Chapter 143

But in any case, this is not something an ordinary small vendor should be able to pull off.

"Your Excellency is indeed discerning!" the vendor replied with a smile. "These flower crowns are all from the Deep Sea Church... Look, the nearest church is over there."

Having successfully completed a transaction, the cheerful vendor even led Hebe to the intersection.

Aside from the bustling festive atmosphere, this small, steeple-topped church appeared remarkably Serenity, or perhaps even forlorn.

When Hebe pushed open the door to the church, there weren't even many candles lit inside.

Only a few large flowers by the entrance swayed, seemingly welcoming Hebe's arrival.

Hebe's gaze fell on the flowers, which resembled both daisies and large sunflowers, and her brows furrowed slightly.

Seemingly sensing Hebe's gaze, the flowers trembled and closed their petals as if they were alive, lying prone between the seawater.

She arrived at an inopportune time; it seemed the main deity of this Deep Sea Church had just departed.

Hebe looked around and could even feel a faint call—a call that arose from the depths of her body, making her want to embrace the sea.

When Hebe went closer, she discovered that the attraction came from the murals.

More precisely, it's the special pigments used in the murals—pigments that include certain specific human tissues.

This so-called Deep Sea Church looks pretty sinister...

219 Deep Sea Church

"Don't worry, sister," Medea, who was living inside the wooden stick, replied. "The Deep Sea Church is not a cult in the broad sense."

"So, in some respects it can indeed be called a cult?" Hebe said bluntly.

"Hey, sister, don't say such harsh things." Medea defended the Deep Sea Church, "Although the Deep Sea Church raises Sea Kin, entices people to embrace the sea, and preaches the eschatology that Atlantis will inevitably sink into the deep waters... I know it is a good church because the object of the Deep Sea Church's faith is the Pearl Empress."

Hebe raised an eyebrow: The Pure Water Spirit, also known as Narcissus, are the retinue of Pearl, the June Archon. And based on the various signs displayed by the Deep Sea Church, they clearly do indeed have connections with Pearl.

Following this logic, the Pure Water Spirit and the Deep Sea Church are indeed natural allies.

In Atlantis, religious power was not actually strong, because musicians and philosophers had already satisfied the psychological needs of most people. The existing religion was more like a consolidation of the indigenous beliefs during the course of conquest.

It's just a temporary measure.

According to the Philosopher King's original plan, both Janus's Church and the Deep Sea Church should gradually complete their missions over time and eventually disappear.

But why, over the centuries, have philosophers and musicians been talking about "Janus the Great" all the time?

Why did the Church of Janus separate from the Deep Sea Church?

Hebe understood the answer after a moment's thought: because there really is a "god".

"In the past, in an environment where the existence of God couldn't be proven, religion could still survive by providing psychological value," Hebe laughed somewhat helplessly. "How much more so in this world where God truly exists? Remus, who is determined to destroy the very foundation of the church, has only walked into a dead end."

Therefore, praying to the great god Janus can indeed get a response from the Gatekeeper of the October Governor, and the same is true for the Deep Sea Church.

"To be honest, you're way smarter than I ever imagined, sister."

After listening to Hebe's analysis, Medea said in a heavy voice, "I only said one sentence from beginning to end, and you were able to deduce such a close approximation of the whole truth from it... If you become my friend, you will benefit immensely, but if you become my enemy, it will be a nightmare."

Hebe smiled noncommittally.

Suddenly, as if she had thought of something, she patted the wooden stick disguised as Cross Sword at her waist. "What is the relationship between the Deep Sea Church and the Church of Janus?"

"Of course they're in opposition!" Medea replied seriously. "The Church of Janus is exoteric, while the Deep Sea Church is esoteric. Even if their worshipped deities don't fundamentally conflict, their followers are... not only are they numerous, but they are very numerous."

Hebe's fingers caressed the iris buds as she walked towards Joan of Arc of Arc, a slight smile playing on her lips.

"So, if that's the case, then aren't you the unlucky guy who's being attacked by both sides?"

Medea, like a pufferfish whose lungs had been punctured, exclaimed, "There's an old saying in Cathay: 'Those who understand the times are the heroes...' Adapting to the times is the key to survival! Besides, Great God Attinan is kind and benevolent, and so is the Pearl Empress; they will surely forgive me..."

In other words, Medea currently has no physical form; otherwise, Hebe would definitely be able to see her with her veins bulging.

Under the cover of night, all beings rejoiced in a warm and harmonious atmosphere.

Joan of Arc stood by the window, a chilly evening breeze blowing in, the ends of her golden hair already looking somewhat withered.

"Speaking of which, this is actually our first meeting... You look exactly like I imagined you... Hehe..."

A voice, tinged with flattery and laced with madness, rose from behind Joan of Arc of Arc.

Joan of Arc turned around and looked directly at the flower that resembled both a jellyfish and a large sunflower.

At the very center of this flower is a woman with brightly colored hair, speaking incoherently.

—Van Gogh, the bishop of the Deep Sea Church.

But in fact, she was by no means the painter who suffered mental torment and whose life was full of hardship and turmoil.

Of her spiritual body, only five percent is truly "Van Gogh," while the remaining ninety-five percent is the deranged Pure Water Spirit Klytie.

Klytie was a nymph in Greek mythology.

She was once Apollo's lover, but went mad with jealousy after a Persian princess stole Apollo's affections.

Klytie destroyed her rival through slander, but failed to win back Apollo's love.

In Greek mythology, she kept looking up at the sun's radiance and eventually turned into a sunflower.

In Lostbelt, Klytie's descent into madness stemmed from her past alliance with Mozart on behalf of the Pure Water Spirit.

She dreams of a peaceful, prosperous, equal, and bright future.

But what happened next drove Klytie completely mad— Atlantis betrayed the Pure Water Spirit, and Ys broke the alliance.

The Pure Water Spirit were enslaved, losing either their physical form or their intelligence.

All of this stemmed from that treacherous alliance.

'It's all my fault... it's all my fault!'

The once noble and proud Klytie disappeared into the mountains in a mad manner. Deep regret and sorrow overwhelmed her mind, making her self-esteem demeanor pathetic and leaving her face forever frozen with a fawning and obsequious smile.

"If I hadn't done that... if I hadn't been so foolish, I wouldn't have lost everything..."

Klytie despised herself, and at the end of her life, a painter who had also given up on himself committed suicide by drowning.

Two equally world-weary lives merged into one in despair.

This is Van Gogh.

"Hehe... Your situation looks quite dangerous too..." Van Gogh rubbed his hands together, revealing that fawning, pitiful smile. "This is not an exaggeration, hehe... As the servant of the Pearl Empress ... I feel it is necessary to offer you some advice."

Joan of Arc glanced at her.

The Maid of Orléans's eyes held little disgust, but rather pity and sorrow.

Van Gogh seemed completely oblivious to Joan of Arc's gaze.

She nervously rubbed her fingers together, the petals that made up her body drifting aimlessly in the air.

"You still harbor unrealistic expectations in your heart... But have you realized that all of your actions are also the result of deliberate influence?"

"Hehe, have you ever considered how many of those memories were deliberately fabricated?"

"That golden bee Sybil, who was called the prophet, He—"

Van Gogh's words were incoherent and even rambling, but Joan of Arc of Arc was able to understand their meaning.

The pity in the Maid of Orléans's eyes vanished.

"Bishop Van Gogh, if you're just spouting nonsense... then please leave. I'll pretend I never met you."

Upon hearing this, Van Gogh shook his head urgently. "No, no! Can you hear the narcissus's inner thoughts?"

Outside the door, Hebe paused.

The smile on her face gradually faded, turning into a calm that showed neither sorrow nor joy, neither anger nor happiness.

Ask for leave

As the title suggests, I'm currently in an internet cafe in Suzhou, writing some words, but I'm not satisfied with the two thousand words I've written. I'll probably have to take a couple of days off to work through the plot and readjust the wording, since I can't let my emotional expression falter.

This volume has about twenty more chapters remaining until the end.

Sigh, the hotels in Suzhou are better than those in Nanjing, the only downside is that they don't have smart toilets...

220 Be prepared for danger even in times of peace; when the enemy is at the gates.

Hearing the voice of my heart... Ah.

Hebe stood outside the door without saying a word.

Inside the room, Van Gogh's words continued to be incoherent and illogical.

But Joan of Arc suddenly turned around and grabbed the "branches" that made up her body. The force was so great that it crushed several of the flower-shaped tentacles.

"What do you know?"

The Maid of Orléans's face twisted into a hideous demon in an instant.

A moment later, she seemed to realize her lapse in composure and absentmindedly released her hand.

"What else do you know?" Joan of Arc asked. "What exactly do you want to tell me now?"

Van Gogh still had that ingratiating and fawning look on her face; her eyes were vacant, her gaze unfocused.

"Hehe... Warning? Hint? I don't know either... But there are some things that even you yourself don't understand. For example, why were you able to hear that narcissus's thoughts? Was that an effect of the contract?"

Van Gogh completely ignored Joan of Arc's gloomy expression and began to speak on his own.

"Or perhaps you believe it's a talent that came with being 'reborn'?"

"None of them, none of them!" Van Gogh clapped his hands and laughed sharply. "It was the gift of the Prophetess Sibyl, but all gifts of fate have already had a price marked in secret."

"If you can't repay it, then the narcissus will have to repay it."

"The great Prophetess Sibyl, the Ancients who has traversed all cycles of reincarnation, the Sybil who seeks to redefine the world with reason..."

"She is to Remus what the narcissus is to you." Van Gogh circled Joan of Arc, her body floating in the air like a jellyfish.

The Deep Sea Bishop's voice was barely audible. "Rebirth is nothing but an exquisite plagiarism... Run away, Maid of Orléans, before the tide reaches your ankles, or perhaps you want Narcissus to hear the noise of your memories?"

Joan of Arc and Van Gogh looked at each other; the latter's eyes were clear, showing absolutely no sign of madness.

"You..."

Joan of Arc was horrified.

Van Gogh bowed his head respectfully, and she spread her arms like a bird about to take flight, turning into a pool of dazzling and mesmerizing water.

The deep-sea bishop, who was sometimes lucid and sometimes insane, turned into a puddle of damp water and disappeared before Joan of Arc's eyes.

The Maid of Orléans shivered; she suddenly felt a chill, so she went over and closed the window.

Her hands, which once held banners that guided armies, now faltered even when closing a window.

If memories are unreliable, and the past is unreliable, then how much of what you have experienced is believable?

Joan of Arc pressed her hand to her chest in anguish, then felt a sharp pain in her forehead. She pursed her lips bitterly, remaining silent.

A voice said to her, "That's just a madman! Are you going to believe a madman?"

But she immediately shook her head painfully: Jeanne, you know, if you don't have any doubts about the current situation, no matter how much Van Gogh says, it will all be in vain.

She once held so many firm beliefs, but now the foundations of those beliefs are crumbling, everything has become unreliable, even the distant, clamorous fireworks seem like will-o'-the-wisps. Her life has become painful and wrinkled, like a piece of paper carelessly crumpled and torn—twice.

But Joan of Arc was not defeated by this terrible truth; she didn't even shed a single tear.

She pursed her lips and took a deep breath. Even though her face was as pale as paper and her lips had lost all color, she still stood there stubbornly and refused to show any weakness.

Even if the whole world is against her, as long as there is one person on her side, she will not easily give up.

Yes, she knew that Ishtar would never give up on her, just as she believed in Ishtar.

Hebe stood quietly outside the door, the floral crown she held in her hand still exuding a delicate fragrance.

She silently tugged at the corners of her mouth, and thinking about her behavior over the past few days, she even laughed self-deprecatingly.