The praise from deep within the Holy Spring now reaches the heavens.
Words have power, a force mighty enough to kill the sun. And ancient poetry is smeared with the balm of "beauty."
It is a tool for rituals, an unfixed beauty, wisdom in motion.
"I sing praises to the Gemini Mirror, the divine without eyes, without self, pure and flawless!"
Ayimar Nur chants loudly, the Sacred Staff in his hand striking the lake's surface.
Even the most defiant Benevolent Lords maintain a dignified and reverent posture at this moment.
Everyone softly recites the poetry praising the Gemini Mirror. Their stances differ, but from each, one can sense a "tranquility."
More and more white smoke rises quietly, a cold vapor.
It wraps around the skin, feeling as icy as jade.
The chanting hasn't stopped. But as everyone enters a state of emptiness, consciousness suddenly vanishes.
Aiwass feels as though he's entered a mysterious world made of infinite mists.
