"Linda has always loved religious paintings. She loves their composition, their presentation, and the underlying meaning they convey. Linda finds them beautiful, and she's always been captivated by that beauty.
"Besides, it's a way to give form to the divine. Through these canvases, aloof and distant gods are pulled down, as if from the clouds into the mortal realm.
"And that allows us to understand and interpret them through human thought."
Karen nodded and sat down by the sofa.
He didn't know how to describe the painting before him. Though unfinished, it already exerted a palpable pressure.
A mad pope,
a perished Church of Light.
In the previous epoch and the first half of the current one, the Church of Light was an absolute colossus.
Many nascent churches, such as the Church of Order, had even needed to include the God of Light in their early mythological narratives to legitimize themselves. From that alone, one could imagine how staggering the orthodoxy of the Church of Light had once been.
Among the books Grandfather had Lunt bring him, aside from *Light of Order*, which specifically introduced the Church of Order, the rest were general overviews of other faiths.
And across those overviews, the shadow of the God of Light was practically everywhere.
Because of this,
after reading through materials on numerous other churches, Karen's impression of the God of Light grew closer and closer to the Qianlong Emperor from his past life.
In his previous life, local snacks across the land would inevitably claim that Emperor Qianlong had tasted them during his tour of the south, bestowed a name upon them, and made them famous overnight;
as if Qianlong never did any proper governing, spending every day running around tasting street food and endorsing local brands.
This God of Light seemed much the same. He neglected godly business just to run around promoting "new gods"—either awakening the God of Order, or helping the God of the Abyss suppress mighty demons, or helping Mother Earth seal tears in the earth. He popped up everywhere, interacting and saving the day at every turn.
One could only say that there was nothing new under the sun.
Just as many people in his past life assumed Westerners were all independent, egalitarian, highly refined, and blessed with joyful education, while many in the West thought Asians universally had squinty eyes;
often, so-called preconceptions were merely frames people imposed on themselves, leading them to believe that this was truly how others lived, and that only such flavor was genuine.
When one focused on an individual, a single household, or a quiet town, where was the need for stark differences? It was simply that people hadn't removed the filters over their eyes.
Just like the towering churches of today: solemn and majestic, with believers everywhere, sparing no effort to interpret their divine authority and uphold their true gods. Yet back in their early days of establishing themselves, none had the moral high ground over another; they were willing to use any means imaginable.
Only after making their fortunes did they learn how to put on airs. People and believers born generations later or living far away naturally accepted the masks they wore today.
Diss's remark about the God of Order—*that whore's son of a God of Order*—
was actually mocking the God of Order for being a hypocrite who wanted both the vice and the virtue.
Pulling his thoughts back to reality,
Karen looked at the mad pope in the painting, feeling an even deeper stir of emotion.
The Church of Light had suffered a devastating catastrophe, draining its vitality and plunging it into decline. But what truly drove it into oblivion, leaving barely a scrap of bone behind, were today's orthodox churches.
While frantically rewriting the parts of their mythological narratives where the God of Light appeared, they hunted down the remnants of the Church of Light to utterly eradicate any possibility of this titan rising again.
"You seem deeply moved?" Piaget sat down on the sofa across from Karen. "Linda also loves to sit in front of these religious paintings for hours, with the exact same expression on her face as you have now."
"Really?" Karen smiled. "I just think it's fascinating to ponder. After all, gods are products created by humans. Once you strip away that lofty divinity, what's packed inside is still human nature."
"'Gods are products created by humans'?" Piaget chewed on the words. "I'm surprised you hold such a view."
Only then did Karen realize he had slipped up. This world truly had real gods.
Alfred, Ms. Molly, and his grandfather Diss were all the best proof that supernatural forces were actively intervening and shaping this world.
Yet Karen wasn't inclined to take back his statement. Subconsciously, he still believed the premise that gods were created by humans was correct.
A staunch materialist wasn't someone who professed a love for dragons only to fear the real thing, nor someone who threw a tantrum when confronted with reality. Even if the God of Light were standing right before you, you would still roll up his sleeve to take his pulse.
"By the way, I have an interesting case here. Let me tell you about it, and we can analyze it together. I'll omit the name."
"All right."
Piaget steered the conversation back to their field.
What followed was a professional discussion between peers, using the case as a foundation to analyze causes, map out development, and debate treatment plans.
It was thoroughly engaging, and Karen brought out cases from his past life to discuss with Piaget.
Piaget had taken a leave of absence from the school after his wife's "passing" and had been out of practice for a long time, while Karen had been forced to change professions after his own "death."
The two delved deeper and deeper, finding ever-greater common ground.
Without realizing it, nearly three hours slipped by. Still wanting more, both began to feel their stomachs rumble.
"I'll go tell Linda to prepare a late-night snack for us." Piaget made to get up.
Karen hastily reached out and pressed down on his shoulder.
"Let me do it."
Piaget hesitated for a moment, then smiled. "All right, that works."
First, Karen used Piaget's home telephone to call his house, telling Aunt Mary that he was at Piaget's place, chatting with him.
After all, this was his first date with Eunice. If he stayed out too late without letting them know, his family might misunderstand and assume he wasn't coming home after a first date.
The man's side wouldn't think their family came out on the losing end, but they might look down on the girl because of it.
After making the call, Karen walked into the kitchen. Not feeling like cooking anything elaborate, he fried a few eggs, made two large sandwiches, and took a big bottle of milk from Piaget's refrigerator.
Sitting across from each other on the sofas, the two ate sandwiches and picked up their earlier conversation. Whenever the discussion grew spirited, they couldn't resist raising their glasses to toast with milk.
Before they knew it, two in the morning arrived.
Both had had busy days. Piaget had spent the day scouring materials in the library, and Karen had been on a date all day. From sitting upright, they gradually sank into the sofas, chatting while lying down.
Eventually, neither knew who trailed off first. Finding no response from the other, they naturally closed their eyes and drifted off to sleep.
In the haze of slumber,
Karen suddenly felt a chill and instinctively reached for something to cover himself, recalling there had been a blanket on the sofa.
Finding nothing, he had no choice but to open his eyes, only to see something resembling human skin "coming down the stairs" at the landing.
Karen saw it, and it seemed to see him.
Yet he felt no real fear, as he had already guessed who that thing was.
Partly, it was because he had experienced so much of this sort of thing lately; partly, it was because he was fairly close with Piaget. It was rather like feeling no dread toward the corpse of someone close to you.
Karen didn't shout or cry out, simply watching it make its way down the stairs.
Then, his eyelids unable to fight off the heavy exhaustion, he closed his eyes and fell back asleep.
After sleeping a while longer, he sensed someone gently shaking him.
Opening his eyes, Karen saw Linda standing before him, a warm and gentle smile on her face.
"Mr. Karen, you'll easily catch a cold sleeping here. The guest room is ready. Please go rest up there."
Out of the corner of his eye, Karen noticed that Piaget was no longer on the sofa across from him.
In truth, whether Linda was an alternate personality born of Piaget's schizophrenia or tied to aberrant demons made little difference to Karen; both of his professions could accept it calmly.
Most importantly, he didn't believe she would harm him. This trust felt inexplicable, yet oddly reassuring.
"All right, thank you, Madam."
Karen didn't decline the offer. He already felt a chill settling into his body; continuing to sleep here might leave him with a cold by morning.
Linda walked ahead, and Karen followed her up to the second floor.
"This is the room. The bed is already made."
"Thank you, Madam."
Karen stepped into the guest room, undressed, lay down, and pulled up the covers. A wave of comfort instantly enveloped him.
A crisp sound clinked beside Karen. Opening his eyes slightly, he saw a tray with tea and pastries placed on the bedside table before him.
"I'll leave the tea here in case you get thirsty during the night."
"Thank you, Madam."
Linda walked out of the bedroom and closed the door.
Karen rolled onto his side and drifted back to sleep.
This sleep was deep and long.
By the time Karen felt his mental energy fully restored by rest,
music seemed to drift past his ears—an ancient music, mingled with human chanting, yet so far away that a single furrow of his brow could disperse it.
It didn't feel like a dream, but a calling.
Like walking along a beach while a group held a bonfire party in the distance. You could naturally walk over and join them, or turn back, or simply lie down far away and keep sleeping.
Karen chose to walk over, because he still sensed no malice. It felt more like an invitation.
Just like Piaget asking him to stay for coffee—
genuine and natural.
Then, he found himself standing in a pitch-black expanse.
Accompanied by a prolonged shout,
countless torches flared to life on the opposite side. Yes, torches.
It was precisely the light from across the way that instantly lent three-dimensional depth to the space.
It was a cliff. Karen stood alone on this side, while all the silhouettes and torches were on the opposite side.
The mountains on either flank were immensely tall, and looking up revealed no stars. This could be inside a canyon, or within the hollow of a mountain.
Gradually, more and more torches appeared on the opposite cliff. From the abyss between them, clusters of firefly-like motes began to rise, casting a soft, mystical glow all around.
Karen saw slaves crowding the entire cliff face opposite him, bare-chested, beads of sweat glistening oily under the torchlight.
Some were quarrying with axes and chisels; others were hauling stone.
Among them was a large group of people clad in purple robes, mostly carrying pigments and applying color with brushes.
When the fireflies from the abyss reached a certain height, the colors on the opposite cliff face were finally revealed to Karen's view.
At the very bottom was a pair of feet, further up were calves, and further still, knees.
Beside those feet lay countless "carcasses of beasts," as well as dense crowds of humans prostrating in worship.
Whether the beasts' carcasses or the worshipping humans, all were minuscule, not even matching the size of the giant's toenails.
This was an ongoing creation, a true religious mural.
A presence of such stature could only be a true god!
Therefore,
this was a mural depicting a true god descending into the mortal world.
*"Yo... err..."*
A rhythmic, prolonged shout rang out once more, like a work chant.
The slaves opposite began to chant in unison, falling into a distinct rhythm.
The figures in purple robes danced along with them.
*"Yo... err..."*
Strange and heavy, the sound spread through the crowd, echoing through the hollow valley, each echo joining in like a new voice to reinforce the cadence.
*Clap!*
*Clap!*
*Clap!*
The slaves and the purple-robed figures holding pigments began stamping their feet and clapping hard in unison, performing a primitive dance.
The next moment,
they suddenly turned as one, facing the side of the abyss where Karen stood alone.
Karen was somewhat taken aback. Originally, he had merely been an "outsider" silently observing from the shadows, but now he had become the focus of all eyes.
Soon, however, Karen realized he was flattering himself.
From the abyss before him emerged an enormous woman's head. Like a female giant, she rose... no, it didn't look like rising, more as if she had simply been squatting within the abyss and was now standing up.
Her hair resembled entwined vines, circles of light rippling across them. The swarms of fireflies that had flown up earlier were merely parts of her body.
When she stood at her full height,
Karen, standing behind her, felt invisibly suppressed by a great presence.
It was a direct sensation of insignificance, a cold spiritual suppression.
Reading from books, one might think ancient peoples prostrating before so-called gods was mere superstition and backwardness;
but when that colossal figure appeared before you, you could instantly sympathize with the urge to bow down.
Worship
did not come from admiration and reverence,
but from lacking the courage to flee—leaving worship as the only action remaining.
The female giant's left hand slowly rose, holding aloft a pool that swirled with countless colors.
Her right hand also slowly rose, shaped like an enormous iridescent feather.
She began reaching into her left hand with her right,
scattering endless colors.
The falling droplets of color instantly transformed into swarms of fireflies, taking flight once more.
Her right hand began to touch the cliff face before her, which rose even higher than her own body.
The contents of the mural grew richer and more defined.
The likeness of a male true god gradually took shape beneath this "brushwork."
She was not a god.
She was the creator of the mural,
crafting a mural for a true god.
Yet she was a god as well,
for all those slaves and purple-robed figures were bowing in worship to her.
"God" was a collective term.
Just like that female follower of the Mills Faith he had seen in Mr. Morf's study.
If prostitutes on island shores could create Mills, the consort of the Sea God, as their faith, why couldn't the artisans and slaves who painted murals create a god of their own?
People prayed to be spared from earthquakes, and so they summoned Mother Earth;
people prayed for calm seas free of storms and hazards, and so they summoned the Sea God;
people prayed for light to shine and dispel the dark, and so they summoned the God of Light;
people prayed for order to descend and bind rules, and so they summoned the God of Order.
A god always appeared whenever people needed one.
Finally,
at the very top of the cliff face,
the female giant drew a sun.
The sun radiated thousands of beams of light, instantly flooding the hollow valley.
Karen instinctively shielded his face with both arms to keep from being scorched by the blinding light,
but when he lowered his arms,
he saw bright sunlight streaming through the bedroom window.
He was still lying in bed, in the guest room of Piaget's home.
"Phew..."
Quite a dream—not frightening, not horrifying, but breathtaking and grand in its epic scope.
Karen reached out for the long-cold tea beside him and took a large gulp.
Then,
he froze.
He saw that the ceiling above him was not an ordinary plaster surface with a hanging light. In fact, there were no light fixtures up there; the only light source in the entire guest room was the bedside lamp.
He hadn't noticed it last night, but now, bathed in the bright morning sunlight, he saw a work of art on the ceiling above him.
It depicted an abyssal canyon identical to the one in his dream.
The only difference was that the painting showed only the setting, without the mural of the true god on the cliff face, without the dense crowds of slaves and purple-robed artisan painters, and without that colossal woman.
A psychological suggestion?
Though he hadn't realized it, had his drowsy self "seen" the mural overhead last night, thereby prompting the dream he just had?
Was that the reason?
Karen got out of bed and dressed.
Just as he stepped out of the guest room, he saw Piaget emerge from his bedroom with disheveled hair. Seeing Karen, Piaget smiled happily.
"Do you need a bath, Karen? Heh, Linda even wiped me down last night."
"A quick wash will do."
"Mm, good. Let me guess, Linda must have prepared breakfast already. My wife never lacks courtesy when guests visit, even though I've told her many times that anyone I invite home is someone I consider a friend, and friends don't need to stand on ceremony."
"Indeed," Karen agreed.
Turning on the faucet in the washroom, Karen began splashing water onto his face.
He saw a new toothbrush and a neatly folded towel on the counter, likely prepared for him.
"Did you sleep well? We talked for so long," Piaget said, leaning against the washroom doorframe.
"Yes."
"I haven't talked so freely in a long time. Many of your ideas feel more advanced than what I know. Very interesting."
Karen began brushing his teeth.
As he squeezed the toothpaste,
he suddenly thought of the hands of the female giant in his dream.
Then,
his mind finally dredged up a minor church mentioned in one of the books Grandfather had given him.
In truth, while dreaming last night, he had vaguely sensed that he knew something of this, which was why he had thought of various gods summoned by human worship. It was just that even after seeing something, recalling it in the moment took time.
The book recorded that this small church worshipped murals.
Its followers were mostly artisans who painted murals, including many who now painted religious murals for churches and holy sites across various regions. Even many painters and artists were adherents of this church.
Because their numbers were few and too widely scattered, the church had never gained significant influence.
And the name of this church was the Church of the Mural God.
The god they worshipped had, since the previous epoch, helped true gods depict their majestic forms, using murals to record and convey their stories.
To a certain extent, in the previous epoch—the early eras—this god and her followers were not merely "painters" and "artisans." They were more like official historians, using a religious faith as their vessel.
After finishing brushing his teeth,
he washed his face,
and while drying it, Karen suddenly looked into the mirror and asked Piaget, who was yawning behind him:
"Piaget, is Linda really an adherent of the Berry religion?"
"Hm? Why ask that all of a sudden?"
"Because besides the Berry religion, there are many other small churches that also advocate for cremating the body."
For instance, the Church of the Mural God. They also advocated cremating their followers' remains, because the ashes... could be used as pigments for mural creations.
They believed such pigments could better commune with divinity, thereby better conveying the image and stories of gods within the murals.
In fact,
considering how long mural creations took,
they could even create murals "in advance."
"Linda is indeed a Berry religion adherent," Piaget said.
"Oh," Karen acknowledged, not pressing further.
Both finished washing up and went downstairs to the first floor.
Breakfast was already laid out on the dining table, with knives and forks arranged. Perhaps sensing that the two had drunk too much milk the night before, the glasses were filled with water.
Karen and Piaget sat down together and had breakfast. When he finished, Karen set down his utensils.
"Thank you, Linda."
"Heh." Piaget chuckled again.
"I'll be heading back." Karen rose to say goodbye.
"Oh, wait a moment. Look, there's a gift box here. Linda must have prepared it as a gift for you. Please take it."
"All right. Thank you, Linda."
"Mm, I won't walk you to the door, then."
"You said it yourself—true friends don't need to stand on ceremony."
Karen took the gift box, stepped out of Piaget's home, got into his car, and fastened his seatbelt.
Before starting the car,
Karen hesitated,
then held the gift box in his hands and opened it.
Inside
lay a box of pigments.
Karen stared blankly for a moment,
then remarked with a sigh:
"What a heavy gift."
Beneath the box of pigments lay a letter.
Karen picked it up:
*Respected Mr. Karen:*
*It has been a long time since I last saw my husband this happy. I offer my sincere gratitude for your presence and the friendship and care you have shown him.*
*I ought to have created a painting for you as a heartfelt gift for my husband's dear friend;*
*yet I am sorry to say that after sitting in my studio for three hours, I did not know how to set brush to canvas.*
*Perhaps*
*the paintbrush of your life has always rested in your own hand, beyond anyone else's power to paint for you.*
*All I can do is gift you a brand-new set of pigments.*
*Finally,*
*I express my deepest gratitude once more for your condescending to befriend my husband.*
*Great,*
*Lord Evil God.*
Chapter 51