Chapter 143: World Within the Painting

Chapter 143: The World Within the Painting

Without a second thought, Lyman drew the Blade of Revelation. A flash of crimson light swept by, and the black hair entangling his arm silently snapped apart.

The doll on the ceiling let out a terrifying wail, like a baby wailing loudly at midnight. A viscous dark liquid oozed from its hollow eye sockets, like black tears.

It opened its mouth, the corners slowly stretching outward and extending past its ears. At first, Lyman thought it was smiling, but its mouth kept stretching past its ears, expanding outward endlessly.

Cracks began to appear on its porcelain cheeks, spreading from the corners of its mouth toward its cheekbones, accompanied by faint, crisp cracking sounds. The mouth grew even larger, far beyond the possible range of a normal human face.

The doll's face looked like it was split down the middle, the upper half of its head tilting backward to reveal a bottomless cavity. Dense rows of teeth arranged in spiraling circles extended from deep inside the mouth down into the unseen depths of its throat.

Lyman let out a tiny whimper. This scene would haunt his nightmares for a long time. He clenched his teeth and took out the Light-Focusing Mirror from the Divine Casket again.

"Let there be light!"

It was as if a newborn sun was slowly rising in the dark underground. The doll let out a screech like a rubber duck being stepped on, then hit the floor with a thump.

Lyman let out a sigh of relief and prepared to turn back to rescue Lunast. But as soon as he turned, he heard intermittent music coming from nearby.

The chained music box trembled on its own, as if struggling to break free. Whenever its lid briefly opened, out-of-tune music would spill out.

The pocket watch beside it began to move, its second hand spinning like a propeller, while the minute and hour hands also spun crazily at unnatural speeds.

Lyman suddenly felt his movements become incredibly slow, as if someone had set his speed to 0.5x.

Across from him, Lunast and the rusty armor were also putting on a slow-motion show. The rusty armor thrust its sword at Lunast's chest, the blade piercing through and sticking out of his back. Lunast looked down at the blade with a dumbfounded expression. The rusty armor's movements paused for a moment—if it had a brain hidden in its helmet, it might be thinking in confusion: How does this guy not have a chest?

Lyman realized the pocket watch was behind his slowed speed. He turned toward the watch, preparing to destroy it, but his ankle suddenly stopped short, as if something had snagged it.

Looking down, the seaweed-like black hair had actually wrapped around him again!

The doll convulsively flailed its limbs, struggling to get up, its spiral maw emitting intermittent baby cries mixed with cawing sounds.

Then, the hair suddenly whipped violently. Lyman was sent flying sideways, slamming dead-on into the Altar Screen.

He reflexively tried to transform into shadow to escape the hair's grip. But at that moment, a powerful gravitational force grabbed hold of him.

Lyman plummeted backward... no, downward.

*

"Lyman! The pocket watch!"

Lunast called out to him while making good use of his limb-splitting ability to fight the rusty armor.

He turned around, but only saw a puppet wearing a black cloak collapsed limply on the ground. The crimson Blade of Revelation lay at its feet.

And in the background of the Altar Screen depicting the saint's story, a blurry back view of a silver-haired youth had appeared.

*

At the same time, at the stables.

Thud!

A muffled thud came from near the haystack. The dark-skinned groom stretched his neck to look over: "What happened?"

The stable maid circled around to the other side of the haystack. She gasped: "Oh no! Someone come quick! This young man has fainted!"

The stable hand dropped his work in fright and dashed over. There lay the silver-haired servant, face down in the hay, completely unconscious.

*

A dizzying spin. Lyman subconsciously used Gravity Manipulation to levitate himself.

His fall slowed. Lyman landed on the ground like a light, floating feather.

He looked around—somehow he had left the underground vault and was now standing on a hillside covered in lush grass.

"Where did this take me? Is this still the Holy City?"

Dark clouds filled the sky. The wind blowing toward him carried a thick stench of blood. Lyman looked blankly toward the upwind direction, then was stunned by the horrific scene before him.

As far as the eye could see, corpses littered the battlefield. It seemed a great battle had just erupted here, the spilled blood still fresh. Most of the bodies were no longer human-shaped—either missing parts or already bloody and mangled beyond recognition. Lyman saw a horse's corpse pinning down a person, whose body had been crushed, with only a hand wearing an iron gauntlet sticking out, fingers slightly bent, as if trying to grasp something.

A dead soldier clutched a flagpole, the banner planted in the dirt, most of it torn away, leaving only a few tattered strips of cloth swaying in the hot wind. What appeared to be a Sun Emblem was painted on it, but soaked in blood, it was hard to make out.

"Help... someone... help me..."

A faint cry for help came from the pile of corpses. Lyman was stunned for a few seconds, then hurried over. He searched through the mountain of corpses until he finally found the one calling for help—a young man in military attire.

An arrow was lodged in his shoulder, another corpse lay on top of him, and his back was a bloody mess, as if torn by a wild beast's claws or teeth.

Perhaps his comrade had shielded him before dying, because aside from that arrow, he was nearly unharmed. Seeing Lyman, a weak smile spread across his blood-and-dust-covered face.

"Someone... really came to save me..." he murmured, "Are you... a priest of the Dawn Church...?"

Hearing this, Lyman realized he had reverted to his original form—silver hair, crimson eyes, wearing a servant's plain white robe with hay still stuck to his sleeves.

Shadow Play? The Blade of Revelation? Lyman called out to the Book of the Evil God but received no response, and the Divine Casket wouldn't open either.

A cold sweat trickled down his temple. Since being imprisoned at Cape Prison, this was the first time he was without the Book of the Evil God's assistance. Though he constantly cursed it as an idiot book, suddenly losing it left Lyman at a loss. Like going to battle without a weapon.

But his Supernatural Ability was still there. He could use Gravity Manipulation, and the transparent ring on his finger stored various attributes. That was a silver lining in this misfortune.

Lyman steadied himself, forcing calm. He absolutely couldn't panic now. First, figure out where he was and why he had lost the Book of the Evil God, then find a way to leave and return to where he belonged.

He didn't want to reveal his identity as a superhuman—in this unknown territory, it was better to keep his cards hidden. So he bent down, supporting the bloody corpse while subtly using Gravity Manipulation on it, precisely controlling the reduction in gravity. To an outsider, it would look like he was simply strong enough to shove the corpse aside easily.

He dragged the wounded young man out but didn't dare touch the arrow, fearing it might cause further injury.

"Sorry, I don't know medicine. How can I help you?" Lyman asked.

The young man looked at him strangely, seeming to want to say something but holding back. After a long moment, he spoke hoarsely: "There's a monastery on the mountain. Many nuns are treating the wounded there."

"Can you stand?" Lyman asked.

The young man nodded with difficulty. Lyman draped his arm over his own shoulder, drawing on the strength attribute stored in the transparent ring to help him up, supporting him as they walked up the mountain.

"Incredible..." The young man, delirious from blood loss, spoke with increasingly slurred speech but growing reverence, "The God of Dawn truly answered my prayers... and sent a believer to save me..."

Lyman wanted to retort, "I'm not sent by the God of Dawn," but on second thought, he had been inexplicably transported here while stealing from the Dawn Church's treasury—that could loosely count as the God of Dawn's will! Except the god had saved the young man while punishing Lyman—if that deity truly rewarded and punished people.

"What's your name?" Lyman asked.

"Garad."

It was a common name in the Holy Nation. So, he was still within the Holy Nation's borders?

Garad asked, "And what should I call you?"

"Layman Vichard."

"I will surely remember your name, my savior... cough... If this war ends and I survive, I will definitely convert to your god..."

"Alright, stop talking, you're gonna cough up a lung."

Lyman helped Galad along, both of them limping up the hillside. A monastery stood at the highest point of the slope, its gray exterior walls covered in vines, warm light spilling from the windows, like a beacon guiding lost travelers against the gray sky.

The sky hung low with leaden clouds, and orange-red light burst through the gaps in the clouds, with a tremendous rumble from the sky following seconds later.

"What is that?" Lyman couldn't help but ask. "It doesn't sound like thunder."

Galad gave him an even stranger look, but he still patiently explained, "They're fighting in the sky. We fight on the ground. We have to... cough... stand together to defend our world..."

"They?"

Just as Galad was about to answer, a clear female voice rang out from up the slope: "Thank the God of Dawn, there are still people alive!"

Three nuns rushed out of the monastery. Surprised and overjoyed, they hastily carried the wounded into the monastery.

Lyman followed behind them, stepping over the high stone threshold.

The monastery's interior was much more spacious than he'd imagined. The chapel's pews had been completely removed, and the floor was covered with people—men and women, soldiers in armor, believers in white robes, and civilians in plain linen clothes. All of them bore severe wounds—some wailing in agony, others unconscious.

The air was thick with the smell of herbs. Five or six nuns moved among the wounded, administering potions, dressing wounds, checking injuries, and comforting them.

Galad was laid on a straw mat near the entrance. The nuns removed his armor and cut away his blood-soaked clothes with scissors, revealing the wound with the arrow still stuck in it.

Before long, an older nun approached Galad, flanked by two younger ones. Lyman felt she looked oddly familiar.

The older nun glanced at the wounded man, then her gaze settled on Lyman beside him.

"Ah, thank you for your help, brother in faith," she said warmly. "Did you hear we were short-handed and come to lend a hand?"

"Uh... I actually got lost..."

"Then the God of Dawn must have guided you here." The older nun made a gesture of prayer. The others instinctively clasped their hands and chanted in unison, "Dawn above."

Lyman felt a bit awkward, but to keep up his cover, he joined in chanting the God of Dawn's holy name, all the while silently praying that if the deity heard him, he wouldn't strike him dead with lightning.

"Sister, may I ask where this place is? And what's your name?" Lyman asked.

"This is Gap Mountain Monastery. I am Sister Dominique. Since I know a bit of medicine, I was sent here to tend to the wounded."

Lyman stood there stunned, frozen for a long moment.

Galad, Dominique. Though both were common names in the Holy Nation, putting them together could only mean one thing—

Saint Dominique treating the arrow wound of Saint Galad! That altar screen painting!

Have I been transported into the world of the painting?! Lyman thought, horrified.

Sister Dominique said to Galad, "Alright, sir, I'm going to remove the arrowhead now. It might hurt a bit, so bear with it."

A young nun brought over a steaming basin of water, lit candles, and a tray of knives. Sister Dominique picked a sharp blade, sterilized it over the candle flame, then deftly cut open the young man's wound.

Galad let out a piercing scream. A nun quickly shoved a piece of wood into his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue and to muffle his cries.

"Hey! Brother!"

Someone suddenly slapped Lyman on the back.

"Who?!" Lyman spun around warily, drawing strength and agility from his ring, ready to fight at any moment.

A middle-aged man with a receding hairline stood behind him. He wore a white robe similar to Lyman's, and his weary face was overflowing with a mix of astonishment and joy, like a wanderer who had been away from home for years suddenly encountering a fellow countryman in a foreign land.

Lyman opened his mouth, but the balding man shushed him with a "quiet" gesture, pointing to the side door of the monastery, indicating they should talk outside.

Lyman cautiously followed the man. They exited through the side door and turned into the monastery's courtyard, which had been converted into a medicinal herb garden, planted with various herbs.

Seeing that they were alone, the balding man grabbed Lyman's hand, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Three years! I've been stuck in this godforsaken place for three years! Finally, a newcomer!" He shook Lyman's hand vigorously. "You fell into that altar screen painting by accident too, just like me, right?"

"'Too'?" Lyman caught his wording. "Who are you?"

The balding man wiped his eyes with his sleeve, sniffled, and said, "My name is Eugene. And you?"

"Lyman. How did you fall into the screen? What were you doing in the underground vault?"

"It's a long story, brother. I won't hide anything from you—I'll tell you everything straight. Because I'm about to go mad in this place, with no one to even talk to! You have no idea how happy I am to see you!"

Eugene burst into a rapid stream of words, his mouth chattering like a machine gun, "I'm a member of the Truth Seekers. Under orders from our chief, I went to the temple to steal the Judgment Hammer."