Alchemy Principles of Type-Moon World

The night was at its darkest, shrouding the entire mountain village in darkness. The distant mountain ridges, outlined in the moonlight, formed a jagged outline. From afar, they looked like the back of some giant beast, quietly dormant between heaven and earth. Every night, when the wind blew across the ridges, the beast would emit a low whimpering sound.

The roofs of the mountain village shone faintly silver in the moonlight, standing silently in the darkness. Occasionally, a few leaves were picked up by the wind, swirling in the air, and finally fell to the damp soil, making a slight rustling sound.

People in the mountain villages often get up before dawn or just after dawn. Although it is late at night, if it is an ordinary mountain village, some people will have already stepped out of the door to prepare for the sunrise of the new day.

But it's different here. The sounds of roosters crowing, firewood crackling, and buckets colliding, which should have been heard before dawn, are now completely gone.

Perhaps it was because of the village's taboo against going out late at night. If this moment was still defined as late at night, then the dead silence in the mountain village could be explained.

The villagers, who were used to not going out late at night, would only get up when the sun rose. In short, at this time, the villagers in the village were still sleeping soundly, without any light, and the village was completely dominated by darkness.

However, in this silence, there were occasional rustling sounds. The sound was very soft, like some small animal moving through the grass.

But if you listen closely, you can discern the texture of fabric rubbing against each other. This couldn't be the sound of some small animal, but rather the subtle creaking of clothing against the air, the wall, and the ground. The maker of the sound was clearly trying hard to suppress his movements, but the sound of his footsteps on the wet earth was still clear in the silence, each step like stepping on a taut drumhead, making a dull "puff."

He had undoubtedly violated a village taboo. Yet, it was precisely because of this taboo that he escaped detection from the other villagers. His figure drifted erratically between the cottages, his movements gentle yet urgent. His breathing was deliberately muted, and his fingers unconsciously clenched the hem of his clothes, the fabric crumpling in his palms, his fingertips turning slightly white from the strain.

The figure stealthily crept to a window. It was a low stone house, its window frames covered in ivy, its leaves swaying gently in the night breeze, making a subtle rustling sound. Moonlight filtered through the gaps between the leaves onto the windowsill. He raised his hand and gently tapped the windowpane with his knuckles, his movements gentle and cautious, as if he feared waking someone or something else that shouldn't be awakened.

"Grey, Grey?" the voice called out in a low voice, trying to lower the volume coming out of his throat. His voice was hoarse and trembling, as if someone was strangling his throat, "Grey, wake up..."

His hand continued to gently tap on the window, which was a very contradictory thing. If he wanted to call out to a sleeping person, his voice was too low, so low that it was almost swallowed by the night wind. But he refused to raise the volume even a little bit -

——Obviously, he didn't want to wake up other people who shouldn't be woken up.

"Grey, Grey, wake up, run, run..." The voice became more and more anxious, and the voice could not help but rise a little. His fingers drew a small arc on the glass, and the friction between his fingertips and the glass made a slight "squeaking" sound. His breathing became rapid, his chest rose and fell violently, and the white air he exhaled condensed into a small piece of water mist on the glass. "Wake up, wake up--"

His fingers gripped the window frame unconsciously, his knuckles turning white from the strain.

"——If you don't run now, it will be too late."

The figure shouted rapidly, occasionally glancing toward the sky, as if constantly monitoring the time. His voice grew louder and louder, his tone more urgent, like a trapped animal cornered. His other hand clutched the front of his shirt tightly.

At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a distant household suddenly light up an oil lamp. A dim light shone through the window, ripping a sliver of darkness. The halo, like some silent alarm, made his body freeze instantly.

"well......"

After a brief silence, the figure sighed, his voice filled with fatigue and despair. His sweaty fingers finally slid across the windowpane, leaving a faint streak. The streak slowly slid down the cold glass, eventually condensing into tiny droplets that reflected the faint moonlight.

His fingers lingered on the window frame for a moment, his fingertips trembling slightly, as if hesitating whether to try again. But in the end, he withdrew his hand, turned around and disappeared into the darkness, the sound of his footsteps gradually fading away and blending into the silence of the village before dawn.

Gray was still sound asleep, completely unaware of anyone's presence. Her breathing was steady and even, her chest rising and falling slightly with each breath. Her face looked remarkably peaceful in the moonlight, her fingers unconsciously clutching the corner of the quilt as she slept soundly.

Time still passes quietly, and the sky outside the window is still dark.

At this moment, less than five minutes after the figure left, Gray's door was gently pushed open.

The door hinge made a slight creaking sound, and a slender figure quietly came in. Her footsteps were very light and almost no sound could be heard. Her figure also looked particularly thin in the moonlight.

She lit the oil lamp, and the light reflected her face -

It was a face very similar to Gray's, but gentler and more composed. There were fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but they were still bright. Her fingers gently turned the wick, and the flame danced on her fingertips.

Yes, she is Grey's mother.

She walked gently to the bedside and gazed down at Gray's sleeping face. She reached out and gently brushed her fingertips across Gray's forehead, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

But Gray was still sleeping, showing no signs of waking up, and no sounds or movements from the outside world could make her react.

Gray's mother gently picked her up, her movements skillful and gentle. Logically speaking, at this point, Gray should have been awake by now.

But Gray was abnormally sound asleep, not even trying to wake up. Her body rested softly in her mother's arms, her head hanging naturally on her mother's shoulder, her breathing still steady and even.

Gray's mother held Gray in her arms and slowly left the room. Her steps were still light, but her fingers unconsciously tightened, holding Gray even tighter, as if she was afraid of losing something.

She blew out the lamp, opened the door, and walked out. The door closed softly behind her with a slight click. The room fell into silence again, the same silence as in the village outside.

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I have too many things to do today, so I really can't spare the time to write. Sorry.

I have updated 2,000 words for now, and I have to go out soon... I'll see if I have the energy to continue writing when I come back.

The above is a new book by a new author. Please vote and give me feedback. Thank you!

Volume 26: Xing Qingfeng's Perfect Arithmetic Classroom: . Belsac is sleeping

Lights lit up one after another, like eyes suddenly opening in the night sky, piercing the deep darkness one after another. The halo of the oil lamps shone through the paper windows, casting swaying shadows on the walls of the cottages.

The sky was still shrouded in thick darkness, with not even a glimmer of dawn showing, but the villagers all got up early without any prior arrangement.

They moved very quietly, as if they were afraid of disturbing anything, but in the silence, the creaking of the wooden door opening and the rustling of the soles of their shoes rubbing against the ground were still clearly audible.

For an ordinary village, they might get up late, but for this village where the night is taboo, getting up at this time can be considered abnormally early.

The villagers' figures appeared blurry in the halo of the oil lamps, their movements imbued with an indescribable urgency. Their faces lost the usual morning laziness, replaced instead by a tense alertness. Though the village still retained an eerie silence, an air of restlessness permeated every corner. The air was filled with an oppressive atmosphere, like the low pressure before a storm, making it hard to breathe.

The villagers didn't talk to each other, and even tried to avoid eye contact, as if any unnecessary movement would disrupt some delicate balance. Their footsteps echoed on the cobblestone road, striking everyone's nerves.

In the village's central square, a few oil lamps were lit, their dim glow illuminating the old wooden road sign and the stone well. The well rope swayed gently in the night breeze, making a subtle creaking sound. Villagers gathered in groups of three or four at the edge of the square, their figures stretched out in the light, like distorted silhouettes. Occasionally, someone would whisper, their voices extremely low, as if afraid to be overheard.

The distant mountain ridge loomed in the darkness. The night wind swept across the ridge, bringing a damp chill mixed with the unique humus smell of the swamp area. The villagers spontaneously wrapped themselves tightly in their clothes, their eyes occasionally glancing towards the church, as if they were waiting for something, or as if they were on guard against something.

On the village path, a few early-rising crows hopped over the rooftops, emitting a shrill "cawing" sound. Their feathers shone a faint blue luster in the halo of the oil lamps, and the villagers seemed accustomed to their presence. From a distance, the village still looked like a peaceful mountain village, except that the figures on the stone pavement were neatly arranged and calm, and there was no smoke rising from the rooftops.

But beneath this calm surface, the atmosphere was filled with anxiety, like steam in a pressure cooker. The atmosphere was so heavy it felt almost suffocating, yet there was no outlet to vent. An invisible tension hung in the air, like a taut string ready to snap at any moment.

They all gathered in the village's central square. On the stone pavement, the halo of the oil lamps stretched their shadows far out, like distorted silhouettes. The villagers, so harmonious only yesterday, now wore no expression. The dim light couldn't penetrate the shadows that covered their faces, leaving their features veiled in darkness, obscuring every detail.

The gathered villagers suddenly and unanimously made way for a path, and a rather old woman slowly emerged. Her footsteps were so light, as if she were stepping on cotton, and her figure looked exceptionally small under the light, almost like a doll.

She was the oldest woman in the village, respectfully addressed as "Grandma" by everyone. She wore traditional folk clothing and looked incredibly thin. Her eyes, nose, and mouth were hidden among the numerous wrinkles on her face, like furrows carved by time. Her fingers were withered and sticky, their knuckles protruding like some ancient tree root.

"It was confirmed yesterday," the old woman said, her voice slightly raised, her voice hoarse and low, "there was a sound coming from underground."

The old woman's words seemed to crawl across the square, and her voice echoed in the air.

It seems as if it came from a hundred years ago.

"Gray's done well. It's about time," the old woman continued.

"...Yes." The woman beside him smiled happily, like a bride welcoming her long-awaited lover after decades of separation. Her appearance wasn't particularly striking, but now it was like a brightly blooming flower, and an indescribable light shone in her eyes. "The child's time has finally come."

The person who said this was Gray's mother.

"Then let's get started." After saying this, the old woman turned around and returned to the crowd.

The villagers rushed to a small house beside the square and stopped in front of the door.

——That was where the vendors rested yesterday.

The door of the cabin was closed and heavy curtains hung on the windows, blocking out the light from inside.

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Candles have been lit in the church hall.

The flickering candlelight made the towering arches flicker, and the stained glass windows cast colorful light and shadows in the firelight. The benches were neatly arranged on both sides, and every line was clearly visible due to the candlelight.

The black-faced Madonna on the altar looked particularly solemn in the firelight, her face hidden in the shadows, as if watching everyone who entered the church. The air was filled with the smell of burning candle wax, mixed with the stale smell of wooden pews, creating a unique church atmosphere.

At that moment, the back door was flung open with a sharp creak. Priest Fernande, his ball-like form, squeaked through the crack. His robes were stained with mud, the damp fabric clinging to his rotund frame, making him look particularly disheveled. His hair lay disheveled on his forehead, a few strands soaked with sweat, as if he had just been pulled out of the water. His face, smeared with mud, trembled slightly with his breathing.

His shoes were in a terrible state, their soles caked with mud, leaving a wet footprint with every step. Strands of dry grass clung to his trouser legs, as if he had just crawled out of a mud pit. His breathing was rapid and heavy, his chest heaving violently.

Priest Fernande's movements were somewhat clumsy. He tried to pat the mud off himself, but it only caused it to splatter everywhere. His fingers scratched unconsciously at his robes, trying to wipe off the stubborn stains, but it was obviously useless. His face wore an awkward expression, his eyes flickering, as if he was afraid of being discovered.

At this moment, Sister Ilumia walked in from the side door. Her footsteps were light and silent. She glanced at Priest Fernande and sighed almost imperceptibly.

"Didn't we agree to act together?" Sister Ilumia held up an envelope in her hand. She raised it proudly, her chin raised, and asked.

"You understand, Priest, didn't we already talk about this yesterday?"

“…” Priest Fernande remained silent and did not respond.

His fingers unconsciously clenched the hem of his cassock, the fabric crinkling in his palms. His eyes flickered, as if he were searching for an excuse, but in the end, he only let out a dry laugh, his voice hoarse and low. Had he not expected to be dressed as Sister Ilumia? That wasn't right; it seemed he knew he'd run into her upon his return.

After a long time, he loosened the corner of his clothes and sighed.

"Yes." Priest Fernande nodded slightly.

He had been told of that possibility since he arrived at this church. However, he hadn't believed it would blossom during his tenure. He had clearly believed that the long-forgotten custom would never blossom and bear fruit, but would simply decay.

Ah, that's not accurate. He is actually just avoiding this possibility and not facing it.

In fact, when he took office a few years ago, the girl had already changed.

In this case, the probability of this happening cannot be ignored. Or rather, isn't it the highest probability in the past few hundred years?

But Priest Fernande still couldn't convince himself.

"If the time is right, I will kill the Son of God of this land." Sister Ilumia said, making the sign of the cross on her chest, "Just as our predecessors in the past guided the powerful Dead Apostle who called himself Brakmoya to the other side of this land."

Blackmoya.

In this land, this name not only represents the name of a clan of magicians who once enslaved souls and regarded birds as sacred, but also represents the powerful Dead Apostle who once existed and was called the Black Winged Lord.

Now the Black Wing Prince has been killed by the church, and the Blackmoya family eventually became the gravekeepers of this cemetery.

"Wait a moment," Priest Fernande suddenly called out to Sister Ilumia, who was about to turn and leave. His fingers dug deep into the folds of her vestments, the lingering mud on the fabric glistening in the candlelight. "Where's Mr. Xing? Didn't yesterday's letter confirm his identity? If a dispute arises, the villagers will definitely not let this place go—"

"—Let's get him out of here first." Priest Fernande wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Sweat mixed with muddy water left a muddy streak on his cheek. His Adam's apple rolled up and down, and the sound of swallowing was particularly clear in the empty church. "He doesn't seem to have anything to do with this."

"Oh, he left a long time ago," Sister Ilumia suddenly sneered, her fingers stroking the thorn carvings on the edge of the altar. "He seems to have access to information channels that we don't know about, and he has noticed something, and..." Her nails scraped against the grooves in the wood, making a teeth-grinding squeaking sound.

"...Tsk, I was in the church lobby the whole night, but I didn't even notice when he left—"

"—I only just now knocked on his door and realized there was no movement from inside." Sister Ilumia pulled a linen handkerchief from the inner pocket of her black robe and carefully wiped her soot-stained fingertips. "But he left a letter. Take a look."

As she spoke, Sister Ilumia took out another letter from the pocket of her clothes and handed it to Priest Fernande.

"Dear brothers and sisters, I'm so sorry to leave you without saying goodbye."

"But what happens next is probably not something I, an outsider, should get involved in. It's really inconvenient for me to stay here any longer."

"If there's a chance next time, I hope to come back and continue fishing with Fernand, and then eat Sister Ilumia's food together."

"Goodbye for now."

The letter was signed by Xing Qingjiu.

"Although my identity has been confirmed," Sister Ilumia snorted, her fingers unconsciously stroking the silver cross on her chest, her eyes sweeping across the church's towering dome, "I actually ended up mixed up with heretics. I really don't understand—"

Her voice echoed in the empty church, and the candlelight flickered in her eyes, reflecting a barely perceptible anxiety.

"--maybe something will suddenly appear and trip us up while we're taking action." She continued, tapping her fingers lightly on the edge of the altar, and her nails made a slight "tapping" sound when they hit the wooden surface.

"I think Mr. Xing is a very good person," Priest Fernande said with a smile. "You can tell that he really enjoys his life. People like him... can't be bad people."

"Heh... the villagers here love their lives, too." Sister Ilumia said coldly, "But when we see them again, guess what they'll do to us?"

Her eyes swept across the stained windows of the church. The moonlight shone through the glass onto the ground, creating mottled light and shadows.

"Heresy is nothing more than this. Someone who smiles at you sincerely one moment will want to tear you to pieces the next—"

"——It is our duty as agents to eliminate this danger."

Priest Fernande sighed, his gaze lingering on Sister Ilumia for a moment. He did not refute anything, but silently followed Sister Ilumia out of the church.

They pushed open the door next to them and walked down the old stairs. The wooden steps creaked slightly under their feet, and the candlelight cast swaying shadows on the wall, as if something restless was stirring.

Turning into the hallway, the air was filled with a stale, musty smell, mixed with the decaying odor of the wooden floorboards. They arrived at the wine storage room. The air in the room was damp and cold, cobwebs clung to the walls, and old wooden boxes were piled in the corners.

Sister Ilumia walked to the wine rack and tapped lightly on the wooden shelf with her fingers, making a slight "dong dong" sound.

"Are you ready?" Ilumia said.

Priest Fernando nodded, and together they pushed open the wine racks filled with wine. The wooden racks scraped harshly against the floor, and the bottles collided with each other, making a crisp "clink".

After peeling off the carpet, a seemingly ordinary floor was revealed. Priest Fernande squatted down and tapped his fingers lightly on the floor, making a dull sound.

He pressed hard on the exposed floorboards—

A staircase, built of earthen blocks, appeared beneath the empty space. The steps were covered in thick dust, as if no one had used them in a long time. The air was filled with the smell of damp earth, mixed with a strong, stale smell.

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The transition chapter can be regarded as some small foreshadowing before the recovery begins.

The above is a new book by a new author. Please vote and give me feedback. Thank you!

Volume 27: Xing Qingfeng's Perfect Arithmetic Classroom: . Why are you just standing there watching?

Belsac was still fast asleep.

The room was filled with a stale smell, like a basement that hadn't been ventilated for years. Books piled in the corners had long since turned yellow, their edges curled like dead leaves. Rusted tools lay scattered about, the smell of rust and mildew mingling to form an unpleasant metallic odor.

A crooked wooden table leaned against the wall, its legs swollen with moisture and making a subtle creaking sound. Several half-empty bottles of wine lay haphazardly on the table, their labels faded and illegible. A half-full coffee cup tilted against the corner, its surface coated with a grayish-white film, like muddy water.