Chapter 456 - 420: Horror Stories

Chapter 456: Chapter 420: Horror Stories

Simon was stunned.

He opened his mouth but found himself at a loss for words.

It was true.

To those on the brink of starvation, the "Holy Water" that could fill their bellies and make them forget their suffering was a lifeline. Anyone who dared take away their food would become their enemy.

"Then... then what do we do?" Simon looked at Velin helplessly. "Are we just going to watch them turn the entire city’s population into insects?"

"Of course not."

Velin pulled a rolled-up parchment from his sleeve and slapped it against Simon’s broad chest.

"You don’t need a blade to kill. Use this."

Simon fumbled to catch the parchment and unrolled it.

By the dim candlelight, he saw it was covered in dense script.

It wasn’t a call to arms.

Nor was it evidence exposing the truth.

But a collection of... stories?

[SHOCKING! The Midnight Screams of the Grand Cathedral—Why Did a Slimy Tentacle Emerge from Under the Bishop’s Robes?]

[EXCLUSIVE REVEAL! The Terrifying Truth of the Holy Water Workshops: Where Did All the Missing Orphans Go?]

[AN EYEWITNESS ACCOUNT FROM A DOCKWORKER: People Who Drink the Holy Water Crawl on Walls Like Spiders in the Dead of Night!]

The more Simon read, the more horrified he became, a chill creeping up his spine.

Every story was written in vivid, shockingly realistic detail. It even described, with perfect clarity, how well-done the "tentacled bishop" liked his human flesh.

"This..." Simon swallowed hard. "My Lord, this... this is all fake, right?"

"Does it matter if it’s real or fake?"

Velin walked to the edge of the altar, his fingers gently tracing the anvil symbol.

"The truth is often dull, complicated, and difficult to grasp. If you try to explain ’parasites’ and ’toxins’ to those illiterate paupers, will they understand? They’ll just think you’re jealous of the Church."

Velin turned to face Simon.

"But fear is different."

"Fear is a universal language. Everyone is afraid of ghosts, of monsters, of becoming something inhuman."

"I want you to use all of the True Origin Sect’s channels—the beggars, the prostitutes, the thieves, the servants who empty the chamber pots. Spread these stories. Don’t argue, don’t reason. Just pretend to be drunk in a tavern and let one slip, or whisper a few words while washing clothes by the well."

Velin walked up to Simon and reached out, straightening his crooked collar.

"Remember, the more absurd, the more disgusting, the more terrifying the story, the more people will believe it."

Simon looked at the young lord.

In the flickering candlelight, Velin’s face appeared exceptionally calm, even a bit scholarly. But in Simon’s eyes, that face was more terrifying than any demon from the legends.

’This is a master of manipulating minds.’

"I understand."

Simon took a deep breath, clutching the parchment in his hand as if it were a sharp dagger.

"These aren’t stories... This is roasting the Church over an open fire."

A knowing smile spread across Simon’s worldly face.

...

「Three days later.」

Fear was a plague, but it spread faster than any real one.

Somewhere along the line, chilling "horror stories" began to circulate through the streets and alleyways.

It started in a dilapidated tavern in the Lower City District, with a pale-faced vagrant recounting his "personal experience."

The vagrant said he first thought it was just a drunk sleeping on the street. But then the man began to tear at his own throat under the moonlight as if possessed, clawing desperately into his mouth as if trying to pull something out of his esophagus. It wasn’t until he heard a strange CLICK-CLACK, like the scraping of a carapace, from deep within the man’s throat that the vagrant realized with horror that the man’s chest wasn’t moving—he wasn’t breathing. He was a dead man!

And clutched tightly in the corpse’s hand was an empty bottle from the Church...

Next came the rumors in the vegetable market, where a gossiping housewife told those around her the story of "the neighbor’s youngest son."

After returning from receiving the Holy Meal at the church, the boy stopped talking and would only smile at the corner of the room. In the middle of the night, his mother heard a noise from the kitchen. She lit a lamp and found the boy on the floor, his limbs bent backward at a bizarre, spider-like angle, swallowing the family’s pet rat whole. The mother screamed in terror. The child turned his head, the whites of his eyes showing, green saliva dripping from his mouth, and said in an inhuman, raspy voice, "Mama, I want more of that golden water..."

After that, the rumors reached the artisans’ district, and the stories became even more grotesque.

Some said that if you passed by the alley behind the grand cathedral late at night, you must never look up.

Because behind the high, stained-glass windows, you wouldn’t see the shadows of the choir, but the giant silhouettes of creatures with tentacles and compound eyes. They writhed to the roar of the pipe organ, sucking believers dry like jelly, then reinflating their leftover skins, dressing them in clerical robes, and sending them back to the entrance the next day to distribute more Holy Water.

Even at the private banquets of some nobles, the atmosphere grew strange.

Ladies hid their faces with fans, trembling as they discussed the rumors about the Cardinal. It was said His Eminence never removed his gloves because his fingernails had fallen off, replaced by suckers like those of a cephalopod. And when he presided over Mass, a viscous liquid would sometimes drip from beneath his tall miter, SIZZLING and corroding the floor where it landed.

Not a single one of these stories directly accused the Church, but the terrifying source at the end of each one—be it a mutated relative, a man-eating monster, or the eyes in the walls—all pointed to the towering Holy Radiance Cathedral.

The Church panicked.

These grotesque horror stories spread too quickly. People were both frightened and curious, and the mix of truth and fiction made them much harder to debunk than simple rumors.

Priests cried out in the public square, declaring it was all slander from heretics, the lies of the devil. They even seized a few of the beggars who were most fervent in their storytelling and had them publicly flogged.

But it was just as Velin had predicted—

The more you explained, the more people believed you were hiding some unspeakable horror.

You arrested people, and everyone thought you were afraid of the "man-eating skin-suit" secret being exposed.

...

The afternoon sun was a bit glaring. Simon clutched a heavy stack of brown paper-wrapped parcels and hurried through the sour-smelling streets of the Lower City District.

As he passed a Church soup kitchen, his pace slowed involuntarily.

The vagrants who would have once cracked their heads open for a drop of "divine grace" now stood frozen, holding their bowls as if they contained scalding poison.

Simon blended in with the passersby and glanced over discreetly.

He saw a man, thin as a skeleton, staring at the pale golden liquid in his bowl. His Adam’s apple bobbed violently, but he didn’t dare open his mouth. In his eyes, this was no longer life-saving Holy Water. The ripples on the liquid’s surface became, in his mind’s eye, a swarm of tiny "eggs." The glint of the light looked just like the "suckered" tentacles of the monster from the rumors, or perhaps even a pair of "backward-bending limbs."

Even as his stomach growled with hunger, the primal fear of "his guts bursting out" and "turning into a monster" forcefully suppressed his craving for food.

"I won’t drink it... I won’t drink it..." With a trembling hand, the man finally threw the bowl he had once treasured to the ground and turned to run, as if something was chasing him.

Seeing this, the corners of Simon’s mouth, hidden beneath his collar, curled into a wide, immensely satisfied grin.

But he quickly remembered he was in the middle of the street.

The smile vanished as quickly as it appeared.

The stout man gave a dry cough and quickly adopted the weary, bustling expression of a businessman. He pushed up the broken glasses on his nose, but his steps became much lighter.

Passing through the noisy district, the surroundings gradually grew quiet.

The vine-covered Silent Villa was now in sight.

At the gate, Simon straightened his sweat-soaked collar, took a deep breath to compose himself, and then followed the guiding servant to the second floor.

"Lord Count."

The butler, Sebastian, stood at the study door, his stiff voice breaking the silence of the hallway. "The owner of the ’Truth’s Page Printing House’ has arrived. He says he’s here to deliver the books you requested."

"Let him in."

Velin’s calm, unwavering voice came from within the room.

Simon immediately put on a humble and fawning expression. He appeared at the doorway, panting, clutching the thick stack of books. He deliberately made his breathing sound heavy and his voice loud, clear enough for all the servants in the hallway to hear.

"Praise the Holy Radiance, Lord Count! To rush this order of the Haiti Chronicles, my workers and I didn’t dare to sleep for a single second! We finally finished before sunrise. This paper... Oh, just feel it! It’s all made from the finest birch pulp. Not only is it expensive, but it’s filled with the fragrance of knowledge! Please, take a look!"

Velin stood by the French doors leading to the terrace, a cup of black tea in his hand. He tilted his head slightly, his expression indifferent. "You’ve worked hard. Bring the books in. I want to check the typesetting myself."

"Yes, yes! Please, have a look."

Simon hurried into the study with the books, gently kicking the heavy oak door shut with his heel.

With a soft CLICK, the lock engaged, shutting out the sights and sounds from outside. Simon dropped his fawning, sycophantic businessman facade.

"Whew..."

The stout man respectfully placed the stack of books—a mere prop—on the table, then laboriously tugged at his collar and bowed to Velin. His greasy, plump face was filled with unconcealed excitement as he pushed up the broken, string-tied glasses on his nose.

"My Lord."

"The effect is even better than expected. This morning, the line for soup at the grand cathedral was half its usual size. A few people who drank the Holy Water got stomachaches and were rolling around on the ground in front of the church. A crowd gathered to watch, all pointing and whispering that the ’insects’ were taking hold."

"And the Church?" Velin continued to gaze at the brightly lit city in the distance, his tone calm.

"They’re in utter chaos." Simon chuckled, the fat on his face jiggling. "I heard the Cardinal was so angry he smashed his favorite Crystal Ball. They’re rounding up ’rumormongers’ all over the city, but that’s just making more people believe it’s true. Our people mixed into the crowds and fanned the flames a bit, and now the fire’s burning even hotter."

"Very good."

Velin turned and gently placed his teacup beside the stack of books.

He walked to the fireplace and stared at the long-dead ashes within, the memory of flames flickering deep in his pupils.

"The stories have been told."

Velin picked up a fire poker from the mantelpiece and gently stirred the dead ashes. A few sparks flared up in the darkness, then vanished.

"The seeds of fear have been planted, and the soil has been loosened. Simon, do you know what comes next?"

Simon’s smile faded. He bowed slightly, his small eyes, squeezed into slits by his fleshy face, glinting with a cold light. "Wait for them to sprout?"

"No. Just hearing stories isn’t enough."

Velin dropped the poker. The sharp CLANG of metal on stone echoed through the empty room. He looked through the French doors, his gaze fixed on the distant, faint lights of the Royal Capital, sharp as a blade piercing the night.

"Since the audience is so engrossed in the play, we should let them see with their own eyes... what those so-called ’ghosts’ actually look like."