Alice in the Land of Steam

Chapter 1330 Cruel yet gentle?

A profound, silent, and still end; the end of fate, with darkness as its constant companion.

As the whispers of the dark goddess Carabosse faded, the magic permeating the frozen space seemed to be infused with a new will, becoming thicker and heavier. The eerie blue rain of light no longer fell in a gentle drizzle; the edges of each raindrop began to blur and distort, as if the invisible darkness were swallowing its inner light, gradually losing its crystalline texture and turning into even more obscure ink dots. Below, the dark ocean, frozen like an obsidian mirror, was no longer smooth as a mirror; subtle ripples spread silently, like a slumbering abyss beginning to awaken, radiating an even colder, more bone-chilling cold.

Saint Charlotte suddenly felt a weight on her fingers. The threads of fate connecting the world's rules and the serpent of destiny suddenly became heavier than the clumsy blade or the most decaying armor. An invisible force was eroding this vast network encompassing countless nodes in time and space, making every subtle pull incredibly difficult. She tried to stabilize its structure, but at that moment, the wound on her left shoulder, which had been corrected by fate, suddenly felt as if it had been cut by an invisible force. Crimson flowers burst forth from the wound, and chaotic streams of data light gushed out like an out-of-control waterfall, the power rapidly dissipating with each stray ray.

A tidal wave of pain surged from the wound to her brain. The belated injury seemed even more painful than the direct attack she had just received. But the girl had no time to pay attention to that. Instead, she instinctively looked up, her blazing golden eyes clearly reflecting that sacred yet indifferent figure. He commanded mortals to follow him, yet also to fear him; he inspired worship, yet also to scorn him.

However, there's no need to care about these things, no need to care about the thoughts of ordinary people. When you want to change the world, then go ahead and change it. Once you change the world, those insignificant mortals, no matter how unwilling they are, can only change themselves and readjust to this new world, because that's the nature of humanity; they are predetermined.

The difference between gods and humans, between divinity and humanity, has never been as some mortals imagine: that gods should be high above and mortals should grovel in prayer; that gods should be indifferent and ruthless and mortals should be troubled by all kinds of emotions; that gods should possess power above all things, while mortals, even if they reach the summit, are nothing more than ants in a dream, and after waking up, they are still nothing... That is a self-righteous and extremely arrogant idea.

The real difference between divinity and humanity is that divinity is the qualification to determine one's destiny, while humanity can only have its destiny determined by others.

No matter how unwilling you are to admit it, Saint Charlotte, at this moment, you are doing something only a god could do...

"Determine, let fate decide..." The goddess of darkness raised her giant scythe, and the mere act caused the space itself to tremble and groan. The surrounding, frozen, eerie blue light rain, as if pulled by a tremendous gravitational force, converged and annihilated towards the scythe's blade. In the endless void, she declared indifferently, her voice whispering like an ancient, unchanging law, conveying the seductive allure of the apple tree serpent from ancient mythology: "Your own... or someone else's..."

As soon as he finished speaking, the scythe swung, as Caraboss fulfilled his divine authority, seeking to decide the fate of countless beings on both continents through this battle.

There was no earth-shattering roar, only a silent, chilling shriek as space was torn apart. Along the trajectory of the scythe's fall, an indescribably deep rift silently spread. This rift differed from previous attacks; it didn't merely devour matter, but rather the very concept of existence itself. Wherever it passed, space ceased to be concave or shattered, but directly transformed into the most primordial chaos, a chaos that couldn't even be called nothingness. The solidified, eerie blue light rain was completely erased, without even a trace of annihilation; a bottomless chasm was cleaved in the dark sea, the matter at its edge silently decomposing and assimilating; even the massive data stream that constituted the most basic structure of this game world was utterly disrupted, collapsed, and disintegrated before this rift, revealing behind it a void of meaningless "0"s and "1"s.

Saint Sharia raised her head, her azure eyes reflecting the slowly descending scythe of death. The chains between her fingers still trembled weakly, attempting a final struggle, weaving a tiny, deflected fate. However, the surrounding darkness was like solidified amber, making the threads of fate's movement within incredibly difficult and slow. She could feel the world's rules' acceptance of the power of fate being forcibly rejected, even stripped away, by the power of the goddess of darkness.

On the scythe, the black flames that had been burning silently began to collapse violently. But it wasn't extinguishing; it was absorbing, like a star trying to release its most dazzling and brilliant light before its demise. It was attempting to suck in the nothingness of the universe's birth. All light—the reflection of the pale blue raindrops, the residual light of data escaping from Saint Charlotte's wounds, even the very foundation of this world built upon the power of faith and the power of fantasy—was greedily absorbed by the collapsing center.

Absolute, all-consuming darkness is taking shape on the scythe.

The giant serpent let out a silent lament in the distant clouds. Its enormous body, corrupted by darkness, struggled, trying to respond to its master's call. However, the countless threads of fate that made up its body were frozen like a spider web under the increasingly heavy pressure of the dark power, unable to move an inch.

The terrifying momentum reached its peak, and a horrific disaster was sweeping across the land. Anyone who witnessed this scene could not help but suspect that the moment the scythe fell, God's pronouncement would bring about the end of the world.

But Carapos did not swing his sickle.

He merely fixed his dark eyes, like the core of a burnt-out star, on the insignificant power of destiny. He spoke no words, nor did he need any. A vast and icy will, like an invisible behemoth, completely enveloped Saint Charlotte and the space around her.

Under the stunned gaze of the blue-haired girl, where the tide had frozen solid, the goddess with black hair and black eyes slowly closed her eyes, plunging everything into darkness.

Light is something we can see only when we open our eyes, but before we gained sight, all living beings were immersed in an impenetrable darkness. In other words, darkness is a concept that predates light.

"Black moon, black night, darkness, this is the eternal destiny of all living beings."

The deep and resonant tone, revealing a profound will, echoed in every corner of the sky, the earth, and the sea: "In the endless, raging night, restless life, glimpse the stars and the moon above, and feel the silence and peace of your soul."

"The Star of Death... Dark Apocalypse."

A torch will go out when it burns dry, and a firefly will die when it dances until it is exhausted. There is no light that lasts forever. Even the sun will dim and die on some unpredictable day. Only darkness lasts forever, lovingly and selflessly embracing the world after it is extinguished and dies.

Endless black mist, like a tidal wave erupting from a cosmic wound, surged forth from Caraboss's tightly closed eyes, instantly engulfing the entire solidified space. Wherever the black mist tide passed, space silently dissolved. The solidified, eerie blue light rain, like fragile ice crystals, was instantly washed away and swallowed, leaving not even a trace of annihilation. Below, the deathly ocean, like an obsidian mirror, was plowed, shattered, and assimilated by the violent tide, revealing a deeper, more ethereal, chaotic undercurrent. The faintly visible data streams that formed the foundation of this virtual world completely collapsed in the raging tide; countless 0s and 1s, like dust swept up by a storm, were instantly swallowed by darkness. The serpent of fate let out its final, silent lament in the distance; its massive, corroded body disintegrated inch by inch under the impact of the black mist, the threads of fate that formed its form melting away like snow thrown into a furnace.

This terrifying torrent, carrying the will of a great god born from the primordial darkness, surged precisely and irresistibly towards Saint Sharia, whose power was exhausted and whose movements were completely locked. The chains of fate on the girl's fingers had dimmed completely, scattering like dead silver snakes. She tried to raise her hand, but the data gushing from the wound on her left shoulder, like a burst dam, drained her last bit of strength. A chilling mist, more unstoppable than the torrent of time, froze her blood and mind. She watched the all-consuming dark tide approach, and reflected in her shining golden pupils not despair, but an indescribable complex emotion… and a familiar sense of destiny. The next moment, the vast, dark tide surged forward, mercilessly engulfing her figure.

At the same time, Karapos disappeared.

It was neither a flicker, nor a leap, nor even any form of movement comprehensible to mortals; it was simply that as the dark tide engulfed Saint Sharia's figure, Her image naturally appeared behind the King of Destiny. To the inherent laws of this world, She is darkness itself; darkness is omnipresent, and so is She. Even that faded and lonely silhouette, washed away by the darkness, was merely Her most divine form revealed after shedding her outward disguise.

He held the blazing, shadowy scythe tightly in one hand, raising it high.

Time seemed to stretch and freeze at this moment, so that Saint Charlotte could clearly see the cold light flashing on the scythe, see many menacing shadows in the darkness, and even see her own future after the scythe pierced her heart and she silently closed her eyes... But why could she still see in such primitive, pure and dense darkness?

Perhaps it wasn't her who saw it, but rather... fate that saw it.

The chilling irony, like a poisonous thorn, pierced through the ice of despair.

"Pfft!"

A deep, yet incredibly clear, piercing sound rang out on the deathly silent battlefield, drowning out the roars of carnage that were taking place.

The scythe, burning with deep black flames, pierced through Saint Charlotte's chest with precision and ruthlessness without the slightest hesitation.

The exact same location, the exact same wound, and the exact same fate.

Saint Charlotte's body stiffened abruptly, her pupils dilating sharply. There was no blood, only a more ethereal, chaotic stream of eerie blue data, like a shattered core, seeping slowly from the wound piercing her heart, like light overflowing from her body. It was an utterly illogical scene. With such a massive scythe piercing her chest, blood should have drained rapidly, robbing her of all vitality and life force within a few breaths, utterly killing her. Instead, it was merely a weak seepage, making one wonder if the wound was actually not fatal, but rather like a cut on the finger from a shard of glass or a sharp piece of paper—perhaps painful for a moment, but quickly forgotten after getting used to it.

This was intentionally orchestrated by the goddess of darkness, Carabosse. With her exquisite, almost artistic skill, she sealed the wound the instant the scythe pierced the heart, leaving only a tiny, surgical scar. Dark magic would then gradually assimilate and permeate the victim's soul through this wound, like a mother's lullaby, leading her into a sweet dream. Therefore, the victim would not experience intense pain, but would fall asleep unknowingly, remaining asleep until the end of darkness, at that tranquil origin.

How cruel...yet gentle that cut was.

If fighting is not the only option for life, then sentencing it is the cruelest act, so cruel that it makes one want to laugh; but if fighting is a clash of wills and a confrontation of ideals, then wielding the most fatal blow without hesitation seems to be a gentle request, so gentle that it makes one want to shed tears.

What is the emotion that lies between cruelty and tenderness? What defines the boundary between cruelty and tenderness? And finally, if cruelty and tenderness coexist in one person, what is it that makes her unable to resist feeling tenderness while being cruel?
Everything proves that I still know too little about mortals, about fate, and about the fate of mortals.

Indeed, in Saint Charlotte's eyes at this moment, neither she nor Carabosse were gods.

Rather, they are mortals who are even more stubborn than the most stubborn mortals.

The blue-haired girl smiled weakly. Strangely, even though death was so close, so close that she could touch the distant future with just a slight reach, she didn't feel much pain. Perhaps it was because someone else was sharing this pain with her.

……

On the desolate hill, the wind blows, carrying the sounds of distant battles and the sticky smell of blood.

The latter is far more real than the former because it is not only heard and smelled, but also felt.

The young man, who was in a prayer position, slowly lowered his head, his gaze falling on his chest, where crimson flowers bloomed like a dream, exuding a deadly, intoxicating fragrance.

Believers are bound together with their gods by fate.

Give me some cats