Mystery: When the Lost Homelanders Meet the Lost Homeland Call

Klein's gaze swept over the furnishings of the small house, from the tarot cards on the table to the pendulum in the corner, from the brightness of the kerosene lamp to the thickness of the handwritten book: "When did you build this house?"

"Just now," Lynn said. "I built it after I came back from fishing. It's moisture-proof, corrosion-proof, and windproof. It should last at least fifty years."

Klein was silent for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts like, "Why are you back so soon? What did you catch?"

For example, "What does the sign for your future planning office mean?" or "You look really like a serious charlatan sitting under the dim light in that plain dark coat."

But in the end, he just sighed, went into the room, and sat down in another chair.

"I knew it was you," he said.

Lynn sat upright behind the table, placed a pile of crystal jars filled with spices on it, and said with a very serious expression, "You're wrong."

Before Klein could speak, Lynn raised a hand, solemnly raising his index finger as if to announce a crucial truth:

"I am not Lynn."

Klein paused for two seconds.

"...You're not Lynn?" His gaze swept from Lynn's face to Lynn's clothes, then to the old tarot cards in front of Lynn, and finally back to Lynn's face. "Then what are you? Lynn's twin brother? Or does he have a split personality?"

"Neither." Lynn lowered his fingers, clasped his hands on the table, and leaned forward slightly, as if he were conducting business negotiations with an important client.

"I am the 'First Eater' of the Flying Spicy Soup Church, which is also the Pope of this church. And the friend in front of me..."

He nodded slightly to Klein. "...I'm happy to offer you your first faith consultation."

"Shall we eat first?"

"Yes. It means prophet. Our church is a bit special, and our terminology is also a bit unique."

Klein sat in his chair, looking at Lynn's incredibly serious face, and took about five seconds to determine that it wasn't some kind of hallucination or mental interference caused by some extraordinary ability, and then about three seconds to determine that it was just an impromptu prank.

"...Flying Hot and Sour Soup?" Klein repeated the phrase, pronouncing each word clearly, as if to confirm he hadn't misheard, "Hot and Sour Soup?"

"That's right." Lynn nodded.

"That Henan-style spicy soup?"

"right."

"Can it fly?"

"right."

"What does this have to do with the Life and Future Planning Department?" Klein reluctantly accepted the Flying Hot and Sour Soup, then repeated the name on the signboard. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious." Lynn finished tidying up the crystal spice jars on the table, placing her hands folded on the surface, her posture like that of a professional consultant receiving a client.

"As the first professional organization of the Flying Hot Soup Church, I can provide genuine and effective divination services. And—" He pointed to the dock area outside the window, "do you think those workers would rather go to a place called 'Diviners' Club,' or come to 'Life and Future Planning Office'?"

Klein hesitated for two seconds: "...They might prefer to drink."

"So you don't have an entrepreneurial mindset." Lynn sighed, took out a small booklet that looked like an account book from the drawer, and opened it to the first page. "On the first day I opened, I had seven appointments. Three were about work arrangements, two were about family members being sick, one was about when I could save enough money to get married, and one was about asking for directions."

"Asking for directions?"

"That guy said he went to the wrong door, but he thought it was pretty clean here, so he sat for a while, had a cup of tea, and asked for directions to the nearest bakery before leaving." Lynn closed the ledger. "That's part of the consultation service; I gave him directions, and I didn't charge him."

Klein took three seconds to process this information, finally deciding not to dwell on where the tea came from. He shifted his posture, rested his arms on the table, leaned forward, and lowered his voice: "Didn't you just create this house?"

Lynn said matter-of-factly, "This is fortune-telling, okay? I'm predicting what will happen tomorrow."

Klein took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled, leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands on his knees, and looked at Lynn with an expression that said, "Fine, I'll see what you have to say."

"Then let's begin the sermon."

Lynn was clearly pleased with his reaction. He pulled a handwritten booklet from under the table, the cover of which was written in Rune script as "The Doctrine of the Flying Spicy Soup Church (Draft)". He opened to the first page, cleared his throat, and read aloud in a tone as if reciting a hymn:

"Cooking existed long before humans even named hunger."

"The cooking method is not fixed. Everyone can see the food they want most. Some people see a bowl of steaming hot soup noodles, some see a piece of freshly baked bread, some see a bowl of stewed meat until tender, or cola fried chicken."

"But the essence of cooking is always a bowl of hot and sour soup."

Klein interrupted him: "What exactly is 'cook' called?"

"It's just boiling." Lynn spread his hands. "What do you think a bowl of hot and sour soup should be called? 'Holy Soup'? 'Supreme Soup'? That's too solemn, it loses its earthy charm. 'Boiling' is just right, it's intimate, simple, and directly related to the food itself."

"How come you always come up with such plausible explanations for bizarre things?"

Lynn shrugged and continued reading:

"Because Hulatang is equal and inclusive."

"When it's cooled down, it's breakfast; when it's hot, it's a late-night snack; add vinegar to sober up; add chili to ward off the cold. Regardless of social status or background, as long as there's a bowl of hot and sour soup, a person can survive."

Klein listened attentively, maintaining a rather delicate balance in his expression—not wanting to appear too disrespectful, yet unable to completely keep his composure.

Lynn turned another page: "Cooking is currently a huge bowl of spicy soup. Sailing through the sky aboard the flying Henan-person. Henan-person—"

"Wait," Klein interrupted him, "what's this 'Flying Henan'?"

"A flying ship. Propelled by a cooking method that floats on water, without sails or steam engines, it floats purely on the will of cooking."

Klein opened his mouth, then closed it again, and slowly nodded: "Alright, Flying Henan. Please continue."

"The He Nan Ren sails through the sky, weaving through the clouds. I look down on the earth from above, and if I see someone who is hungry, I sprinkle a spoonful of soup in that direction. But it's not ordinary soup; it's soup of hope. It's soup that allows those who eat it to keep going."

Lynn closed the booklet, clasped his hands together again on the table, and looked at Klein with sincere eyes: "This is the core doctrine of our church. The miracle of cooking is to feed everyone."

He paused after reading, then continued, "I, Lynn, am the first prophet to cook this soup, responsible for conveying the message of Hu La Tang to the world. Believers may call me 'First Eater'—meaning 'prophet'—but I emphasize that 'first eater' itself is a good thing. After all, one cannot practice the doctrine on an empty stomach."

Klein found himself seriously considering whether this setting was reasonable.

This in itself already made him uneasy.

"You just said you received enlightenment during your hunger?"

"Yes." Lynn nodded. "A long, long time ago, there was a sailor named Lynn who lost his way at sea. His ship sank, and he drifted for days clinging to a plank, hungry and thirsty. Just when he was about to give up hope, he saw a huge bowl of spicy soup flying overhead."

"The aroma filled his stomach and soul, and he heard a voice echoing in the soup: 'Go, build a church, and feed all people.' So he returned to land and became the first prophet to be cooked, which is me."

Klein's expression became very subtle.

"You...you're using a bowl of spicy soup that flew through the sky as your revelation?"

"Is there a problem?" Lynn asked in return, his tone as sincere as if he were asking an academic question.

"I have consulted the scriptures of the Church of the Seven Gods. The Lord of Storms revealed divine pronouncements to mortals through lightning during a storm. The Earth Mother Goddess proclaimed divine pronouncements to her prophets by growing a golden ear of wheat from the earth. The Eternal Sun sent down revelations through a pillar of light piercing the clouds."

"Tell me, compared to these things, what's fundamentally unreasonable about a bowl of spicy soup that flies in the sky, other than making people hungrier?"

Klein tried to refute it, but he found himself unable to find a logical breakthrough.

"And—" Lynn continued, a hint of cunning in his voice.

"—Hulatang itself has many advantages. It is hot. It is thick. It is flavorful. It can provide energy for the hungry. Its ingredients are rich and diverse, which can accommodate different tastes. It is a good church model in itself: inclusive, warm, filling, not picky about food, and not excluding anyone who joins it."

Klein leaned back in his chair, recalling a quote he'd seen long ago late one night, something along the lines of: the most profound truths often appear in the most absurd forms. But he wasn't sure if his current situation qualified.

He felt that this was the most absurd truth, which often appears in the form of reality.

"This," he carefully chose his words, "is a bit too similar to some flying noodle cult... and what's the point of using a homonym for 'Flying Dutchman'?"

Lynn's face lit up with a "you finally asked that" look: "You know about the Flying Pasta Cult?"

"I know. I saw it online before I time-traveled."

"That's great, saves me the trouble of explaining." Lynn leaned back in her chair, her posture much more relaxed than before.

The founder of the Flying Spaghetti Monster Church once said, "If a religion cannot be criticized, then it is not worth believing in." I think so too. There are too many churches in this world, but all of them have one thing in common: they are too serious.

"The Church of the Lord of Storms is solemn, the Church of the Goddess of Night is solemn, the Church of the Eternal Sun is solemn, and even the Church of the God of Steam and Machinery is solemn. Everything is shrouded in solemn ceremonies and complex doctrines. Believers kneel on the ground, heads raised, awaiting divine grace."

"Serious means that the gods are arranging how people should live."

He patted the booklet on the table: "Flying Hot Soup teaches something different. Cooking doesn't require you to kneel. Cooking only requires you to eat. If you eat, you are seen. If you don't eat, cooking will feel sorry for you and then find a way to make sure you eat."

Klein struggled to process this statement.

"This is completely deconstructing religion," he concluded. "You're using jokes to dismantle seriousness, using absurdity to confront the sacred. You're telling people that faith doesn't have to be heavy."

"Yes." Lynn nodded.

"The Flying Hot Soup Church has no enemies. It doesn't hate anyone. It simply wants everyone to be well-fed. If a follower of the Lord of Storms is hungry, it will give him a bowl of soup. If a true believer is hungry, it will also give him a bowl of soup. If someone doesn't believe in any god and is hungry, it will still give him a bowl of soup. Because hunger knows no faith, and being well-fed is something everyone needs."

Upon hearing this, Klein's expression slowly changed from teasing to thoughtful.

"Is this your purpose?" he asked, "to create a religion without enemies?"

Would the current church agree to this?

“Not entirely,” Lynn said candidly. “It’s an exploration. I’m exploring what faith in the new age should look like. The world needs anchors—I’ve told you before about the importance of anchors—but the existing anchors are all tied to heavy things like doctrines and oracles. What would happen if there was a faith whose core wasn’t ‘whom you should believe in,’ but rather ‘have you eaten today?’”

"The church won't openly agree, but they won't oppose it either. I'm just trying it out on a small scale; it won't infringe on the core interests."

Klein didn't answer immediately. He sat in the hardwood chair, looking at Lynn's young face in the gaslight, and suddenly realized something.

Lynn wasn't really joking. He was just using a joke to say something very serious.

"So what activities does your church currently have?" Klein asked, his tone more serious than before.

Lynn's eyes lit up: "Our main activity right now is 'Crazy Sunday'."

"...Crazy Sunday?" Klein's carefully cultivated seriousness crumbled instantly.

"Yes. Every Sunday, I distribute food in the square in the dock area. Bread, soup, meat, vegetables, hot drinks, everything. Everyone gets a portion, it's free, no need to pray, no need to prove what you believe in. Just come and you can eat. At the same time, I also negotiate with several shops in the dock area to offer discounts on their regular food sales on Sundays."

Who will pay for the discount?

"As a strategy of low profit and high volume, we can lower prices but sell more. I can use the power of the guild itself to get some shops to start lowering prices, and then other shops will have no choice but to join in the activity."

"Of course, I'm not an economist, and current productivity may not always be sufficient, so I will use extraordinary power to ensure these."

Lynn said confidently, "Who says supernatural power isn't a productive force?"

"And what about you?" Klein asked. "What did you get?"

Lynn thought for a moment, then said, "I got a bowl of spicy soup."

Klein looked at him questioningly. Lynn glanced at him, then added with a smile, "Soup was prepared for everyone, including me, and I was the first one to get some."

A few seconds of silence fell over the room. The gaslight flickered between the two men, casting a small, shifting shadow on the wall.

"Your premise..." Klein finally spoke, his tone carrying a complex mix of admiration and disbelief, "...would anyone actually believe in this era?"

"It will." Lynn stood up and put the doctrinal booklet into the drawer. "Not everyone needs a god high above them. Some people just need a promise: 'Someone will give me a bowl of soup today.' If I can provide that promise, then whether or not you believe in Flying Hot Soup is irrelevant."

Klein stood up as well, watching Lynn close the drawer, and then glanced at the window that read "Life and Future Planning Office." It was completely dark outside, and the dim yellow light of the gas lamp cast a small, warm arc of light on the windowpane.

"So you really saw a bowl of spicy soup that seemed to float across the sky?"

Klein still asked cautiously.

If Lynn has really been bewitched by some evil god, he'll have to consider calling upon the goddess.

Lynn walked to the door, pushed open the wooden door, and the night wind blew in, carrying the salty, damp smell unique to the docks. He turned his head to look at Klein, a familiar, casual smile on his lips, and conjured a steaming bowl of hot and sour soup, tossing it into the air. The soup then landed steadily in his hand.

"Now we see it."

He took a step back, clearing the doorway, and gestured for them to proceed.

Klein stood inside the door, looked at Lynn's figure in the night outside, shook his head, and then laughed.

"As the captain, it's reasonable for the Hernan to want to fly," Lynn said.

So calling it "Hulatang" (a spicy soup) is just to suit the Henan people who fly, Klein thought helplessly, then stepped across the threshold and into the night breeze of Tingen.

The two walked side by side in the night breeze, the lights of the dock area stretching into a warm yellow sea of ​​stars in the distance. The sea breeze blew from the river, carrying the smells of seaweed and coal smoke, but it wasn't unpleasant.

"So your nickname 'Eat First'," Klein said as they walked, "is really what the Pope meant?"

"uh-huh."

"Then why don't you call yourself 'Pope'? That's what the churches in this world call themselves anyway."

Lynn shook his head: "That's too serious. The symbolism of 'eat first' means that I'll take the first bite before each meal. If I'm not poisoned, it means the meal is safe, and you can eat it without worry."

Klein paused for a second, then burst out laughing: "Are you saying you were the one testing the poison?"

"It's a responsibility," Lynn replied earnestly. "The Pope's duty is to ensure that the faithful eat safely."

"What are the names of the other clergy members in your church?"

"'Eat last, then eat' is responsible for confirming that the food is safe after I finish eating, and then announcing that everyone can eat."

"And then there's 'eating after that'?" Klein asked.

"right."

Klein couldn't stop laughing: "You're totally in a mealtime routine."

Lynn nodded: "This is also a kind of hierarchical system. The higher the rank of the clergy, the earlier they get to eat."

"Of course, 'eat first' also has another meaning: those who contribute more can eat first, and vice versa. The earlier someone eats, the greater their responsibility."

The two walked out of the dock area with smiles on their faces.

"May the cooking protect you," Lynn said to Klein. "Be careful."

-

On the outskirts of Tingen, Ince Zangwell, whose face was like a marble sculpture, watched as the handsome and effeminate Mr. Z offered his twelfth prayer of the night.

"Hahaha, cough cough cough..."

"We want to create chaos on the mainland, we want to attract as much attention as possible, and in this way we will welcome the Lord's return!"

After another prayer, Mr. Z suddenly laughed, then coughed violently until he collapsed to the ground.

"Ahem!"

He coughed up clumps of bloody fragments, which continued to wriggle as they hit the ground, as if they were alive.

After a long time, Mr. Z finally calmed down.

He crawled forward, his mouth pressed against the ground, licking back all the bloody fragments he had coughed up.

"Lord, forgive me..." His expression suddenly turned to terror and sorrow, and then he began to pray again, as if he were trying to comprehend complex thoughts with his limited mind.

Ince Zangwell watched as Mr. Z offered his thirteenth prayer.

Something unusual had clearly happened tonight, Ince thought, and he had a vague sense of foreboding.

He looked at 0-08, which was unusually quiet that night, a quietness on a spiritual level.

As Mr. Z was praying for the twentieth time, Ince saw 0-08 move again, and the iron black color on the pen faded considerably.

It hesitantly wrote down a sentence: "Cooperation continues..."

It crossed out large sections of text and then wrote: "For unknown reasons, the Son of the True Creator will not descend to earth."

Its words were exceptionally brief and completely devoid of its own evaluation.

"Ince Zangwell will head to the Crazy Sunday event at the docks and find opportunities at sea."

Mr. Z once again ate fragments of his own internal organs, then suddenly raised his head, his flesh and blood writhing and radiance appearing all over his body.

"Shepherd," herding sheep!

"Warrior" pathway sequence six, "Light Storm"!

A burst of clear light erupted into a storm that surged toward the quill pen, while Mr. Z attempted to recite an unknown name:

"Ah..."

Ince never expected Mr. Z to suddenly go berserk, and his own spirituality gave no warning, but he really didn't need to do anything.

Mr. Z was unable to utter the next word because, the instant he activated his ability, a new consciousness seemed to emerge within his body, preventing him from speaking.

Moreover, the house seemed to be supported by a strange life force; the storm of light did not destroy it. Although Ince, as a Sequence Five, was in a sorry state, he was not seriously injured.

Mr. Z lay on the ground, every piece of flesh on his body writhing and devouring each other, as if he were fighting a battle with himself.

"Lord...I repent..." A mouth grew out of Mr. Z's body and uttered his last words.

Then he collapsed completely to the ground.

At this moment, Ince had already grabbed the quill pen, tried to break the window but failed, and could only watch helplessly as a life with bird claws was born, tearing open Mr. Z's belly and turning him into scattered flesh and blood that spread across the floor.

The quill pen wrote on his clothes: “Based on…” The rest of the writing was either not written or was swallowed by the shadows.

"Mother, welcome."