Chapter 465 - 427: The Collapse of the Sacred Statue

Chapter 465: Chapter 427: The Collapse of the Sacred Statue

The middle-aged deacon knew what it was. On his way here, he had seen similar marks and the same terrified looks in people’s eyes at least ten times.

The deacon swallowed hard, his stomach churning.

It was disgust and fear, but more than that, it was the bewildered sorrow of watching the foundations of his faith begin to crumble. He wore the very same Holy Water Pot at his hip, and the cold metal pressing against his skin now sent a phantom sting through him.

He looked up at the butcher before him, whose face was plastered with a smile while his body remained rigid. He saw the averted gazes of the people around them. The deacon opened his mouth, wanting to rebuke them, to proclaim the Lord’s majesty as he always did. But in the end, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions, he said nothing at all.

He simply tightened his grip on the heavy scripture in his hand, forcing on his usual mask of lofty indifference to conceal the tempest raging within.

"Let’s go," the deacon said, his voice dry and hoarse. He didn’t look at anyone. "To the chapel up ahead. I need to check on Father Ansen’s sermon."

The party hurried through the oppressively silent market, their footsteps quickening as if to escape the scrutinizing gazes that filled the very air.

In the past, it never would have been like this.

He remembered it clearly. The moment his white robes, the symbol of divine authority, appeared at the mouth of an alley, the vendors in the muddy market would cease their hawking and scramble to swarm him.

The butcher, Buck, would humbly bow his burly frame, frantically wiping his greasy hands on his dirty apron, just for the chance to offer up his finest tenderloin and beg for a blessing.

Women would kneel piously in the mud, holding their infants or coin purses high, their eyes filled with a near-foolish adoration and dependence, desperate to kiss his gilded ring.

Back then, walking here was like a shepherd surveying his docile flock. Every step was a walk on clouds of vanity, basking in the people’s adoration.

But now...

The walk, which should have taken only ten minutes, felt exceptionally long today.

No one came forward. No one knelt. There wasn’t even a single word of greeting. The crowd parted for him as if he were the plague, leaving a path so wide it was glaring.

The sound of his leather boots on the flagstones echoed, amplified in the empty alley, each footfall hammering against the deacon’s taut nerves.

He didn’t dare look back, but he could feel it: from behind the cracks of tightly shuttered windows, countless eyes were watching their retreat, burning with a malice and suspicion that were no longer hidden.

The deacon only breathed a small sigh of relief when the gray-white, cross-steepled building appeared at the end of the road. But the relief was short-lived, catching in his throat.

The Third Parish of the Holy Radiance was situated on the high ground bordering the commoners’ district.

The walls, which normally embodied solemnity and dignity, now looked bleak under the gloomy sky. The novice Knight who usually guarded the main gate was nowhere to be seen. All that remained was a scattering of dead leaves swirling in the wind and a few leaflets that had blown onto the steps—leaflets printed with diagrams of the "vinegar and raw meat" experiment.

A deathly silence enveloped the small chapel.

As the troubled deacon pushed open the door, his eyes immediately fell upon the figure standing at the pulpit.

The young Father Ansen was standing there. He held a silver water sprinkler, his face fixed in a practiced, compassionate smile.

"My children, do not listen to the rumors outside."

Ansen’s voice was gentle. "The devil’s greatest skill is to shake our faith. Cardinal Moros sacrificed himself for our sake; he was possessed by a demon. Come now, receive this water of divine grace. It will wash away your fear."

The middle-aged deacon took a deep breath, suppressing his unease. He picked up a tray laden with bronze cups and stepped down from the platform. His voice was deep and imperious, complementing Father Ansen’s sermon. "What are you hesitating for? This is the Church’s gift to you. Only by drinking it can you protect your souls from the devil’s watchful eye."

"Praise God! Praise the Cardinal!"

A dozen or so followers in the front row immediately shuffled forward on their knees to meet him. They were dressed in rags, their eyes gleaming with an almost pathological fanaticism, deaf to the rumors swirling outside.

Under the deacon’s gratified gaze, the group eagerly snatched the bronze cups, tilted their heads back, and drank them down in one gulp.

"So sweet... It’s the taste of divine grace!"

"I feel its power!"

Some of the followers even greedily licked the dregs from the bottom of their cups, their faces rapt with ecstasy.

Seeing this, the smile on Father Ansen’s face widened, and the middle-aged deacon’s taut nerves eased slightly. He carried the tray toward the silent majority, his tone hardening. "You see? God has not abandoned us. Come, drink."

He held out a cup of Holy Water to an old woman in the front row.

"Drink, Martha," the deacon said. He remembered her; she was one of the most pious followers, the one who came every day to wipe the pews. "You, of all people, should be a firm example of faith."

But her calloused hand didn’t reach for the bronze cup.

Her cloudy old eyes lifted to meet his, but her gaze held none of its former reverence. Instead, there was scrutiny, and even... fear.

"Deacon. Father."

The old woman slowly got to her feet. Without a single glance at the cup, she fixed her gaze on Ansen.

"Have you drunk it yourself?"

The old woman was clutching one of those damned glass jars, the contents of the experiment she had just performed at home still inside.

Ansen froze. Before he could speak, the middle-aged deacon scowled and snapped, "Martha! What nonsense is this? We of the cloth bathe in divine grace daily. Is there a need to even ask? Now, drink!"

"I’m not asking you. I’m asking him." The old woman ignored the deacon’s intimidation, pointing a finger straight at Ansen on the platform. "Father, drink it for us now. We want to see."

"Right here. In front of all of us. Drink it."

A burly man in the back rose to his feet and pushed away the deacon’s offered tray.

"Insolence!"

Ansen’s face flushed. "This is blasphemy against the clergy!"

"Drink it!"

"Drink it!"

More people stood. Soon, everyone in the chapel was on their feet, save for the dozen or so fanatics who had already drunk the Holy Water and were now looking around in a bewildered daze.

The silent pressure became a palpable wave, crashing over the young priest and the middle-aged deacon.

The deacon’s hand, still holding the tray, began to tremble, the bronze cups clattering noisily. He realized with dawning horror that these followers, once as meek as sheep, now had the eyes of wolves.

Ansen’s hands were trembling, too.

He stared at the clear liquid in the silver pot.

’I used to think this was the purest thing in the world.’

But now, as he looked down at the crowd holding up their glass jars of writhing white worms, the clear liquid in his pot seemed to transform before his very eyes.

’It’s a nest for their larvae.’

"I..."

Ansen staggered back a step, bumping into the holy icon behind him.

"You don’t dare,"

the old woman said, smashing the glass jar in her hand at Ansen’s feet.

CRACK!

The foul-smelling liquid splashed onto Ansen’s pristine white robes. A single, still-squirming white worm landed on his boot and began to burrow into the seams of the fabric.

Ansen stared at the worm.

In that instant, the world he had fought to uphold shattered.

"AAAAAAAGH!"

Ansen let out a bloodcurdling scream.

He threw the silver pot aside and began clawing at his own throat.

"Get out! GET OUT!"

His fingernails broke the skin, drawing blood.

He was trying to claw out every drop of "divine grace" he had consumed over the past twenty years.

The dozen fanatics who had just drunk the Holy Water were stunned into silence by the sight. They stared at their priest’s frenzied actions, then at the bronze cups they had just drained. An indescribable chill shot from the pits of their stomachs straight to the crowns of their heads.

"F-Father?" one of the followers who had just been praising the divine grace stammered, clutching his stomach. "What are you doing? The water... is there something wrong with the water?"

"Liars! They’re all liars!"

Ansen wailed, kneeling on the ground before the terrified followers. "The Cardinal knows... They all know! They drink a purified, superior version, while we drink water filled with worms! Only we... only we are left to breed these monsters in our own bodies!"

BLEGH—!!

The dozen followers who had just drunk the Holy Water broke down. They jammed their fingers down their throats, trying to vomit up the liquid they had just cherished. The sound of retching filled the chapel as the scene descended into chaos.

The desperate cries and sounds of vomiting were the final straw.

The rest of the crowd went berserk.

They stormed the pulpit, shoving aside the middle-aged deacon who tried to block them. The deacon scrambled backward on the floor in terror, screaming at the surrounding guards to draw their swords.

But the other church personnel and guards were frozen in place. Their faces were ashen as they stared at the squirming mass of worms on the floor, their hands trembling violently on their sword hilts. The terror of their faith shattering made their legs weak—not one of them dared to step forward and intervene.

With no force to deter them, the mob trampled over the deacon’s body, toppled the holy icon, and, hoisting a heavy bronze candelabra, smashed the massive Symbol of the Holy Radiance that hung high in the center of the hall—the very emblem of sanctity and majesty.

Still not satisfied after smashing the symbol, the enraged congregation swept up the disheveled church staff and flooded out the main doors, looking for a new target for their fury. But the moment they poured into the square, they stopped dead in their tracks.

A wind had begun to blow.

Carried on the wind, countless pieces of paper swept through the streets and alleys of Zelheim like a sudden blizzard.

One sheet fluttered down, landing directly on a fragment of the shattered symbol, obscuring its golden light.

The middle-aged deacon subconsciously picked up the paper. He only needed one look; his eyes were glued to the page.

It was a document detailed to a horrifying degree: The "Ecstatic Feast" ledger.

[ "Stigmata Maintenance Fee": Three thousand Golden Suns. Note: For the purchase of special-grade tonics from the East to pacify the agitation within the Cardinal. ]

[ "Soul Purification Ritual Expenses": One thousand Golden Suns. Note: For the medical fees of twelve girls under the age of sixteen from Saint Mary’s Orphanage. ]

[ "Superior Holy Meal Ingredient Procurement": Two thousand Golden Suns. Note: For the purchase of delicacies such as the tender flesh of abyssal Magical Beast cubs and aged vintages from the Elven Woods. ]

[ "’Penance’ Auxiliary Supplies": Fifteen hundred Golden Suns. Note: For the purchase of twenty Alien Race slaves from the black market. Purpose: To serve as live subjects for the Cardinal’s ’somatic suffering tolerance experiments.’ ]

The deacon clutched the thin sheet of paper, shock surging through him like a tidal wave. Before he could even begin to process the nauseating truth, he heard the sound of angry chanting in the distance. The shouts rose, one after another, finally merging into a thunderous roar.

"That’s our life-saving money!"

"The money from the indulgences we bought by selling our sons and daughters! The Divine Grace Tax we paid by starving ourselves!"

"And they used it to whore around! To throw feasts! To feed the worms in their own bellies!"

The crowd erupted.

Even the lowliest beggar has dignity.

When that dignity is trampled into the dirt and they’re forced to eat shit, even a beggar will turn into a ravenous wolf.

"Burn this damn place to the ground!"

"Cough up the money!"

"Kill those worm-fed bastards!"

The crowd converged into a black tide, surging toward every church in the city.