CDJMM – Volume 5 -Chapter 3 Civilization Rescue Team (3)

When Li Jingwen walked out of her room and told her parents, “I want to go to school,” both of them widened their eyes at the same time, like jammed machines forcing out each word: “You want to go to school?”

Li Jingwen silently nodded.

Her mother asked in a fluster, “Baby, why do you suddenly want to go to school?”

In her mind, the scene from that night resurfaced.

The boy had his back to her, waved a hand, and said, “Hurry and come to school. The classmates all miss you.”

In the cool night air, the boy’s careless tone hid a trace of faint, barely noticeable warmth:

“If you don’t study well now, how will you become a teacher in the future?”

A dream even Li Jingwen herself had almost forgotten—yet Le Jing still remembered. In the days when she didn’t know, during her painful and shadowed moments, someone had been quietly paying attention to her. Just thinking about that filled the emptiness inside her.

Because Le Jing was at school, she was no longer afraid.

Facing her mother’s searching gaze, Li Jingwen suppressed her instinct to lower her head, courageously met her mother’s eyes, and said in a quiet but unwavering voice: “There’s a friend waiting for me at school.”

Her father, who was never good with words, had tears glimmering in his eyes. He carefully said, “I… I’ll take you to school tomorrow!”

Her mother hugged her tightly and began to cry softly.

Li Jingwen pressed her lips together, feeling even more guilt. Ever since she took leave from school due to campus bullying, her parents must have been terribly worried.

Now, it was time to set everything back on the right track.

Li Jingwen’s sudden return to school naturally drew everyone’s attention. Many classmates who used to be close to her clustered around her desk, chattering as they greeted her with concern.

Li Jingwen answered absently, her eyes drifting again and again to Le Jing’s empty seat. It was almost class time—why wasn’t he here yet?

After the first period ended, she finally couldn’t hold back and asked the student sitting in front of Le Jing: “Excuse me… why isn’t Le Jing here?”

The smile on his face instantly vanished, replaced by a sorrow Li Jingwen couldn’t read.

“Say something!”

“Le Jing… yesterday he acted bravely and saved two drowning children… but accidentally… drowned.”

A bolt from a clear sky.

Li Jingwen grabbed the desk for support as the world spun around her, her head dizzy.

How… how could it be?!

She hadn’t thanked him properly yet. She hadn’t become his friend. She hadn’t even had the chance to confess the hidden feelings of her young heart…

Yes— It was only when she learned of Le Jing’s death that Li Jingwen suddenly realized… she seemed to like him.

But it was too late.

This little secret of a young girl’s heart was destined to remain hers alone.

Li Jingwen collapsed to her knees and cried loudly, under the stunned and bewildered gazes of her classmates.

When Le Jing was young, he sometimes wondered what expression his parents would have if he died.

Now he knew the answer.

Le Zhengye held the honorary banner praising his son’s heroic deed, facing the reporters’ cameras with a proud yet sorrow-tinted smile.

He spoke at length about his exceptional parenting philosophy, claiming that Le Jing’s bravery was the result of his own teaching by example.

Disgusting.

This was his father—

A conceited, vain, arrogant, cold, selfish, and authoritarian man.

Sometimes Le Jing even wondered— Was Le Zhengye’s deep hatred for his mother’s mental illness because he himself was the one who was mentally ill?

But he would probably never get that answer.

With the death of an only child, both emotionally and socially, Le Zhengye had to visit Le Jing’s biological mother.

And Le Jing’s mother, Ms. Chen Mansi, was currently confined in a psychiatric hospital.

Le Jing followed Le Zhengye into the ward, like a ghost no one could see.

When Ms. Chen Mansi heard the news, she broke down just like any mother who had lost a child would—so devastated she looked like she might faint at any moment.

Her grief successfully stirred Le Zhengye’s pity.

But it couldn’t fool Le Jing.

Le Jing almost wanted to laugh out loud.

How amusing.

His father felt honored by his “heroic death”, while his mother wanted to use his death as a chance to escape the psychiatric hospital.

He “died”, yet neither of his parents felt true sorrow. Only parents like this could have a child like him— A “monster.”

He had no friends.

So no one would be sad because he died.

Le Jing turned and walked out of the ward without looking back, bidding the world a final farewell.

From now on, this world had nothing to do with him.

Ahead lay a lonely path, but he would keep walking.

In December, on the border of the Louis Empire, the small town of Nice saw a fall of black snow. The black flakes drifted down in thick sheets, dyeing everything in sight pitch-black.

The townspeople rushed out of their homes in a panic, looking around in terror. Many collapsed emotionally and burst into sobs.

“God, have You abandoned us?”

“This is a curse from the demon!”

“Merciful Father, please save us!”

“What did we do wrong? Why are we being punished like this?”

The priest, wearing a thick felt hat, raised his voice from afar: “Hurry back home! Don’t stay outside! This foul snow will take your lives!”

After a chaotic scramble, only a scattering of messy footprints remained in the blackened snow.

Black snowflakes fell onto the priest’s white-gold cloak, leaving twisted centipede-like stains before quickly melting into black droplets that dripped to the ground. The priest’s face was hidden in the shadow of his hat, blurred and unreadable. He stood dazed in the snow, his lips parting and closing as puffs of white mist escaped with each breath:

“Whoever you are… please save them… As long as they can survive, even a demon would be fine…”

The overwhelming black snow swallowed his voice whole.

…

In the royal capital of the Louis Empire, inside the headquarters of the Church of Light—Saint John’s Cathedral—a sacrificial ritual was being prepared.

Angela knelt quietly on the wooden floor of the prayer room, her ten fingers interlaced before her lips, eyes tightly shut. Her long silver hair spread over the floor like a pure water lily. Her intricately flowing gown pooled around her, its lace embroidery and embedded white crystals catching the colored light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

Outside the cathedral, masses of people gathered. People from different nations and ethnicities, speaking in different tongues and accents, were all discussing the same event—the sacrificial ritual held by the Church of Light.

With a soft creak, the door opened. Light footsteps came to a stop behind her. “My Lady, the witches are ready.”

Angela’s silver eyelashes trembled. Her silver eyes opened, clear and lucid. “What time is it now?”

“One hour left, My Lady.”

Angela lifted her gaze to the massive statue before her.

The ferocious Demon King held a human skull in his grasp, standing atop a mountain of human remains. His blood-red eyes radiated a cold, devouring cruelty.

He had once been her lifelong enemy.

From the moment she was chosen as the Holy Maiden, she had sworn before the statue of the God of Light that she would spend her life fighting evil.

Thus, she had stepped onto the battlefield countless times, leading the Holy Army in bloody battles against the demons of the Abyss. Her hands had long been stained with the blood of many demons.

But now—now she was about to step onto an altar, kneel in the lowest posture, speak the most humble words, and beg for the Demon God’s response.

The God of Light had abandoned this cursed continent.

For a hundred years, they had tried every possible method, but they could not receive even the slightest response from the God of Light.

Black clouds hid the sun, the barren land could not grow a single sprout, the ocean had turned into deadly poison, and starving goats had begun to feed on humans…

Worse still, magic was fading.

This world was slowly marching toward decay. In thirty more years, only deathly silence would remain.

Angela would not allow such a tragic, hopeless ending!

Since the God of Light had forsaken them, they could only beg for the Demon God’s response.

Even if it meant betraying her faith, falling into darkness, offering herself to demons—she would save this world!

Angela bowed deeply to the Demon King’s statue one final time, stood up, and walked toward the door without looking back. The hem of her dress fluttered like a white butterfly in summer.

Outside the cathedral, an altar had already been built the day before. Four tall stone pillars surrounded it, each carved with vicious demonic beasts.

The noisy crowd gradually quieted as twelve witches dressed in white ritual garments approached the altar. And when Angela, the thirteenth witch, walked to the center of the altar, the entire ocean of people fell utterly silent.

Eyes of all colors gathered on the altar. The silence was so deep that their collective heavy breathing could be heard.

It seemed as though the entire continent had gathered here.

They had once all been devout believers of the God of Light, but now they placed their last hope on the Demon King.

As long as the Demon King would let them survive, they would believe in him.

When Angela raised her hands high, even the sound of breathing ceased. The packed crowd watched everything in utter silence, like countless spirits from the underworld gazing upon the world of the living, black flames burning in their eyes.

The priests struck the first drumbeat—a deep, resonant, earth-shaking sound.

With the rhythm, the twelve witches respectfully placed offerings on the altar and then began to dance.

Their waists swayed, their long sleeves billowed—like celestial maidens in ancient myth.

Graceful, ethereal, holy, pure.

Strength and beauty met in perfect harmony.

This was a ritual dance they had discovered in a long-abandoned underground city—a dance meant to summon the Demon King.

A violent wind rose. Leaves swirled through the air. Dark clouds churned, the sky dimming visibly as the sun disappeared. Faint thunder rumbled in the distance.

No one wished to leave. Every heart and mind was tethered to the altar. They forgot heaven and earth, forgot themselves—completely absorbed by the soul-shaking ritual dance.

When the first drop of rain fell to the ground, Angela’s singing began. Her voice was not loud, yet every person present could hear her clearly.

The lyrics were archaic and mysterious, woven with intricate rhythmic patterns—the language of prayer, a language belonging to the divine.

But the song alone was not enough.

The twelve dancing witches raised their long swords simultaneously and plunged them into their own chests with serene smiles.

“Demon King… we… beseech your descent… we beg… for your favor…”

Blood gushed from their chests, yet their eyes shone with desperate, all-or-nothing fervor.

Angela’s hand flipped, and a sharp enchanted dagger appeared in her palm. She gripped it and slashed deep into her own arm. Blood trickled down, winding along her skin before dripping into the growing pool of blood on the ground.

She chanted softly, and the blood on the ground began to shift, bit by bit forming a crimson magic circle. A faint bloody glow flowed quietly along its lines.

Angela prostrated herself fully, forehead pressed tightly against the ground, and cried out:

“O Lord, have mercy!”

The believers beneath the altar dropped to their knees in unison, shouting like crashing waves:

“O Lord, have mercy!”

In the next moment, the magic circle blazed with light. Within the dazzling blood-red glow, a vague human figure appeared at its center.

Ten seconds later, the light faded. Angela lifted her head—and saw the man standing in the middle of the magic circle.

The Demon King!

The Demon King had answered her!!

Suddenly, she recalled the scriptures: Thou shalt not gaze directly upon God.

She hurriedly lowered her head in panic. “O Lord, thank You for responding to the summons of Your humble servants. This world shall crawl at Your feet, begging only for the slightest trace of Your grace.”

A pair of strangely styled leather shoes appeared in her limited field of vision. A warm, elegant voice—like a cello—spoke above her:

“Raise your head.”

Obediently, Angela lifted her head—and finally saw the true face of the Demon King: black hair, black eyes, fair skin, dressed in oddly styled shirt and trousers, carrying an air of refined elegance. He didn’t look like a demon king from hell at all—more like a scholar.

So this… is what the Demon King looks like?

Le Jing glanced at the girl kneeling fervently in the pool of blood, then at the dozen female corpses scattered near the blood-red magic circle, feeling extremely conflicted.

Had he transmigrated into the middle of some kind of massive, evil cult ritual?

And what kind of vicious cult used human sacrifice?!

Now it seemed these fanatics had mistaken him for their evil god.

“What is your name?”

The girl’s face flushed with excitement. “My name is Angela. I was once the Holy Maiden of the God of Light—now I am your witch!”

Le Jing: …???

A perfectly respectable clergywoman—why are you doing evil cult worship?!