FYN Chapter 76 [Extreme Wave] A Crazy Praise Song!
Chapter 76 [Extreme Wave] A Crazy Praise Song!
Chapter 76 [Extreme Wave] A Crazy Praise Song! (Purely written about the chaos in Utah, you don't have to subscribe~)
The spire of the Salt Lake City Temple pierced the pale blue sky of early morning.
The first rays of sunlight crossed the Vasachi Mountains, turning the spire golden.
A figure stands at the highest point of the spire.
He took off his exquisite silk shirt and let the clothes fall from the sky.
The morning breeze caressed his perfectly sculpted body.
The sunlight shimmered on my skin.
Lucien spread his arms wide and looked up at the rising sun.
His pupils contracted to pinpoints in the bright light.
"Lord!"
The voice surged from the depths of his chest, carrying far in the quiet morning.
"Please pay attention to me!"
He paused for three seconds.
Salt Lake City was still asleep; the streets were empty, with only the early morning cleaning trucks slowly passing by.
Then he took a deep breath and shouted with all his might, "Get up! I don't want to—!!!"
The moment the last syllable tore through the air, something invisible erupted from him.
Like a pebble thrown into still water.
Expand the scope!
【Extreme Wave】.
The invisible boundary spread outwards, across Temple Square, past streets and houses, through the Traverse Mountains, over the salty surface of the Great Salt Lake, and outwards, outwards—
Utah is beginning to wake up.
"Oh, doggy~"
In the southern fields.
Tom straightened up in the cornfield, his trouser legs damp with the morning dew.
He had standard blond hair and blue eyes, and his face looked like a template copied from a family photo album.
He glanced at the eastern sky, calculating how long it would be before the morning prayer bells rang.
Suddenly the world changed.
-
The sunlight suddenly became sharp, each beam feeling like a needle pricking the skin.
The sound of the wind transformed into the high-frequency hissing of countless blades rubbing together.
"Tom?"
A voice came from the nearby field ridge. It was a young man with blond hair and blue eyes, his face filled with bewildered pain, "You—you felt it too?"
Tom didn't answer. A sharp pain shot through his old knee injury, and a tearing hunger in his stomach overwhelmed everything else.
He turned his head and saw that everyone else in the field had stopped what they were doing. They all had similar blond hair and blue eyes, and at that moment they were all covering their ears or staring blankly at their hands.
Just then, the bell rang.
Morning prayer bell.
In the past, the sound of this bell represented order and peace.
But now, what Tom heard was the harsh noise of a piece of pig iron being violently struck, each echo sounding like a dull knife scraping bone.
It wasn't just a sensory experience; he felt an irresistible revulsion.
"No----"
Not far away, a girl named Lily threw down her hoe, covered her ears tightly with both hands, and opened her mouth to let out a silent scream.
More people threw away their tools.
There was no conversation, but everyone's gaze turned in the same direction: the small white chapel in the center of the field.
Tom started walking.
He didn't think about why he had to leave; he just felt he had to go.
The bell must be stopped.
As they walked along the ridges of the fields, other blond-haired, blue-eyed young people gathered from all directions, silently heading toward the same goal.
The footsteps overlapped into a dull rhythm.
Two pastors are on duty in the square in front of the church.
They paused for a moment when they saw the crowd, then raised their shotguns.
"Stop!"
"Return to your posts! To each of you be in your place is piety!" a guardian shouted, his voice distorted in Tom's overloaded hearing.
The crowd did not stop.
Tom walked in front.
With the gun pointed at him, Ben Nian's fear rose clearly, his heart rate increased, and his palms sweated.
But that fear was overshadowed by another, stronger feeling: unbearable.
I can't stand the sound of the bell, I can't stand the hunger, I can't stand the pain in my knees.
I can't stand it here.
He continued walking forward.
A shot rang out.
The steel pellets from the shot grazed his left arm, tearing his skin.
The pain was sharp and clear; he could feel the depth to which each steel ball was embedded in his muscle.
But he didn't stop.
Because even after the gunshots, the bells were still ringing.
The other guard fired as well.
This time, the bullet hit a man next to Tom, whose chest exploded with blood and he fell backward.
The crowd paused for a moment.
Then continue forward.
It wasn't bravery, it was simply having no other choice.
Retreating means returning to the fields and continuing to endure the pain for an unknown period of time.
go ahead----
Moving forward might lead to death, but at least it will bring peace and quiet.
Tom lunged at the first guard.
The guard tried to reload, but it was too slow.
Tom bumped into him, and the two fell to the ground together.
"Blasphemy! This is blasphemy!"
The guard roared, pulled out a pistol, pressed it against Tom's abdomen, and fired.
boom!
Tom felt the bullet enter his body, the impact, the burning sensation, the excruciating pain of his internal organs being ripped apart. He coughed up blood, which splattered onto the guard's face.
But he did not let go.
Because the guardian is still moving, still breathing, and still making sounds.
He tightened his fingers until the gurgling sound from his throat stopped.
Tom let go and rolled over to lie on the floor.
The abdominal wound is causing significant blood loss.
Body temperature drops, heart rate slows, and the edges of vision begin to darken.
The sounds from the square seemed to fade into the distance.
The last thing he saw was the church spire, reflecting a blinding light in the morning sun.
The bells had stopped ringing sometime earlier.
Perhaps it stopped when he strangled the guardian.
Perhaps he simply can't hear anymore.
In the final moment before darkness engulfed his vision, Tom felt a profound weariness and a strange peace.
"Finally, it's quiet."
There is no sunlight deep inside the mine.
Maria knew this because she had been here for seventeen—or eighteen days.
Time loses its meaning here.
-
She climbed over the border wall six months ago, having heard that a church charity workshop in Salt Lake City was hiring seamstresses.
But she soon realized she was wrong.
She is now locked in an iron cage, with only her two wrists shackled.
The metal edges of the shackles chafed the skin, and the wounds repeatedly scabbed over and tore open again.
Today should be "processing day".
Because I haven't eaten anything, I've been on an IV drip of glucose for three days.
She could feel the tension in the air; the guards' footsteps were becoming more frequent, and the sound of sharpening knives could be heard in the distance.
She closed her eyes and awaited death.
Then suddenly everything changed.
Darkness is no longer just darkness.
The smell comes first.
The smells of mold, blood, excrement, rust, leaves and betel nuts on the guard's body—all these odors surged forth in layers, so intense that they made her gag.
Then came the pain.
The wounds on my wrist awoke from numbness, each tear sending forth a clear and precisely localized pain.
But all of this is overshadowed by an even stronger signal:
live.
This thought is no longer a wish; it has overridden everything and become the only legitimate command issued by the brain.
Maria's eyes widened.
Her gaze fell on the shackles on her wrists.
A steel ring, about one centimeter thick, is fixed to the iron bars of the cage with a padlock.
She had tried to break free before.
But the painful instinctual resistance made it impossible for her to break free.
A person cannot accomplish everything simply by making a firm decision.
But it is different now.
The desire to "survive" now overwhelms the pain and the realization of the impossibility.
She started twisting her wrists.
"Ah! Ahhh!"
The skin immediately tore open.
Old wounds reopen, and fresh blood gushes out.
The pain was sharp, but she seemed oblivious to it, showing no hesitation other than wailing.
Continue twisting.
The bone rubbed against the metal, producing a faint creaking sound.
She could feel the deformation of her ulna and radius under pressure.
The shackles were not loosened.
She changed her strategy, pushing and pulling back and forth.
The wrist moves back and forth in the ring, each movement taking away more skin and flesh.
Blood acts as a lubricant.
Push, pull, push, pull.
The rhythm is steady, like the piston of a machine.
Tears streamed uncontrollably from her eyes, and she clenched her teeth tightly.
In the distance came sounds from other cages: impacts, hisses, and the sound of metal deforming.
She was not distracted.
The shackles on his left hand were loosened.
It's not that the lock is open, but rather that the wrist has become deformed due to continuous friction and pressure, the bones are broken or even shattered, and the diameter of the entire wrist has decreased.
He pulled it out with his left hand.
The process was quick.
Skin, muscles, and tendons were peeled off like gloves, leaving them inside the metal rings.
The pulled-out hand no longer resembled a hand; it was a bloody mess with dislocated bones.
But she was free.
Do the same with your right hand.
Twenty minutes later, she stood in the cage, her hands hanging at her sides, blood dripping into the dust on the ground.
"I----"
The shackles that bound her are gone!
But there were no more tears for her to cry.
The cage door was simply locked with a padlock.
He reached out to pull, but his broken fingers couldn't bend. He hooked his forearm around the iron bar, lifted it with all his might, and then his whole body lurched forward.
Clang!
She successfully escaped the cage!
There were already other people in the mine tunnel.
Some people succeed, standing there bloodied and battered, just like her.
Some people fail, either inside or outside the cage.
Amidst the wails and sobs, no one stopped moving.
A guard appeared at the end of the passage.
He paused for a second upon seeing this, then raised the machete in his hand.
"Go back! All of you go back!"
He shouted, his voice a mixture of anger and fear.
"Obstacles are obstacles to living."
Mary was not afraid; she began to walk toward the guard.
She was unsteady on her feet and dizzy from blood loss, but she continued.
The guard swung his knife and slashed.
She didn't hide, didn't want to hide, and had no ability to hide.
Click!
The machete struck her shoulder and got stuck in her collarbone.
A sharp pain erupted, but she continued forward, using her body weight to slam the guard against the rock wall.
The guard tried to draw his knife, but it got stuck.
He released his grip and reached for the dagger at his waist.
Maria headbutted his face.
The sound of the nasal bone breaking was clearly audible.
The guard screamed in agony as the dagger slipped from his hand.
She used her broken hand to scratch his face; her fingers couldn't bend, so she slapped him with the heel of her palm.
Others gathered around as well.
There was no coordination, no tactics.
It's just the chaos of bestiality.
Two-legged sheep ate two-legged sheep.
Obstacles cleared.
Maria continued walking forward.
The knife on my shoulder swayed with each step, each sway bringing new pain.
The passage leads to a larger cavern, the pretreatment area.
There is a sink, hooks, and a cutting board.
It was covered with Gundams.
More guards are here.
They had heard the commotion and picked up their weapons.
boom!
A shot rang out.
The first person to rush into the cave fell, his chest exploding.
Gunshots echoed through the cave, creating multiple reverberations.
She didn't stop.
They lunged at the nearest guard.
The guard pressed a shotgun against her abdomen and fired.
The impact knocked her backward, and her intestines, warm and slippery, flowed out of the wound.
He fell to the ground, but his hand grabbed the guard's ankle.
Another survivor pounced from the side and bit the guard's neck.
A chaotic battle erupted in the cave.
Maria lay on the ground, watching the flickering light and shadows above.
Blood kept gushing from the wound in her abdomen. She could feel her body temperature dropping and her consciousness beginning to fade.
live.
Using her still-functioning left hand, she dragged her body toward the exit at the other end of the cave.
The intestines dragged behind, leaving a slippery trail in the dust.
The export is bright.
It wasn't sunlight, but a searchlight installed at the entrance of the mine.
But light is the direction.
She continued climbing.
The gunfire gradually subsided.
There are still ten meters to the exit.
five meters.
three meters.
She saw the sky outside the cave entrance, a pale blue in the early morning.
Then, in a daze, I heard a new sound—mechanical, high-speed, and continuous.
machine gun.
The barrage of bullets swept in from outside the cave entrance, hitting the rock walls and sending up pebbles and sparks.
Several people who rushed to the cave entrance were torn apart by bullets.
Maria is still climbing.
The bullet hit the ground in front of her, and the ricocheted bullet grazed her face.
She didn't stop.
Two meters from the cave entrance.
one meter.
She reached out her hand, her fingers touching the ground outside the cave; it wasn't rock, it was soil.
The machine gun opened fire again.
This time, the bullet hit her.
The first bullet hit his right leg, breaking his femur.
The second bullet struck the chest cavity, shattering the ribs and lung.
The third bullet hit his head.
The bullets turned the fragile carbon-based life form into a pile of Gundam fragments.
In the instant her consciousness faded, the last thing Maria saw was the sky outside the cave and a bird flying by.
Then darkness finally came.
This time it's permanent.
There is no light in the confessional.
John knelt on the rough stone slab, his forehead pressed against the cold ground.
He had been in this position for three hours, his knees had long since lost feeling, and his back was stiff from being bent for so long.
He had blond hair and blue eyes, but his gaze was much emptier than Tom's in the field; it was the result of long-term asceticism and self-denial.
This is a daily lesson:
Confront your sins in darkness and silence, and exchange physical discomfort for the purification of your soul.
He silently recited the scripture: "—Please cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; please wash me, and I will be whiter than snow—"
Then the silence was broken.
It wasn't the sound that broke the silence.
The silence itself has changed.
The darkness is no longer empty.
It was filled with faint echoes—the sound of his own heartbeat, the sound of his blood flowing, the gurgling of his intestines—
All sounds are amplified and superimposed, creating a continuous low-frequency roar.
Next is the tactile sensation.
Every bump and dent in the stone slab was clearly visible, the pressure on the knees was unevenly distributed, and the stiffness in the back muscles escalated from discomfort to actual pain.
But the most significant changes come from within.
John sensed something in the confessional, right in front of him.
It wasn't a metaphor; it was his senses that told him so. He smelled a fragrance that wasn't an odor, heard a chant that wasn't a sound, and felt a warmth on his skin that wasn't a temperature.
That is God.
Its existence is so real, so close, so—tempting.
In contrast, everything in reality becomes abhorrent:
This aching body, this dark confessional, this sinful self—all of these became pitiful barriers separating him from that being.
"Ah~"
The scriptures were still echoing in my mind, but their meaning had been distorted.
In the past, people taught patience; now they mock procrastination.
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened—"
You can come to my place.
immediately.
John opened his eyes; he needed a more direct approach. Penance was too slow, prayer too inefficient, and this physical body too cumbersome.
He needs to overcome this hurdle.
He stood up unsteadily.
The knee made a clicking sound.
I groped my way to the confessional door and pushed it open.
There were a few oil lamps in the corridor, providing dim light.
Other ascetics were also in the corridor.
Some people stood there blankly like him, some banged their heads against the wall, and some tore their clothes.
Everyone had standard blond hair and blue eyes, and at this moment, they all had the same expression on their faces:
Extreme hunger and thirst.
There was no communication, but there was mutual understanding.
They were tormented by the same desire elevated to its peak: the desire to arrive, the desire to be one.
John walked toward the church hall.
The scene inside the hall was even more spectacular.
Someone set the bench on fire and spread their arms in front of the flames.
Someone smashed the icon with a candlestick and then knelt among the shards.
Someone was carving scriptures on their body with a dagger, and blood was flowing down their body.
Everyone has gone mad.
Or rather, everyone was sober to the point of madness, so aware of how close that existence was, so aware of how thin the barrier was.
John saw the altar.
On the altar were placed the Holy Grail, the Holy Flour, and a ceremonial dagger.
He walked up the steps of the altar.
The short sword was held in his hand.
Made of steel, approximately 20 centimeters in length.
He could feel the texture of the sword hilt and the coldness of the metal.
He turned to face the empty bench, but in his perception, it was filled with that presence, almost overflowing.
It only takes one step.
All that's needed is to break through the last barrier.
The tearing dagger is very sharp.
There was almost no resistance during the insertion process.
Pain is present.
Clear, sharp, and penetrating to the bone.
That existence is closer now.
He turned the sword hilt, widening the wound.
Blood gushed out, and the warm liquid soaked the sacrificial robe.
My vision began to blur.
But the perception didn't become blurred; on the contrary, it became clearer.
He heard his heart beat weaker and weaker each time.
I could feel my body temperature dropping.
And that "existence" —
Almost here.
almost.
He used his last bit of strength to push the short sword in completely, until the hilt was pressed against his chest.
Then he fell down, his back against the altar.
On the verge of losing consciousness, John's perception reached its peak!
Darkness turned into profound light.
Silence became a perfect harmony.
Loneliness transformed into complete unity.
He did it.
He crossed it.
A smile appeared on his lips, then froze.
Below the altar, the other ascetics watched this scene with no fear in their eyes, only an even more fervent desire.
One person picked up another candlestick and walked toward the icon.
Flames spread throughout the church.
The once orderly town square, usually adorned with standardized, precisely curved smiles from religious followers distributing relief meals or urging people to "love one another," now had no change in their smiles, only their eyes were completely empty.
Silently and efficiently, they lifted the podium, dismantled the benches, and retrieved well-maintained firearms from hidden compartments.
Not just one or two, but enough firepower to arm a small infantry squad.
There were no slogans, no declaration of war.
The closest female believer, with impeccable blonde hair, still wearing an apron printed with "love is patient and kind," pulled the trigger on the homeless man who was collecting coffee in front of her.
The gunshot was not noise; to her ears, it may have transformed into the first note of a solemn organ.
The homeless man collapsed, his blood splattering onto her white apron, blooming into an irregular flower shape.
"Ah~"
She let out a satisfied sigh, her tone rising, filled with an eerie pleasure, "The Lord is calling me—through this hail of bullets."
This is like a signal.
All the cultists who received weapons opened fire simultaneously.
But they weren't aiming at any specific target; instead, they were unleashing bullets at all moving, unarmed "non-self" beings.
Pedestrians, homeless people, and shop assistants in the square —
They fell like wheat harvested by an invisible sickle.
The cultists fired as they moved with stiff steps, changing magazines, but not a single one took cover, waiting for their own sacrament.
Their faces always wore that empty yet loving smile, and they hummed distorted hymns, weaving a bloody requiem with the explosive gunshots.
Even when someone was shot dead by a passerby, the relentless pursuit continued.
Meanwhile, in the dark alleys and cheap apartments on the edge of the square, another group of people received the "grace" they had been dreaming of.
Those who had long lashed their bodies with asceticism and burned their nerves with chemical agents in their quest for a glimpse of the divine realm were now being roughly dragged across the threshold.
They saw it.
It wasn't a hazy halo or a whispered auditory hallucination.
It is a breathtakingly concrete and realistic vision of a divine kingdom:
Mountains of pure fortifier crystallized along the banks of a river flowing with honey and milk;
Countless perfect, mindless bodies are available for use and dismantling at will;
On both sides of the golden streets are angels nailed to crosses of eternal torment and ecstasy, their faces being the objects of every viewer's most secret desires.
A torrent of knowledge flows directly into the brain; there's no need to understand it, just enjoy the dizzying sensation of omniscience.
There, the ego can expand infinitely, or it can completely dissolve into the boundless sea of bliss.
"I saw it—I saw it! Hahahaha!"
A gaunt ascetic laughed maniacally as he began to cut his own thigh with a rusty saw. Blood gushed out, but his eyes were wide open, greedily fixed on some point in the void above. "This leg—it's blocking my ascension! Sacrifice it! Sacrifice it all!"
In the next room, a young man who had been taking enhancement drugs for a long time saw a key made of light in the divine kingdom, hanging in front of him, waiting for him to exchange his real life for it.
Without hesitation, he picked up the strong acid he had stolen from the chemistry lab and slowly poured it over his head.
The sizzling sound of flesh melting mingled with his ecstatic screams, and in his completely darkened vision, the hand of light was reaching out to grasp him.
For them, suicide is no longer the end, but the most degrading and urgent ritual of self-sacrifice, the only valid currency to buy that one-way ticket to the heaven they have already witnessed.
Cutting, shooting, jumping off buildings —
Various extreme forms of self-destruction unfold simultaneously, like a frantic race against time to reach the ultimate feast.
Deep within the woodlands of the city park, a small group of people who believe in the ancient wolf and bear totems have undergone the most profound transformation.
They have long imitated the habits of wild animals, wearing claw and tooth ornaments, and yearning to unite with the spirit of the totem.
【Extreme Wave】did not give them illusions, but directly rewrote the boundaries of their perception and cognition.
The leader of the wolf totem believers was on all fours, letting out a howl that was completely inhuman.
His saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, and the human reason in his eyes vanished like the receding tide, replaced by pure, hungry bestiality.
He no longer viewed his companions as people, but rather as individuals within the wolf pack that could be dominated, or even—devoured.
He lunged at the nearest follower, not to attack, but to bite the man's shoulder in a twisted, intimate gesture.
Instead of resisting, the bitten person let out a joyful groan and bit back.
They entangled and tore at each other like wild beasts in heat, leaving deep, bone-revealing wounds on each other with their teeth and nails.
The line between pain and pleasure is completely blurred, bloodshed becomes the most intimate form of communication, and the sharing of flesh and blood becomes another corner of the Holy Communion Park, a gathering place for bear totems, which is connected with the spirit of the totem.
The most robust of the believers let out a deafening roar.