UCPA Chapter 95: Sun and Night

Chapter 95: Sun and Night

Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations

Editor: PlumSauce

 

Using the ruins of the Blackmoon family house and the surrounding private land as the cultivation pool, the sandbox was vast beyond belief — its interior almost the size of a medium-sized city. Those who entered would have to battle the awakened devil souls. The larger area and complex terrain allowed for more tactical arrangements.

Erica at the Association’s front desk likened it to this: wandering xenomorphs in a space station, where humans could maneuver to gain the upper hand; a serial killer breaks into a villa, where the homeowners could use the layout and attributes of the space to hide and strike. If the xenomorphs or serial killer appeared in a cramped space — say, standing with you inside a phone booth — you wouldn’t even have time to hide or think tactically.

With eight days left, the sandbox was activated several times for final verification and reinforcement. It had to remain solid and intact, and it had to be ensured that the devils stayed trapped inside, unable to leave even if they found the correct exit.

“We still have another issue to address.”

In the meeting tent, Coraci faced a full house of monstrous or human colleagues: bear-people priests from the Druid order, elder spellcasters from various bloodkin houses, demons who littered the ground with cigarette butts and refused to follow orders, black-veiled witches from the Arabian Peninsula…and local spellcasters who rushed in from the Americas and Asia — some old and white-haired, some whose age was indiscernible.

“Once you enter the sandbox, we will lose contact with the outside world — no way to communicate. For safety, the sandbox only has one designated exit. Should someone fall in battle, your friends and family may not know immediately.”

“We’re all mentally prepared,” said a veiled woman. She came from an ancient witch family and was a powerful core blood descendant, unlike the male witch with thin bloodline from the Association back then.

“Thank you, Tave,” Coraci nodded with a smile.

“I’m not Tave, I’m Lela. The one to your right is Tave.”

“Oh…sorry, I always mix you two up.”

“My mascara is black with silver shimmer; hers is pure black.”

“Thanks, I promise I’ll still mix you up next time.”

Tave, Lela, and everyone else in the tent laughed. After being tense all day, both physically and emotionally, their smiles were stiff, as if hardened by habit.

With less than twelve hours remaining, at dusk on the seventh-to-last day, they would be the first to enter the sandbox.

At this moment, John lifted the tent flap. “Coraci, someone wants to see you.”

“Who?”

“A person wearing neither pants nor shoes,” John said deliberately. “So…can you guess who it is?”

It was now a little past seven in the evening. The setting sun had just dipped behind the distant hills, and neither the moon nor stars were particularly visible.

Brighter than the celestial lights were three military tents — they were glowing.

The glow was milky white, flowing softly, not at all harsh on the eyes. As Coraci and John approached, they saw several werewolves, bear-people, and humans gathered near the light, kneeling on one knee around the tents.

“Look,” John pursed his lips. “These people are followers of the ancient Druid order.”

Coraci nodded knowingly. “So…it’s him?”

The milky glow gradually faded, and a silvery figure stepped out. Long hair trailing to the ankles, steps light as air, the slender Forest Spirit — Jožef — looked around, standing barefoot on the grass.

Forest Spirits were, of course, not gods of the Druid order; at most, they could be considered “sacred beings”. Jožef did not understand why these wolves and bears looked at him as if he were a diamond. He explained several times that he was not a local Forest Spirit but of Slavic origin, yet they continued to regard him with the same intensity. He could only liken it to a movie fan encountering a Hollywood star.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said to the kneeling crowd. “Do you look at every Forest Spirit this way?”

Coraci approached. “Jožef, you should know — forget seeing ‘every’ Forest Spirit, most people have never seen one at all.”

Jožef embraced Coraci and held his gaze for a while. Coraci understood: his eyes were still pure black, without pupils or irises, yet Jožef didn’t ask anything.

“I’m here to help,” Jožef said. “This is your warehouse, right?”

“Here to help?” Coraci wondered what he could do — after all, he couldn’t even deal with succubi… And why was there always a ‘warehouse’ whenever Jožef was involved?

Jožef glanced at the warehouse as its glow faded. “I… I can make your food taste especially delicious”

Most people suppressed laughter; only one girl shouted, “I’ll check it out,” and immediately dove into the warehouse tent — Carolyn.

“I can also guarantee that no one here will get sick anytime soon,” Jožef said proudly.

“Of course, I mean in the usual sense of illness — injuries don’t count. And if someone already has certain ailments, I can try to heal you so that sickness won’t hold you back. Oh, but…only minor ailments. Serious ones, I can’t fix — curing major injuries or illnesses would interfere with natural laws. I just can’t do that…”

An elderly exorcist in the crowd raised his hand.

“I have diabetes…”

“I’m sorry, I can’t cure that…but I can heal your mouth ulcers.”

“I have eczema…”

“Chronic gastritis, does that work?”

“Can you fix a werewolf’s cavities?”

“Rhinitis…”

Jožef was soon surrounded by a group of elderly exorcists when Carolyn jumped out, waving a box of breakfast waffles.

“Oh my god! It’s real! Even packaged food tastes so much better when he does it!”

Coraci and John exchanged glances and shrugged simultaneously.

No wonder people long ago thought Forest Spirits were gods.

“How come I’m not nervous at all?” John asked, looking around.

They felt more like they were at some fantastical party than preparing to face a terrifying enemy.

“Me neither,” Coraci said. “Look at them — they’re arguing about whether to make potatoes taste better or just make processed potato chips taste better… Is there no one afraid of what’s coming?”

“I’m really glad I met these people… No, these creatures,” John said.

“Me too. I don’t want to leave them.”

Coraci turned and walked away from the warehouse, which had grown as noisy as a graduation dance.

John followed.

He told Coraci that leaving was only temporary; even if it took years, they would come back eventually.

Coraci smiled and nodded but didn’t answer directly.

“Are you worried about something?” John asked from behind.

Coraci shook his head. “No, quite the opposite, I…”

“What?”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

He turned, clenching his fists and then relaxing them.

Some things were instinctive.

Like moths swarming around a lantern.

Like migratory birds flying across the ocean.

As long as he lived, the devil’s instincts whispered endlessly in his ear.

He craved battle the way a wanderer in the desert craved water.

Tomorrow, they will enter the sandbox space.

Before the devil’s soul fully awakened, they had to familiarize themselves with the inner world and make any necessary preparations.

Until then, Coraci could still read fear on the faces of others.

That was normal — people were afraid, yet they tried to focus on pleasant things, keeping themselves calm.

For Coraci, tomorrow felt more like a generous mirage opening its doors.

He will leave the desert with rightful purpose and throw himself into that illusion, driven by his thirst for water.

John came over. “Hey, want a hug?”

“Celebrating something?” Coraci asked, slightly amused as his thoughts returned to the present.

“Nothing,” John said, wrapping an arm around him and resting his head close. “Do you want the romantic reason or the not-so-romantic one?”

“I want to hear both.”

“Okay, I’ll start with the not-so-romantic one,” John said. “I noticed your mood was off and wanted to help you calm down.”

“Why does a hug help me calm down?”

“I’m bloodkin. I hardly have any body heat,” John said, deliberately pressing his palm against the back of Coraci’s neck. “See? Feeling ‘calm’ yet?”¹

Coraci didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “So, what’s the romantic reason? Is it even funnier than this?”

“It isn’t funny,” John said. “A more romantic reason would be that you look like you need a hug.”

Coraci tilted his head slightly away. “Really? Then you might as well bite me again — the effect would be better.”

“Why? I don’t need it right now…”

“But I do. It would make me feel so relaxed.”

“You sound like you’re describing a drug addiction,” John said.

Of course, he didn’t actually bite the side of Coraci’s neck. Instead, he pressed his lips gently against Coraci’s.

Through the fabric of his shirt, his fingertips could feel Coraci’s warmth. He knew that, by comparison, his own hands and lips were too cold, but Coraci wouldn’t mind. Coraci’s arms were wrapped tightly around him — tighter even than he held Coraci.

Kissing was somewhat like drinking blood. Drinking made humans weak and limp, their emotions flattening into blankness. A kiss could do the same.

Coraci leaned against a stack of transport crates, John’s chest pressed against him, as if his body was anchoring him in the small corner. Their kisses were always strange. He couldn’t hear the other’s heartbeat, couldn’t feel the breath brushing his cheek. As a result, he would forget when the kiss began and could never predict when it would end.

It was like their strange relationship now — he couldn’t remember how it started, and it seemed it should never end.

“Was it too long?” John asked when their lips parted. After all, Coraci’s body was still human. Maybe…he still needed to breathe. At least, he had felt that just now.

Coraci shook his head, looking down. Only then did John notice that perhaps Coraci actually felt shy about such things. He had always thought he himself was the clumsier one.

Nearby, light from a lamp filtered through the crate gaps, giving Coraci’s dark eyes a hint of warmth.

John lifted Coraci’s face. “Coraci, I—”

Once he spoke, he realized he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say. At that moment, the long whinny of battlehorses came from outside the camp, causing a stir.

They ran over and heard the Witch Blood Descendants speaking in alarm about the “Oath of Vengeance’s presence”. Coraci knew that an Oath of Vengeance was a type of undead, usually formed from a soul that had died harboring intense faith and immense resentment.

There were mourning singers, witches who had died under persecution; Doomcaliber knights, who roamed endlessly after death to fulfill their unfinished worldly goals; and the headless knights, wandering daily in search of their lost heads.

“Headless knights?” Coraci moved closer to the edge of the camp, looking out into the dark forest.

A lantern appeared less than sixty feet away.

Inside the gilded lampshade burned a cold blue flame that gradually brightened, revealing the lantern-bearer. She was a slender girl in a red robe. Her skin was pale, her black hair drifting like smoke, and fire burned in her eye sockets.

The flames in her eyes were a typical trait of an Oath of Vengeance. She was a mourning singer — a witch who had died under persecution.

Before anyone could react, firelight began appearing in every corner of the forest.

Some were lanterns, some were the glowing hooves of war horses and Nightmare horses, some were points of light in eye sockets, and some…were ordinary flashlights and phone screens.

A headless warhorse stepped forward, a familiar figure waving toward John and Coraci.

Sir Kimplin carried a heavy sword at his waist, a spear in his hand, and a backpack strapped across his chest containing his head. His deep voice echoed through the night forest. “Long time no see, mine friends. Tonight, the Knights of the Dead are assembled hither. We be forty-four in number, willing to fight for gods, faith, ancestors, and honor.”²

He finished speaking and gestured toward the red-robed mourning singer a few steps in front of his horse. She continued for him. “This knight can only speak one sentence… Actually, he hasn’t even reached 140 letters³ yet. Anyway, some of us have heard the news. Since you didn’t keep it a secret from us, you’ll probably welcome our participation, right?”

“Of course…” Coraci looked at the knights hidden in the forest and nodded blankly. Most of the others were equally dumbfounded, standing motionless with mouths agape, as if each were holding a whole egg inside.

The red-robed girl looked back. “Apart from these headless knights who can barely speak and the Doomcaliber knights who can speak but rarely do, many of the forty-four of us are mourning singers — you call us that. They actually count us as part of the ‘knight order’, though we’re not knights at all. Saying we’re spellcasters would probably embarrass them. It’s a very backward, crude discrimination. In this day and age, women can wear pants, ride horses, and even go to space, and yet they still discriminate against witches…”

She went on chattering continuously, and now everyone understood why she was the one handling communication — apparently, she took great pleasure in it.

John walked over to Coraci and leaned close to his ear. “Do you know what I’m thinking?”

“How would I know? I’m not Smith.”

“I was thinking…maybe there’s nothing to worry about.”

In front of them lay weapons forged centuries ago, behind them were allies from countless races. And beside him was the person he trusted most — and the person who trusted him most.

John knew his thoughts might be reckless, even childish, yet he couldn’t help thinking, Because…it feels like the night and the sun are both in our hands.

 

Author’s Note:

(:з」∠)… I got a little excited writing this myself… But here’s a small teaser for everyone. Although there’s still plenty of plot ahead, there probably won’t be any spectacular, action-packed battles with magic, multiple factions clashing, or epic fights with devils every chapter. So please don’t expect that… Otherwise, you might be disappointed… OTL

 

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