Chapter 9 Chapter 7 The Land of Extraterrestrial
As soon as he left the village of the Witchcrafters, Simjin ran north, through a canyon filled with thick shrubs and broad-leaved forests that obscured the sky.The twilight grew darker, and soon night fell on the woods, as Simkin said, "as dark as under the eyes of the devil."It became increasingly difficult to move through the overgrown vegetation, and sometimes it was impossible to move.So, despite Joram's disapproval, the others insisted on having a lighted way.
"The people of the black lock have other things to worry about. It sounds like this from the voice." Mosiah said with a sullen face, while picking off the thorns on his legs.It was all because he had been traveling in the dark just now, so that he fell headlong into the gorse bushes and was covered with thorns. "Someone might break a leg, or fall into a hole, and disappear from this desolate place! I'd rather take my chances and light a torch."
"Torch!" Simkin snorted. "You're so primitive, boy!"
Many huge moths appeared in midair, with green light emitting from their wings.These glowing moths fluttered above the crowd, illuminating an astonishingly wide area in their warm, soft glow.
Unfortunately, after taking one look at the barren - and terrifying - forest they were traversing, Saryon hesitated at the thought that he had nearly tripped in the dark just now.
They continued down the canyon until the thorny thickets suddenly turned into open marshes.Tall trees flickered through the fog, their roots exposed above the water, looking like sharp claws in the eerie glow of glowing moths.Seeing this, Xin Jin quickly stopped everyone.
"Keep walking on the high ground on the left," he said at the head of the line, waving his hand casually. "Don't fall, the mud in that rotten pond is disgusting. Stand still and don't slip."
"We had better not venture out of here till daylight," said Joram wearily.It occurred to Saryon that the young man must be falling from exhaustion.Catalyst Saint is bone-tired, but at least he gets some rest during the day.
"Okay." Simkin shrugged. "I don't think there's anything going to eat us in the night," he said ominously.
"I'm too tired to care," Joram muttered.
They returned to the canyon the same way and found a relatively dry place to spend the night.Joram took out the Dark Sword and laid it on the cold ground, sleeping beside it.He sighed wearily as he lay down, then put his hands on his sword and closed his eyes.
"Singin, where are we going?" Mosiah asked in a low voice.
Joram woke up and looked at them. "Malilon," he said, and fell asleep immediately.
Mosiah glanced at Saryon, who shook his head.
"As expected, someone has to persuade him not to take this journey. Joram can't go to Merilon!" The Catalyst Saint repeated these words several times, rubbing his hands back and forth on the torn part of his robe.
Mosiah moved uneasily, but said nothing.
Saryon sighed.He understood now, don't expect this ally to help him, and this is his only ally.
The Catalyst Saint knew that Mosiah's reason agreed with him, but the young man's feelings kept him silent.Mosiah was equally eager to see the beautiful city of Malilong, the legendary and enchanted city of dreams.
Saryon sighed again, and then saw Mosiah's face tense, obviously worried that the Catalyst Saints would bring it up again.
However, Saryon doesn't want to offer his opinion.He didn't speak all the time, just looked around nervously, and his worries and fears about the wilderness came back to him.
"Good night, Father." Mosiah put his hand on Saryon's shoulder, and said truthfully, "I will persuade Joram for you in the morning, but I don't think my words will be of much use."
He moved away and lay down on the cold ground, huddled next to Joram for warmth.After a while, he fell asleep too-the young man always sleeps without worries.The Catalyst Saint looked at him, frustrated and jealous.Simkin sent away the Glowing Moth, and night fell upon them once more.The darkness seemed to slowly crawl out from among the claw-like trees, drowning everything in sight, and Saryon shivered in the cold.
"I'll keep watch," Simkin suggested. "I've been asleep all day, and I'm excited to beat that fool up. Lay down your bald head, Father."
Saryon was tired, so tired that he wished sleep would overwhelm him, stop the waterwheel of thoughts creaking in his head.But the terror of the wilderness, and Joram's voice of "Malilon," flowed through the Catalyst Saints' minds and set the waterwheel on.
The night was getting darker, and the cold wind was blowing the dead leaves still stubbornly hanging on the branches, rustling.Saryon wrapped his robes tightly, trying to shake off a growing sense of frustration and hopelessness.He told himself that it was the weariness and horror of the sorcerer's death that would only fade away.
But he couldn't convince himself, and what Joram had just announced made those feelings even deeper.
Saryon tossed and turned, shivering with cold and fear, curling up in panic at the slightest sound.Were those eyes staring at him from the shadows?He sat up vigilantly, looking around frantically for Simkin.The young man was sitting safely on a stump.Saryon thought he saw Simkin's eyes gleaming like a beast in the darkness, and seemed to be watching him with interest.The catalyst saint stretched his robes tightly and lay down, closed his eyes and stopped looking into the night. He thought over and over again what he was going to say to Joram tomorrow, trying to keep his attention away from fear and cold.
Eventually, the waterwheel jammed and stopped turning, and the Catalyst Saints fell into a restless sleep filled with dreams.He firmly held the stone of darkness hanging around his neck in his hand, vaguely aware that the power of this rough stone must have taken effect.
Bishop Fanya did not contact him.
Saryon awoke the next morning stiff and aching.Although he wasn't hungry, he forced himself to eat something. "Joran." He said while forcing himself to mechanically chew and swallow the stale bread, "We need to talk." "Cheer up, old man," Simkin said cheerfully. "Father Killer is going to tell you not to go to Merilon." Qiao Ran's face was gloomy, and his expression froze.Saryon cast an annoyed glance at the wicked Simkin, who just smiled innocently and sat back on the tree stump, crossing his legs to watch the excitement. "Bishop Fanya is waiting for you to go to Merilon, Joram!" Saryon advised him. "He knows Anya, knows what she told you about fame and fortune in Merillon. He'll be waiting for you, and so is Duke Sis!" Joram listened in silence, then shrugged. "There are Dukes everywhere." He said flatly. "Looks like I'm in danger no matter where I go, doesn't it?" Saryon couldn't deny it. "I'll go to Merilon, then," said Joram quietly. "According to my mother, I have an inheritance right there, and I'm going to get it!" Ah, if only you really knew what you were talking about!Saryon thought bitterly.You are not the bastard child of some poor seduced girl and her unhappy lover.You don't go back as a beggar to claim an inheritance from a family that disowned their daughter seventeen years ago and kicked her out of the house. No, you will go back as a prince, hugged and cried by the empress mother, embraced by the emperor's father... Declared dead, dragged by Dukexis to the borders of Simharon, to the magically guarded, fog-shrouded borders of the world, to be cast out. "This unfortunate soul is a living dead," said Saryon, who seemed to hear Bishop Vanya's voice echoing in the clammy mist. "Now let body and soul unite, and give this poor man the only salvation." I have to tell Joram the truth, Saryon thought desperately. Surely this will convince him not to go there! "Joran." His heart was beating so fast he could barely speak. "Joran, there are some things I have to..." But the sanity of the catalyst saint intervened. go on.His reason speaks to him.Tell Joram that he is the emperor's son.Tell him he can go into the city and claim to be Merilon's prince.Could this stop him from going there?If you heard such news, where would you be the first place you would go? "Ah, what are you talking about, Catalyst Saint?" Joram asked impatiently. "If you have something to say, say it, and stop muttering to yourself. But, I warn you, your efforts are in vain. I've made up my mind that I'm going to Merilon, and nothing you can say will change my mind." Decide!" Yes, he was right.Saryon thought.He held back what he was going to say, and swallowed it like a bitter medicine. So they went on to Merilon.
In Saryon's memory, the next five days were the worst of his life.It took them three days to cross the swamp, and the stench of the place made stomachs churn, and the greasiness left in the mouth completely killed the appetite.While there is no shortage of drinking water—even small children can use magic to purify water—the stench of the swamp makes the water taste bitter and stinky.No matter how much water they drink, they never seem to be able to quench their thirst.A magical fire could not ignite damp wood, and they never saw the sun, never felt warm.The swirling mist clung to them like tendrils of vines, appearing and disappearing; nothing emerged from the mist, but there was always a sense of being watched, made worse by Simkin's menacing hints. "What are you twitching your nose for?" Mosiah asked sullenly, following Simkin through the wet grass. "Don't tell me you know your way by smell!" "It's not the direction, it's the way." Simkin corrected him. "Oh, come on! How could you know your way by the stench? How could you smell anything other than rot in this stinking place, how could it be possible?" Mosiah stood where he was, waiting for the exhausted Catalyst Saint to follow. "I'm not smelling the road, but what's making the road ahead of us," Simkin said. "You see, we've come this far, and I'm sure it's unlikely that the thing got lost in the swamp or got lost. I've always thought it better to be safe than sorry, though." "That thing? What thing? Why are we following that thing?" Mosiah asked alertly, but Simkin covered his mouth. "It's right there, there. Don't worry, it usually sleeps well during the day, and is exhausted at night—too busy with its teeth, and those big, ugly claws tearing and tearing. Don't talk to Bald Men bring it up." He whispered in Mosiah's ear. "He's already nervous enough to tell him you're not going anywhere." As if such dire hints weren't scary enough, their "guide" made a few more moves. "Look! Ahead!" Simkin yelled, grabbing Mosiah and clinging to him, shaking all over his body. "What?" Mosiah's heart jumped to his throat. The words "big and ugly paws" left an indelible mark on his mind. "There! Don't you see it?" "No--" "Look! Those eyes! There are six of them! Ah, they are gone now." Simkin heaved a long sigh of relief, and he pulled out the orange silk scarf and wiped his forehead. "It's also luck, we must have the upper hand on it. What a blessing, its sense of smell is not very good, or is it hearing? I can't always remember..." Either the thing really knew where it was going, or it was really showing them the way, for at last they made it out of the swamp to the bottom of the valley without incident.They were thankful for being out of that horrible place, away from the stench, and they were okay with seeing a steep climb up a high jagged cliff.The mountain roads are clearly marked—Mosiah wisely kept silent about who or what made the marks—and it was not difficult to follow these marks at first. Breathing the clear air and feeling the sunshine, This gives them increased strength.Even the Catalyst Saint's mood improved, and he was able to keep up with the pace of others. But the further they went, the more obscure the path became and the steeper the path became. After two days of climbing mountains and ridges, looking for paths, and sleeping in the open air, Saryon was exhausted, and half of the time seemed to be sleepwalking, only when he stumbled on the road or when he felt Mosiah holding his arm and leading him. Sober up a little.He was able to move forward only because he had made up his mind to go—determined to put one foot in front of the other—and had shut off his senses from the coldness of the environment and the pain of body and mind.In this state, he often staggered forward when others stopped to rest, and when they pulled him back, he would slip and fall, resting his head on his knees, dreaming that he was still alive. keep walking. In the end, though, the grind and the fresh air around him gave the Catalyst Saint what he'd been craving—a night's sleep deep enough that not even the scene of a sorcerer dying or the pain of aching muscles could penetrate. .One morning, on the fifth morning of his trip, he awoke to find himself clear-headed.Even though his joints were stiff and his back ached from sleeping on the floor, he still felt unusually refreshed. That's when he realized they were going in the wrong direction.
Saryon awoke the next morning stiff and aching.Although he wasn't hungry, he forced himself to eat something. "Joran." He said while forcing himself to mechanically chew and swallow the stale bread, "We need to talk." "Cheer up, old man," Simkin said cheerfully. "Father Killer is going to tell you not to go to Merilon." Qiao Ran's face was gloomy, and his expression froze.Saryon cast an annoyed glance at the wicked Simkin, who just smiled innocently and sat back on the tree stump, crossing his legs to watch the excitement. "Bishop Fanya is waiting for you to go to Merilon, Joram!" Saryon advised him. "He knows Anya, knows what she told you about fame and fortune in Merillon. He'll be waiting for you, and so is Duke Sis!" Joram listened in silence, then shrugged. "There are Dukes everywhere." He said flatly. "Looks like I'm in danger no matter where I go, doesn't it?" Saryon couldn't deny it. "I'll go to Merilon, then," said Joram quietly. "According to my mother, I have an inheritance right there, and I'm going to get it!" Ah, if only you really knew what you were talking about!Saryon thought bitterly.You are not the bastard child of some poor seduced girl and her unhappy lover.You don't go back as a beggar to claim an inheritance from a family that disowned their daughter seventeen years ago and kicked her out of the house. No, you will go back as a prince, hugged and cried by the empress mother, embraced by the emperor's father... Declared dead, dragged by Dukexis to the borders of Simharon, to the magically guarded, fog-shrouded borders of the world, to be cast out. "This unfortunate soul is a living dead," said Saryon, who seemed to hear Bishop Vanya's voice echoing in the clammy mist. "Now let body and soul unite, and give this poor man the only salvation." I have to tell Joram the truth, Saryon thought desperately. Surely this will convince him not to go there! "Joran." His heart was beating so fast he could barely speak. "Joran, there are some things I have to..." But the sanity of the catalyst saint intervened. go on.His reason speaks to him.Tell Joram that he is the emperor's son.Tell him he can go into the city and claim to be Merilon's prince.Could this stop him from going there?If you heard such news, where would you be the first place you would go? "Ah, what are you talking about, Catalyst Saint?" Joram asked impatiently. "If you have something to say, say it, and stop muttering to yourself. But, I warn you, your efforts are in vain. I've made up my mind that I'm going to Merilon, and nothing you can say will change my mind." Decide!" Yes, he was right.Saryon thought.He held back what he was going to say, and swallowed it like a bitter medicine. So they went on to Merilon.
In Saryon's memory, the next five days were the worst of his life.It took them three days to cross the swamp, and the stench of the place made stomachs churn, and the greasiness left in the mouth completely killed the appetite.While there is no shortage of drinking water—even small children can use magic to purify water—the stench of the swamp makes the water taste bitter and stinky.No matter how much water they drink, they never seem to be able to quench their thirst.A magical fire could not ignite damp wood, and they never saw the sun, never felt warm.The swirling mist clung to them like tendrils of vines, appearing and disappearing; nothing emerged from the mist, but there was always a sense of being watched, made worse by Simkin's menacing hints. "What are you twitching your nose for?" Mosiah asked sullenly, following Simkin through the wet grass. "Don't tell me you know your way by smell!" "It's not the direction, it's the way." Simkin corrected him. "Oh, come on! How could you know your way by the stench? How could you smell anything other than rot in this stinking place, how could it be possible?" Mosiah stood where he was, waiting for the exhausted Catalyst Saint to follow. "I'm not smelling the road, but what's making the road ahead of us," Simkin said. "You see, we've come this far, and I'm sure it's unlikely that the thing got lost in the swamp or got lost. I've always thought it better to be safe than sorry, though." "That thing? What thing? Why are we following that thing?" Mosiah asked alertly, but Simkin covered his mouth. "It's right there, there. Don't worry, it usually sleeps well during the day, and is exhausted at night—too busy with its teeth, and those big, ugly claws tearing and tearing. Don't talk to Bald Men bring it up." He whispered in Mosiah's ear. "He's already nervous enough to tell him you're not going anywhere." As if such dire hints weren't scary enough, their "guide" made a few more moves. "Look! Ahead!" Simkin yelled, grabbing Mosiah and clinging to him, shaking all over his body. "What?" Mosiah's heart jumped to his throat. The words "big and ugly paws" left an indelible mark on his mind. "There! Don't you see it?" "No--" "Look! Those eyes! There are six of them! Ah, they are gone now." Simkin heaved a long sigh of relief, and he pulled out the orange silk scarf and wiped his forehead. "It's also luck, we must have the upper hand on it. What a blessing, its sense of smell is not very good, or is it hearing? I can't always remember..." Either the thing really knew where it was going, or it was really showing them the way, for at last they made it out of the swamp to the bottom of the valley without incident.They were thankful for being out of that horrible place, away from the stench, and they were okay with seeing a steep climb up a high jagged cliff.The mountain roads are clearly marked—Mosiah wisely kept silent about who or what made the marks—and it was not difficult to follow these marks at first. Breathing the clear air and feeling the sunshine, This gives them increased strength.Even the Catalyst Saint's mood improved, and he was able to keep up with the pace of others. But the further they went, the more obscure the path became and the steeper the path became. After two days of climbing mountains and ridges, looking for paths, and sleeping in the open air, Saryon was exhausted, and half of the time seemed to be sleepwalking, only when he stumbled on the road or when he felt Mosiah holding his arm and leading him. Sober up a little.He was able to move forward only because he had made up his mind to go—determined to put one foot in front of the other—and had shut off his senses from the coldness of the environment and the pain of body and mind.In this state, he often staggered forward when others stopped to rest, and when they pulled him back, he would slip and fall, resting his head on his knees, dreaming that he was still alive. keep walking. In the end, though, the grind and the fresh air around him gave the Catalyst Saint what he'd been craving—a night's sleep deep enough that not even the scene of a sorcerer dying or the pain of aching muscles could penetrate. .One morning, on the fifth morning of his trip, he awoke to find himself clear-headed.Even though his joints were stiff and his back ached from sleeping on the floor, he still felt unusually refreshed. That's when he realized they were going in the wrong direction.