Chapter Seventy: The Wall of Sighs

“As expected...”

Before the Sighing Wall that separated the upper and lower districts of Hemtica, the Glorious One halted.

At this point, the Apostle from the Dice House had no reason to deceive them—the route to the upper district was thoroughly sealed off. Though the city’s defense engineers were still toiling away in an attempt at repairs, the youth who already understood the real reason could not pin his hopes on them.

So—

Ami raised his head, gazing up at the sheer wall that soared into the clouds before him.

This was the only point of entry.

If he could avoid it, he truly did not wish to take this path. Among the lower district's residents, rumors about the Sighing Wall were countless: some claimed gods were sealed within, or demons dwelled inside—a clear mark of unreliability—while others insisted it was a relic of the earliest civilization, a technical marvel left by the primordial ancestors, a rumor whose truth was impossible to discern. There were even those who believed the wall was alive, a sentient demon. If he hadn’t possessed the almost cheating ability of the Death Omen, he would never risk his life to challenge the Sighing Wall.

Yes, challenge.

He would climb it—this legendary, insurmountable Sighing Wall.

“Wait here for me,” the Glorious One gathered his scattered thoughts and instructed the girl at his side. His tone was gentle, even calm, but carried a finality that brooked no argument. “I’ll go ahead and scout the way above.”

“Above?” The Swordbearer voiced her confusion.

He nodded. “I plan to attempt what has been, until now, a myth no one has ever conquered.”

Mia simply furrowed her beautiful brows and shook her head. Her voice was cold, so calm it didn’t stir a single ripple: “You’ll die.”

As if stating a fact.

“Well,” Ulysses had already prepared his answer. He waved his hand and flashed a broad, sunny smile. “Didn’t I tell you before?”

His lips curled slightly.

“My ability is the authority of resurrection.”

“Oh.”

Her response was indifferent, as if she believed him, and she made no further move to stop him.

Then, let it begin.

Drawing a deep breath, the Glorious One emptied his mind, drew a shallow cut at his wrist with the dark-blooded blade—without tending the wound, letting the crimson blood drip onto the ancient, red-and-black short sword.

Perhaps his father—alive or dead, he didn’t know—would be furious if he learned of this, but there was no time to care. As chaos in the upper district began to show itself, he decided to unlock the shackles time had placed on the dark blood and borrow that final, forbidden power—the one he should never use. For Yulia’s sake, perhaps, just perhaps, his father’s obsession with his daughter would spare him...maybe, probably, almost certainly?

He shook his head, casting aside the miscellaneous thoughts that leapt into his mind.

And then—

“Vestia Thoselin.” He uttered the activation key.

At once, searing breath displaced the air, the eternal fog recoiled as if encountering its nemesis, and the most ancient blade, which had once cut through the blindness and chaos, shed the traces of time left upon it. The legendary weapon once wielded by the Ancients was reborn in light and flame.

“What is that...” For once, the Swordbearer from the Church was visibly stunned by the purity of this radiance.

The youth felt no need to answer her. The fewer who knew of the tempered weapon, the better. Besides... activating the dark blood required more than just a key phrase; much like the demon-slaying weapons popular in chivalric romances, it demanded a sacrifice of Ulysses blood. If its master could not continually offer his own blood, it would return to its time-worn, dormant state.

Yes, that rusted, red-and-black, unremarkable form.

Time was limited.

With that in mind, he took a running start, leapt, and landed securely on the wall ten meters up—two stories high. Before gravity could drag him back, the burning short sword, bright with light and flame, sliced through the Sighing Wall as if it were butter.

Wait—am I out of my mind?

This is... far too sharp.

The two realizations struck him at once, and, propelled by momentum, the Glorious One tore a shocking gash in the so-called Sighing Wall.

Then... Ami Ulysses quietly sheathed his sword.

This was completely unexpected. Once unsealed, the tempered weapon was sharper than he had imagined. As he slid down, he had felt almost no resistance. Hemtica’s, no, the Triple City’s famed unbreakable wall was split cleanly by the edge of the dark blood.

Even now, he felt a surreal sense of disbelief at the shattering of legend.

“So,” after the shock wore off, the youth looked a bit embarrassed at the Swordbearer behind him and shrugged. “What do you think about us just carving out a path?”

Mia said nothing; she preferred action to words. Stepping forward, she drew her great cross-sword in a reverse grip. Pressure, pressure, pressure—under compressed wind and the force of her dual abilities, the silver blade became a streak of light, a comet plunging to earth, a bolt of lightning cleaving the sky. The thunderous clash echoed like a storm in the heavens.

Clang—

Before the echoes faded, the Glorious One had seen the result.

A crack had opened.

Yes, the Swordbearer’s silver cross-sword had managed to break a gap.

“Impossible.” The girl showed no surprise at this result; her answer was as clear and cold as ever. “At least, I can’t do it.”

“Looks like the hard work falls to me,” the youth spread his hands, seeming unconcerned on the surface, though in truth he used this exchange to mask the tumult in his heart. “Luckily, we don’t need to destroy the entire wall. All we need is to clear the blocked passage—by force.”

Mia nodded slightly.

“At least we’ve found a way through,” Ami said, taking out a medical bandage to staunch his bleeding. He watched as light and flame faded, and the sword in his hand turned back into a nondescript, rusty stick. Only after a long moment did he look away and glance at the girl. “Keep this a secret for me.”

“All right.” The Swordbearer offered no oath or guarantee, just a simple, single word.

“Now, let’s see what the Sighing Wall truly is.” The Glorious One gazed at the gash he had made in the wall. Though insignificant in the context of the vast wall, the wound was nonetheless striking. “Triple City... Ever since I heard that name, I’ve grown ever more curious about the history hidden in this mist.”

Ulysses had always been deeply interested in history. But compared to the era of the ancient kings, he was more drawn to the legendary age, when the Ancients still walked the world—not the rise and fall of cities or civilizations, but the endless struggle between order and chaos throughout humanity’s long evolution.

Still, it seemed that the city he lived in concealed a historical riddle, and he could not help but care, could not help but feel intrigued.

“Be careful,” Mia murmured beside him.

“I will.” The youth replied politely. The Death Omen was an ability he trusted deeply; it had saved him at least a dozen times. Even faced with the ancient, mysterious Sighing Wall, he was confident in his escape. What’s more, his intuition had not once sounded a warning or foreshadowed his own death.

He reached out, running his hand along the wall’s surface—so smooth it bore not the slightest dent.

“Tekli...li...Tekli...li...”

Some sound seemed to echo rhythmically from within the wall. The Glorious One’s face showed confusion. Was it just the wind, or were the wildest rumors of the lower district true? Did demons dwell within the wall—or was it alive?

His heartbeat quickened.

Ami took a deep breath, forcing down his nerves, and pulled from his bosom a fire-inscribed talisman. He wedged it into the crack, lighting up a sliver of the interior. Leaning in, pressing himself to the wall, he peered inside with one eye.

It was a little blurry...but there seemed to be nothing.

So it was only the wind, creating echoes—somewhat disappointed, the youth hesitated only briefly before stepping back, about to end his inspection. But at that moment, the unexpected struck again—he was startled to find that the fire talisman wedged in the crack could not be pulled free. No, not only could he not remove it; it had melded with the wall, becoming part of it!

It was healing—

Eyes wide, the youth saw it—the wall was healing, like a living thing!

“Damn.” The Glorious One muttered, snuffing out any lingering irreverence toward the Sighing Wall. He pressed his head once more to the opening made by the dark-blooded blade, peering inside—then confusion set in anew.

The length was wrong.

Even after reforging, the short sword was nowhere near a meter in length, but through the fire talisman’s light, he could see several meters in. Which meant—the despair wall separating Hemtica’s upper and lower districts was hollow?

That wasn’t right.

Not at all.

No matter the material or method, a hollow wall meant uneven stress, shoddy construction, fatal flaws.

It made no sense.

Could it be some necessity of alchemy—spaces left for stability, for marking alchemical runes against the erosion of time? That was the only explanation he could imagine. Unless... could the Sighing Wall truly be alive? Could demons really dwell within?

He couldn’t help but laugh—but in the next instant, the sound cut off as if a hand had closed around his throat.

Because—

Something was moving in the dark.

Rustle...rustle...Tekli...li...rustle...

A chilling sound drew closer.

Then, in the dark, a crimson eye snapped open. By its shadow, it was clear: beneath it writhed countless tendrils, tangled like bird’s nests, squirming in the gloom.

Dense, endless.

The hollow inside the Sighing Wall was their breeding ground.

At the moment his gaze met the creature’s, as if some switch had been thrown, the tendrils rose upright, disgusting tumors swelling at visible speed and, in seconds, blooming open like grotesque flowers, revealing clusters of blood-red eyes.

Tekli...li...Tekli...li...

A million voices sounded at once, a brain-piercing cacophony that assaulted the youth’s mind.

In that instant, he saw—

—Death.

Without suspense, the Death Omen activated.

Then—blood poured from every orifice, and the Glorious One’s body collapsed like a broken doll, his chest rising and falling weaker with every breath.

After just three breaths, the Swordbearer lifted him from the ground, her pale fingers testing for breath.

The motion froze.

Her arm fell, powerless.

He was dead.

Thus did the life of Ami Ulysses come to an end.