Silent Crown

by Feng Yue

  Finally, the glove that had constrained his hand for many years fell to the ground without a sound. As Ghosthand slowly rolled up his sleeves, the true appearance of the hand hidden under the long glove was finally revealed.

  There was nothing under the light of the torches. Nothing at all!

  Silo’s expression changed, some severe emotion flashed through his eyes. The fingers held behind his back fidgeted.

  Something whistled through the air from the darkness above the roof.

  Ping! An arrow dipped in dark green poison suddenly appeared, but then it froze in the air, right before Ghosthand—it was as if an invisible hand was gripping it.

  Seeing everyone’s shocked expressions, Ghosthand chuckled. He “clenched his fist” and then the cracks and pops of joins came out of thin air. The arrow shattered, crumbling to dust.

  Then he reached out his “hand,” explored the chest of the enemy before him, and slowly pulled his hand out. There was no blood, no wounds, or anything strange, but now there was a beating heart in his hand.

  The man who had lost his heart fell to the ground and did not get up again. No matter how many drugs he had taken, no matter how much vitality had been squeezed out, he could not grow another heart and was useless against this technique.

  “It’s like what you see, Mr. Silo.” Ghosthand stepped forward, his voice was polite. “I don’t know how to use a sword or arrow. I don’t understand poison or ambushes either. This is the only technique I know. Fifteen years ago, when I still had my right hand, I would use it to open up my enemies’ chests and dig out their hearts. When I lost right my hand, I realized that I could skip some steps. Your actions during that period brought shame to the city. But today, the shame will end.”

  Boom! The heart in his hands suddenly burst. Blood spewed out from between his clenched fingers like a spray of bloody rain. A drop landed on Silo’s face.

  Feeling the hotness on his face, Silo blankly raised a finger and wiped his face. Seeing the blood on his finger, he froze, his face turning white. He stumbled back.

  He screamed something in the Indian language. It was probably something along the lines of “Kill him” or “Destroy him without leaving his body in tact!”

  And so a roar sounded abruptly through the crowd. The ascetic monk hidden amongst the muscular men suddenly acted. In an instant, the frail figure rushed out from the crowd, chanting in Sanskrit. His voice was like booming thunder.

  Om—

  His skin transformed into a copper bronze. He had suddenly transformed into a golden man. Even his body weight had multiplied and a sharp noise sounded when his bare feet hit the stone tiles.

  As he breathed heavily, faint thunder seemed to roar within him. Strands of electric light appeared on his metallic skin, traveling and projecting. In the blink of an eye, the god of enforcement from the scriptures descended from the sky. It lifted wind and thunder out of thin air and it was terrifying.

  As the monk recited the secret spell, a temporary blankness appeared in the minds of everyone in the notes’ path. But after this blankness, the golden monk wrapped in lightning and thunder had already rushed forward. His right hand was bent into a holy sign and he swung it down like a Vajra! The fist whistled through the air and created ripples in the air current. It transformed into the dharma against demons!

  As the Vajra fist fell down, Ghosthand raised his hand, meeting it halfway…

  Boom! Instantly, a muffle sound burst in the air. Rays of lightning shot out, blinding everyone’s eyes. They could only feel something quickly moving around in the ball of light.

  It was something faster than sound, and shorter and faster than thunder. It came and left in a moment, soaring past the long distance. It was as fast as a dream that had been awoken in shock.

  After that instant, there were no more loud bangs. After the blinding light faded, only two figures remained. Ghosthand was still in his original spot. The ascetic monk that had bursted into action was rooted to his spot as well, unable to move.

  “What are you waiting for?” Silo yelled, urging the unmoving monk. “Kill him! I didn’t bring you here from India just so you could scare people!”

  The ascetic monk still did not move.

  Ghosthand studied the monk who was glaring at him. A tinge of respect appeared in his eyes and he sighed. “I can’t believe there really is a spell in this world that transforms a human body into metal. The Indian ascetics are full of hidden talents. I am impressed.”

  “I lost,” the metallic monk said hoarsely. He closed his eyes, sighing. “Silo…run.” As he spoke, the breath held in his chest finally leaked out. Without the breath, he could no longer support the spell and he returned to his body of flesh. And then he collapsed, bit by bit. He sank to the ground like liquid and became a pile of mud.

  The cool moonlight shone down from the sky onto Ghosthand’s invisible hand, illuminating what was held there. It was a white skeleton, complete from head to toe. There was a shade of ashen green to the ghastly white, and it swayed in the cold wind as Ghosthand moved. In that instant, he had pulled the ascetic monk’s skeleton through the metallized flesh, and had not leave a single bone behind!

  “Ten years ago, everyone knew that my hand was fast,” Ghosthand murmured, gazing at the dazed eyes and white faces. “So many years have passed. I can’t believe I’ve gotten even faster.”

  Ten years ago, Ghosthand’s technique was one-of-a-kind. Now, it was still unmatched!

  He loosened his fingers and the white skeleton fell to the ground. It crashed with a crisp sound, like a wind chime made of bone. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back—Boom!

  A roar suddenly sounded in the crowd. A crazed man brandished his sword and rushed toward Ghosthand. His head was chopped off!

  The mass of people rustled. The original equilibrium in the courtyard had been disrupted and the drugs began to go into the effect. The men who had lost all reason smelled the blood and went wild. Roars and howls sounded continuously and Ghosthand disappeared in the crowd.

  Ten minutes later, all sound had vanished. Ganlu Courtyard had never been so peaceful and quiet in the decades it had existed. It was like a tomb, filled with deathly silence.

  The only one still standing had been dyed red by blood. Lips trembling, he lit his pipe and took a deep breath before blowing out a puff of gray smoke. The drugs in the tobacco were ignited and entered his lungs with the smoke. It spread through his body, pushing down the pain from his wounds.

  His shoulders, chest, back, legs and even head were dripping with blood. Some of the blood was from his enemies, some was his.

  “I’m old, after all.” Ghosthand sighed and furrowed his brows in pain. The dew in the night was heavy, and his rheumatism was acting up again. He had sprained his back while dodging a dagger earlier, and now he could barely walk.

  Yes, he was old. Why would he deny it?

  Deep down, he was a bit vexed. He was old now, so why did he have to be like the Butcher and turn his enemy’s lair into a bloodbath? Not everyone was a beast like the Butcher and would not die no matter what…

  He sighed and raised his bloodied eyebrows as he gazed around. “Silo? Are you still here?”

  No one replied in the silence. In the shadows, Silo held his nose, almost suffocating himself. He quietly stumbled back, but he fell onto the steps and could not move again.

  “I see you. Please stay there and don’t move.” Spotting him, Ghosthand’s eyes brightened. He slowly moved toward the man.

  There was still nothing where his right hand should have been—only an empty sleeve cuff. But blood had dyed the invisible hand red, revealing its menacing shape. It was like the realistic reflection of a nightmare or hell. That must be what death would look like if it was something solid. How superb must a killing technique be to reach such a terrifying state?

  Silo gazed blankly as Ghosthand closed in on him. His eyes were hopeless, but in the end, relief appeared in the bottomless despair.

&n
bsp; “Ha, so karma is hitting me today, is it?” Silo laughed, mocking himself, and his eyes became relieved. “Karma will come after committing many acts of unrighteousness. Bring it on!”

  He yanked down his collar, revealing his chest. He was determined to face his death. “This is the logic behind karma, right? Everyone who sins must face the punishment from fate…”

  “No.” Ghosthand stuck his hand into Silo’s chest and gazed at his seemingly relieved eyes. “Actually, there are people who are much more evil than you, but they lead happy lives. They’ll die in happiness with a large family. Why do you want everyone to be unlucky like you?”

  Silo froze. His eyes grew stormy. The forced “relief” had been shattered and his face twisted like an evil spirit. He glared at Ghosthand and opened his mouth as if he wanted to yell or snap Ghosthand’s neck in the last struggle.

  But then a soft crack sounded inside his chest. His body trembled and began spasming on the ground. Finally, he stopped. There was a short period of peace before the end of his life…but sadly, it was useless. He had wanted to die with some dignity, but sadly, death was death. There was no dignity involved, and he still died like a dog.

  Under the moonlight, his corpse slowly stiffened. The dull eyes reflected the firelight he had personally lit. He had died with his eyes open.

  165 Somewhere With Flowers

  The pale moon in the sky illuminated both the quiet cities and the rioting cities. The moonlight shone on the cold white marble palace, as well as the sheds that collapsed in the turbulent flames.

  Strands of mist suffused the flames, like living creatures walking through the city. Mist floated above, covering the blood and deaths in cold whiteness.

  Deep in the mist came a hoarse yet distant song. It was a mourning song for the sacrifice.

  Highgate Cemetery was located in the Whitechapel area of downtown. Mist hung above the quiet and desolate land. The black iron gate of the cemetery was open, revealing the path to the world of the death. Gray-white tombstones stood haphazardly in the ground like tree stumps. Withered trees grew obliquely toward the sky. Everything was deathly silent.

  The seabirds had brought seeds here from far away, and countless white flowers grew from the muddy decayed soil. Delicate petals surrounding a yellowish core and stained with dew swayed gently in the cold wind, like the last breath of the dead buried under the earth.

  The Shaman, clad in a black ceremonial robe, stood among the tombstones in the mud. He gazed at the tomb before him and the shabby wooden coffin within it.

  The corpse in the coffin was already cold, but it seemed to still be alive. The corpse’s eyes were open, glaring at the sky as if he was prepared to pull out a knife and kill his enemy.

  But his enemies had cut off his head, and he had died. However his companions had won and brought back his body.

  “Everley.” The Shaman pressed on the wooden coffin with a complex look of pity. His hoarse voice echoed in the graveyard, as if he was introducing this new member to the afterlife.

  “He was my loyal subordinate and a heinous villain. He followed me until his death and never swayed. He was addicted to alcohol and violence. The man was neither a good husband nor a good father, and definitely not a good man. Now he’s dead.”

  The Shaman extended his hand. He put the two coins in his hand on the pair of eyes still open in death. He paid the fee to cross the Styx River. Taking one last glance at the dead man’s face, he bid farewell quietly. “Avalon thanks you for your devotion.”

  The coffin lid closed. The Shaman nailed it for him and watched as the dead man sank into the darkness to enjoy his eternal peace.

  A new wooden coffin was carried up. Neither ferocity nor serenity could be seen from the dead face. He was just sleeping peacefully.

  “Eric?” The Shaman looked at that face and said, “I know you. I can’t believe you’re dead too.”

  He wiped the dust off the victim’s face in pity, and announced softly, “He was a small gangster of downtown, someone who played on both sides. He went with the flow and did a lot of things, but never succeeded. He once had the enthusiasm for doing big business. He couldn’t wait to stand out among the people, but he spoiled everything. He achieved nothing in the end.”

  The Shaman put the coins on his eyes and whispered goodbye too. “May you find the meaning of living in your endless rest.”

  The coffin lid was closed and the Shaman took the hammer, nailing the “luggage” marked for the afterlife. The wooden coffin sank into the mire and disappeared.

  -

  A new coffin was brought in. This time, the Shaman could not help sigh.

  “Silo, an Indian.”

  He looked at the twisted face with compassion, rather than sadness or joy. “We meet again. Let me send you off.”

  He smoothed the twisted features for the corpse, and whispered, “He came here sixteen years ago and the city did not reject him. In order to stand out, he sold illegal drugs and ran many brothels for a living. He had two sons. One of them died because of this, the other has been sent back to India. He did not dare to let his sons know what he was doing.

  “In order to make money, he poisoned many innocent people, but his arrival also resulted in the regulation of illegal drugs. A small handful of people were spared. He deserved to die, but he was not the most evil. He was just a poor man who was stuck in the middle. He had given a lot to the city and once obeyed the rules. Unfortunately, he went astray.”

  The Shaman put the coins on Silo’s eyes. He closed the coffin and nailed it shut for him. “Rest in peace. Your name will be remembered by Avalon.”

  The last one was a heavy iron coffin. The man with heavy armor in the coffin had already passed away. The deceased’s body was broken as if he had been hacked by swords, burned by fire, and shot by arrows. But even in death, he did not give up the sabre in his hand. Heavy scarlet remained on the broken blade of the sword remained heavy scarlet. The blade shivered in the cold like a soul sighing.

  “Basset Hound Werner, the leader of Asgard people, you died with dignity.” The Shaman wiped the blood off Werner’s face with a handkerchief and folded his hands on his chest. He looked at Werner’s face as if seeing all the bravery and roars in throughout his life.

  “More than a decade ago, he and his men came and replaced One-Eye. They sold their own strength, and robbed others for wealth. Avalon accepted him generously and gave him a place.

  “He did not have any survival skills or an outstanding long-term vision. He never relied on friendship and only worshipped strength, following strength. He died without fear and was an excellent warrior. He could have made the city a better place. However…”

  He put the silver coins on the dead man’s eyes. His look was cold and regretful.

  “He let down the city.”

  The iron coffin was closed and sank into the mire.

  The Shaman turned back, looking at the coffins sent in from the other end of the white mist and the death resting in the coffins. Some were his friends while others were his enemies. Those who were not able to live under the sun had all died tonight and were buried in the darkness. They would forever be in the city’s shadow. He would witness their deaths and give meaning to their meager lives, even if the meaning was light as a feather.

  -

  During the long funeral, Ghosthand limped behind the Shaman on a crutch and whispered something. The Shaman nodded to show that he understood. Ghosthand was silent for a moment before asking lightly, “Do we really not need to worry about the Asylum?”

  “I told the Butcher to go and bring Alberto’s corpse back, and he did it. That’s enough. Someone else would take care of the rest,” the Shaman said. “We only do what we must do.”

  Ghosthand nodded. He heard the Shaman’s hoarse murmur.

  “Ghosthand?”

  “Yes?” He raised his head and looked at the Shaman’s silhouette.

  The old man gazed at the tombstones that sprouted from the mud. He seeme
d to be speak to himself or lament quietly, “We planted so many corpses this year. A lot of flowers will bloom next year, right?”

  There was no response.

  166 The Blood Ritual Begins

  The clouds in the pure black sky were blood red with the reflection of the flames. Ashes flew in the hot wind. They rose into the sky and faded, vanishing. It was like fiery stars were rising gradually. The fire was at its climax.

  On the street, the killing had reached fever pitch. In the fighting and attacking that had spread to every corner of the city, roars and wails rang in everyone’s ears.

  An eerie and strange chill was in the air, but it was covered by the burning flames. The vague laughter and chanting snaking around everyone’s ears was replaced by the roars and screams, and then became too faint to hear.

  Covered by layers of bricks, hundreds of meters underground, the glorious yet hoarse singing boomed like thunder. This was the final laboratory in the central security room.

  The resounding singing and music echoed above the circular plaza. It rolled between the walls, rushed into the darkness above the dome and spread in all directions. The burning mercury flowed in the cracks between the bricks, forming secrete music notes and scores. The scores transformed quickly, warping like an asphyxiated snake.

  “How sweet is the grace of god! Sinners as I have gone astray but have gone been led back, have gone blind but can now see again…” Above the designs, dozens of musicians clad in blood-red cloaks stood in the eye of the resonance. Their souls were connected as they sang the fallen hymn with fervor. Their eyes rolled as they chanted and sang. It was as if the song had ignited their nerves and they were immersed in the endless song.

  It was a holy hymn and melody, but now, it was indescribably wild and ferocious. A tidal wave of aether rolled off their bodies, transforming into a hellish red light. Bursts of roars and rips came from thin air. It was as if the gate to hell was about to open and the demonic world would descend!

  This was one of the twenty songs from the Codex Calixtinus. As an ancient record written by earlier saints, it was a treasure passed down through the generations of a certain sect.