cliff, when he arrived, he asked the guard at the time again, whether the Son of God had returned voluntarily.

The guard gave a positive answer, saying that the Son of God had struggled to walk to the watchtower and then fainted, fortunately, the treatment was timely, and he had just regained consciousness.

So the elder prophet went in to visit.

The blond Son of God leaned on the pillow, staring out of the window at the sun in a daze, humming an unfamiliar tune, his eyes were gentle and peaceful.

Hearing the sound of the door opening, Langmuir turned his head.

He smiled a little and said, “Ah, elder prophet.”

The prophet said, “Son of God, it seems you have figured it out?”

“Yes, I have decided to return to the temple and the royal city.” Langmuir answered softly.

“From now on, I will serve as the Son of God, as the Holy Monarch…dedicate my life to the Goddess of Light and my people.”