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墨書 Inktalez
The priests suddenly ceased their low chants, raising their heads to collectively shout, "Huh! Ha!" The sound was sharp and powerful, echoing like thunder across the square. The crowd in the front row seemed to be infected by this energy, responding in the same rhythm: "Huh! Ha!" The sound rolled outwards like waves, spreading throughout the entire square.
Bing Lie stood at the back of the crowd, feeling the waves of sound crashing against him, the forceful vibrations striking his chest. Amidst the clamor, he looked up at the priests on the altar and noticed their movements becoming increasingly intense.
The priests on stage began to wave their flags vigorously. The canvas banners sliced through the air with a low howling sound. Their bodies swayed not slowly but rapidly back and forth, as if they were dedicating their entire beings to some powerful entity. The white robes billowed with their movements, as if caught in an invisible whirlwind.
"Huh! Ha!" The volume grew louder, and the crowd's shouts rose and fell in a frenzied rhythm. Children began to mimic the adults, their voices youthful yet filled with uncontrollable excitement. Vendors paused their calls, standing beside their carts and shouting loudly; even some drunken passersby joined in, swaying unsteadily as they waved their arms.
Among the priests on stage, one suddenly grasped a thick white rope that was secured next to a pillar at the top of the altar. Taking a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the rope and placed his feet at the base of the pillar before beginning to climb.
Bing Lie's gaze was drawn to this priest. The pillar was massive, towering ominously, its surface coated in black oil that reflected the firelight, making it appear smooth and elusive. The priest's hands and feet slid continuously; each step he took on the pillar was marked by evident struggle, his shoes squeaking against the oily surface.
Sweat beads glistened on his forehead under the firelight, sliding down his cheeks and soaking his white robe. Yet he did not stop; he clung tightly to the white rope and climbed upward with determination. His arm muscles tensed, veins bulging like coiling dragons, each movement awkward yet resolute as he battled against the entire pillar.
With every slip of his grip, gasps and cheers erupted from the crowd: "Huh! Ha!" The sound seemed to merge with his struggle’s rhythm, providing him with an invisible strength.
Bing Lie stood still, silently observing this fervent ritual with a deep and cold gaze. He did not join in with the crowd's shouts but quietly watched every movement of that priest as if trying to comprehend the meaning hidden behind this celebration.
In contrast to the frenzied crowd around him, Bing Lie remained silent and stern as he watched the priests on stage. Just then, a drunken man stumbled over beside him, his face flushed and eyes glazed. Clutching a tattered wine jug in one hand, he lifted it unsteadily to take a swig before mumbling incoherently, "Hey... what are these people doing? Climbing a pillar? Is it a competition or some... show?"
His words were slurred but loud enough to catch attention; several people nearby turned to look at him. One person impatiently replied, "This is the main ritual of the Heavenly Deity Festival; the priest is climbing the 'Cursed Pillar.' What do you know!"
The drunken man tilted his head, a mocking grin spreading across his face. "Cursed Pillar? Hahaha! Sounds like... something out of a fairy tale." He shook his wine jug as if laughing at an absurd joke.
The man beside him furrowed his brow but patiently explained, "This pillar is symbolic. According to legend, it represents the trials bestowed by all the celestial deities. Every year, the priest must climb to the top to prove that human will can overcome difficulties. If successful, the year will be peaceful and smooth. But if he fails..."
"What happens then?" The drunkard squinted, seemingly forcing himself to listen.
"If he fails, it means the celestial deities are displeased with us, and we must conduct more sacrifices. It could also signify disaster." The man's tone lowered, as if he feared this possibility.
The drunkard burst into laughter, his voice cutting through the noise of the bustling square. As he laughed, he said, "Celestial deities? Curses? Climbing a pillar? Ha! Can this really determine a year's fortune? How ridiculous! You people are so superstitious!"
No sooner had he spoken than a loud "Hmph! Ha!" interrupted his laughter. The crowd in the square seemed to plunge deeper into frenzy, their voices booming almost enough to make the ground tremble.
Bing Lie's gaze shifted slightly toward the pillar; the priest had already climbed halfway up. The priest's white robe was soaked with sweat, clinging to his body, while his arms and legs strained with muscles taut like strings about to snap. Oil stains caused him to slip back a step several times, yet he clung tightly to the white rope, gritting his teeth in determination, his expression one of near-mad obsession.
The surrounding crowd shouted louder and louder, their "Hmph! Ha!" echoing like a whirlpool enveloping the entire square. Even the drunkard was swept up in this emotion, unable to help but widen his eyes at the priest on the pillar, murmuring, "This guy... is really climbing quite high..."
Bing Lie stood at the edge of the crowd, silently watching the ascent on the altar. He did not care about the outcome of this ritual; success or failure meant nothing to him. However, he could not ignore the powerful atmosphere around him, as if every heart in town was connected by an invisible thread at that moment.
His gaze fell again on the black pillar. The oily sheen glimmered in the firelight, resembling solidified human sins and malevolence; those dark stains seemed to tell tales of countless wars and betrayals. The priest on the pillar appeared as a symbol fighting against this filth; covered in oil yet never pausing. Each upward movement seemed to carve out a new path in darkness.
Bing Lie took a deep breath; the shouts of those around him thundered in his ears yet felt distant as if separated by miles. He looked at those waving their arms—men and women alike—and even in children's eyes shone a pure yearning—they longed for this priest's success and for this symbolic trial to bring a year of peace.
The shadow of war had loomed over this land for far too long. Bing Lie had never seen so many people come together in one place with such unified purpose. A ripple stirred within him—not of emotion but of a long-lost tranquility, like a taut string suddenly loosening.
The priest slipped back a step again but quickly steadied himself, gripping the white rope tightly as he gritted his teeth and pushed his body upward. Sweat dripped down his cheek into the oil-stained pillar below, merging into a blurred patch of light. His movements were not graceful but carried an obstinate strength; at that moment, it felt as though he bore not just his own fate but also the hopes of everyone in town and even all those on this land.
Bing Lie slowly lowered his head, his fingers gently brushing the edge of his cloak as he silently acknowledged the priest. He could not discern whether this was a grand performance or a true trial. However, he was certain that this ritual, this black pillar, and the man climbing it were all silently uniting the scattered hearts of the people.
He raised his head, his gaze stern, yet a flicker of faint respect shone in his eyes. He understood that what people yearned for was not the pinnacle of the pillar, but the journey of climbing it—the desire to seek light in the darkness, which was something he had always tried to comprehend but could never quite grasp.
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