222. The Day Of The Festival Part 1

“Everyone, please move in an orderly fashion!” The Kim City Knights called out, their polished steel catching the lantern glow as they guided the crowds into neat formations. Their firm yet respectful tones carried easily through the bustling plaza, ensuring that the masses pressing toward the Herptian Church did not descend into chaos.The square had transformed into a sea of color and sound. Nearly every citizen of Kim City, and countless invited visitors from the mainland, had gathered here, swelling the plaza until it seemed the city itself was breathing with one heartbeat. At the center stood the newly built stage, its polished wooden planks reinforced with steel fittings, lanterns arranged in clever arrays to bathe it in brilliance. The red curtains were drawn shut, holding back anticipation like a bowstring pulled taut.

Around the edges of the square, vendors shouted cheerfully, hawking their wares as the intoxicating aroma of sizzling spices and rich oils filled the night air. From wide iron pans and clay braziers came the crown jewel of Kim City’s cuisine: the Maverick Fish, the magical beast from the northern shore waters, so massive that even one specimen could feed dozens. Each part of the beast was crafted into a different delicacy, nothing wasted, everything honored.

The head and collar were fire-roasted over open flames until the skin blistered and crackled, the smoky aroma carried on the sea breeze. The belly was carved into thin, glistening slices, left raw but laced with vinegar, spiced oil, and a sharp chili sauce that made eyes water and mouths burn with delight. The flanks simmered in earthen pots, stewed with chili flakes, cumin, and wild herbs until the flesh flaked apart at a spoon’s touch, the broth red as molten sunset. The tail, prized for its rich fat, was braised for hours in a sauce thickened with honeyed wine, served atop steaming rice that soaked up every drop. Even the bones and scales were not discarded, crushed, battered, and deep-fried into glistening golden chips that crackled between teeth like shards of roasted glass, seasoned with salt and ground peppercorn.

“Come, taste the pride of Kim City! Spices from the empire, beasts from the sea, flavor for gods and mortals alike!” barked one vendor, holding up a skewer dripping with juices. Travelers from the mainland, bit in hesitantly then gasped, their faces igniting with delight as the fire of chili and the sweetness of fish danced together on their tongues. The festival’s spirit took them, laughter breaking from lips that only hours ago had spoken with the stiffness of foreign courts.

As the sun finally sank below the horizon, the last streaks of red faded from the sea. Lanterns blazed to life in every corner of the plaza, their collective glow bright enough to mimic daylight. And yet, above, the pale silver of the newly risen moon poured down in soft light, wrapping the city in an otherworldly shimmer. It was as if day and night had clasped hands, blessing the festival together.

Then the curtains stirred. A hush swept across the plaza like a tide pulling back from shore. The faintest hum drifted on the air a resonance of jasmine flowers woven into garlands and laid discreetly about the stage. Their petals pulsed faintly with mana, amplifying sound and carrying it to every ear.

A voice rose from behind the curtain, rich and solemn, yet laced with the warmth of promise.

“This is the tale of beginnings… the tale of why this festival came to be. The tale of Herptian’s gift, of lust entwined with life, of indulgence woven into the fabric of man.”

The words rang out, echoing in every corner of the city square, drawing the thousands gathered into silence. Forks and goblets stilled, vendors paused mid-sale, children clutched their parents’ hands, and nobles leaned forward with sharp attention. The story was about to begin not merely a performance, but something that will change the world today.

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The curtains parted. A cloaked actor stepped forward, shrouded in black. His form was formless, his presence suffocating, representing the Absolute Being. Shadows pooled unnaturally around his feet.

“The Absolute being awoke from the chaos of countless universes adrift upon the celestial sea. And from its awakening came the Celestial Realm, a place vast and empty where it could rest.”

For a long, drawn breath the figure stood motionless, and then a cascade of light burst across the stage. Lanterns flared so bright the audience shielded their eyes.

“For ages unmeasured, longer than any mortal mind could fathom, the Absolute Being rested… alone.”

The music softened to a mournful hum, a note of aching solitude. Then the narrator’s voice sharpened, trembling with awe.

“But gazing upon the universes beyond, the Absolute felt something new: an emotion it did not know existed.”

The light turned cold and pale, the cloaked actor trembling as if stricken.

“Loneliness.”

The drums boomed, low and relentless, like a heartbeat. Naked actors ran onto the stage, their bodies full on display. They danced around the cloaked figure like marionettes, their movements graceful yet hollow, their eyes empty. Follow current novᴇls on ????????????????????•????????????????•????????????

“And so it created. A universe to worship it. Creatures in the image of the worlds it had glimpsed. Bodies strong, bodies fair, bodies adorned in the beauty of life itself.”

But the narrator’s voice dropped into something grim.

“They were not their own. They were hallucinations. Shadows of the Absolute Being’s own mind.”

Chains clattered as the actors dropped to their knees before the cloaked figure. The audience gasped as they realized: these humans were not free, but extensions of a god’s dream.

“This was the two-chambered mind. One chamber commanded, the other obeyed. They were puppets voices without will.”

The chains rattled louder until, suddenly, twelve of the actors broke free. Six women, six men, their bodies naked. They stood tall beside the cloaked figure, defiant.

“But twelve began to change. Twelve grew aware. Twelve looked inward and saw themselves not as echoes, but as being.”

The stage shifted again. Painted backdrops slid into place: temples, cities, fields of wheat. The twelve actors donned robes of gold, silver, and crimson, each symbolizing a new domain: afterlife, justice, time and more.

“Intrigued, the Absolute gave each of its twelve children dominion, fusing part of itself into them. They became gods. And under their care, humanity awakened.”

The music swelled. Actors portraying mortals now walked upright, clothed in tunics and dresses, tools in hand. They farmed, built, and loved. Their movements were no longer stiff but vibrant, their faces alive.

“Self-awareness spread like flame. Humanity began to think. To question. To dream. They became more than shadows.” The lanterns turned blood-red. The stage shook with the sound of thunder. Actors screamed and scattered.

“The Absolute being was horrified. ‘Consciousness,’ it cried, ‘is a parasite! A disease! A corruption that has spread into my perfect creation!’”

The cloaked actor raised his arms, and the dancers writhed in agony, their faces twisted as though torn between two wills. The audience murmured uneasily.

“But the Twelve stood with mankind.” Actors portraying the gods stepped forward, each lifting their sigils.

“‘If consciousness is a disease,’ they said, ‘then we shall stand with the infected.’”

The drums rolled into a furious crescendo as the cloaked figure staggered, denied its dominion.

“Thus the Absolute being chose a new weapon. If the gods would defy it, then it would raise a human to destroy them all.”

From the side, a woman emerged in a gown of deep crimson. Her body shimmered beneath translucent silk, her every step both divine and profane. She moved to the cloaked figure, caressed its faceless head, and kissed it long and slow as his hands roamed her curves.

“The Witch of the West. The last human untainted by consciousness. A vessel still pure, still obedient.”

Behind her, actors dressed in wild leathers and bone masks flooded the stage. Their movements were feral, violent, their eyes glazed with fanatic devotion.

“She raised the Cult of the Absolute. Humans who rejected the parasite of self, who surrendered will and desire to the Absolute.”

The stage exploded into chaos. Painted backdrops shifted rapidly: burning cities, blood-soaked fields, forests aflame. Dancers collided in choreographed violence, blades clashing, bodies writhing in death throes. The cultists moved with inhuman grace, cutting down mortals as though they were reeds in the wind.

“Their power was not of this world. Otherworldly. Impossible for mortal armies to match. Humanity faltered. Kingdoms fell. And only the Twelve stood between annihilation and survival.”