Chapter 466 - 428: Record of High-Quality Believer Development

Chapter 466: Chapter 428: Record of High-Quality Believer Development

Decades of pent-up resentment in Zelheim’s Lower City District were ignited in an instant by a spark called "truth."

It had begun as a simple gathering to demand answers.

The people didn’t even have proper weapons—only rusty shovels, work hammers, and even a trampled turnip.

"Come out! Explain yourselves!"

"We won’t drink worm water!"

"Hand over the antidote that kills the worms!"

They gathered around the central church of the Third Parish. Its great black iron gates were sealed shut. A dozen or so armed church personnel cowered behind the railings, their halberds trembling slightly. The points of their weapons were aimed at the very lambs they claimed to "shepherd," their expressions a mask of panicked bluster.

The crowd at the foot of the steps was a dark, oppressive mass, like a pool of stagnant water swelling before a storm. Their initial shouts were not loud; they were tinged with the timidity and hesitation of the long-tamed—like a dog beaten by its master, begging for one last bone. Within those countless murky eyes, however, smoldered the faint hint of a madness about to set the world ablaze.

At the end of the street, unnoticed by the crowd, a convoy of black carriages crushed the mud and refuse beneath its wheels, approaching silently through the morning mist.

The distant clamor made Andre, the friar driving the lead carriage, feel irritated.

He yanked on the reins. The headache from his hangover felt like a dull saw grinding against his temples.

’Damn it,’ he thought. ’I shouldn’t have been so greedy for those last few glasses of "God’s Grace Brew" at the Viscount’s manor last night.’ The plan had been to enter the city under the cover of darkness, but he and a few companions had passed out drunk in the wine cellar and slept straight through till morning.

If they couldn’t get this cart of collected "Holy Meal tax"—the fine flour and privately brewed wine—into the Third Parish’s warehouse before midday prayers, that notoriously strict Priest would skin them alive and have them sent to a monastery to scrub toilets for a year.

"Damn it, why are so many people blocking the road?" his companion muttered, rubbing his bleary eyes. "Don’t these Lower City District bumpkins have work to do?"

Andre snorted. To save time, they had taken a shortcut down this normally empty lane. Who would have thought it would be packed with a crowd of sour-smelling rabble?

Staring at the dark mass of people ahead, Andre’s impatience and sense of superiority curdled into a baseless rage. In his eyes, these ragged people were nothing more than ants who depended on the church for survival. The fact that they now dared to block the path of a clergyman was simply infuriating.

"Why bother with them? Just charge through!" Andre said viciously. "Being late with our delivery is the real problem."

Still addled by his hangover, he paid no mind to what the people were shouting, nor did he notice the strange, suppressed anger rippling through the crowd. He just wanted to get the two draft horses moving so he could get back to the comfort of the church and sleep it off.

"Move it! Are you all blind?!"

Andre shot to his feet. Emboldened by lingering alcohol and his usual authority, he impatiently raised the leather whip high in the air.

CRACK!

The tip of the whip sliced through the air and struck a boy at the front of the crowd viciously across the face.

The boy collapsed, clutching his face as blood streamed through his fingers.

Just as Andre raised his arm for a second lash, a large, rough hand shot out and caught the tip of the whip.

"Stop it!"

Buck the butcher stood like a wall in front of the boy. His face, which usually wore a foolish grin over his meat counter, was now a mask of mingled fear and hope.

"Lord Friar... I beg you, please, hold on." Buck’s voice trembled. He took a step forward, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the carriage’s tightly tarped-over bed.

The restless crowd fell silent. Everyone held their breath, their eyes fixed on the carriage like drowning men grasping for a final straw.

"S-Sir," Buck swallowed hard and pointed at the carriage. "Is... is that the antidote in there?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Huh?" Andre tugged on the whip, but it wouldn’t move an inch. He squinted his drunken eyes, looking completely baffled. "What antidote? Are you insane?"

"The... the medicine for the worms in our stomachs!" Buck said frantically, letting go of the whip to gesture with his hands. His tone was nearly a plea. "We all saw it! There are worms in the Holy Water! But the bishops and priests are fine... The church must have an antidote, right?"

"That’s right! It must be the antidote!"

"Please, sir, just give us a little! My kid’s stomach has been aching all night!"

A commotion rippled through the crowd, their angry gazes transforming into a heart-wrenching look of desperation. They naively believed that this church carriage, appearing at such a critical moment, was God’s mercy finally descending upon them.

The crowd’s nonsensical rambling only made Andre more irritable. His pounding head left him no room to think about worms or anything else. To him, they were just a mob of troublemakers looking for an excuse to rob the church.

"A bunch of lunatics! Get the hell out of my way!"

Andre kicked out at Buck’s shoulder. While the blow failed to move the big man, Andre’s face was a mask of contempt and disgust.

"Worm antidote? This is high-grade white flour and wine for the Priest! Delaying its delivery is blasphemy against God! Can you scum afford to answer for that?!"

The friar’s rare moment of honesty extinguished the last glimmer of hope in the crowd’s eyes.

A dead silence fell.

The entire street plunged into a terrifying silence.

Buck stared blankly at the arrogant friar on the carriage.

No antidote.

And no mercy.

While they lived in fear of worms growing inside them, while they couldn’t even afford moldy black bread, this carriage was filled with fine flour and wine.

"Just... wine?" Buck murmured, his voice so quiet it was as if he were asking himself.

"Of course! If you don’t want to die..." Andre cursed, raising his whip again.

"That’s our food!"

Someone in the crowd shrieked, their voice choked with sobs and despair.

"That’s the Holy Meal tax we pay even as we starve! They use it to feed worms! They use it to get drunk!"

Buck snapped his head up.

The subservience in his eyes was gone, replaced by a feral, Crimson Red glow.

"To hell with your wine!"

In that instant, the thread of reason snapped.

Buck roared. His massive hands, hardened from years of chopping bone, seized the carriage reins. He threw his full two-hundred-pound frame into it, wrenching the startled draft horse down onto its front knees.

"Are you trying to die, you scum?!" Andre finally panicked. He drew his sword to strike.

CLANG!

A boning knife flew through the air and pierced the friar’s sword hand.

Buck had thrown it.

"You’re the ones who are going to die!"

Buck’s roar was so loud it shredded his throat, his eyes Crimson Red.

He thought of the squirming nematodes in the jar, of the Holy Water he’d gulped down just yesterday, of the phantom churning he now felt deep in his gut.

It was the fear of death, a fear that, under immense pressure, had twisted into pure, murderous rage.

The crowd surged forward like a bursting dam.

There was no order, no leader.

Only countless outstretched hands and countless contorted faces.

The friars didn’t even have a chance to beg for mercy before they were swallowed by the ocean of rage.

Their screams lasted only a few seconds, quickly drowned out by the sound of splintering bone and ripping fabric.

When the crowd parted, all that remained on the ground were a few unrecognizable piles of mangled flesh and a few shredded, blood-soaked white robes.

Someone overturned the carriage.

Barrels of craft wine tumbled out, shattering on the cobblestones. The purple-red liquid mixed with fresh blood, filling the air with a sweet, metallic stench that was both intoxicating and sickening.

White bread loaves scattered across the ground, but no one stooped to pick them up.

The starving people trampled the food underfoot, their only desire to fan the flames of their rage.

"To the church!"

"Tear that damned place down!"

The riot spread like a plague through the narrow, filthy streets.

The Third Parish, the Fourth Parish, the riverside priory of penance...

One by one, the usually untouchable strongholds fell.

The once-arrogant clergy were now hunted like rats in the streets.

One tried to fight back with a Divine Art, but as Holy Light bloomed at his fingertips, a hurled brick shattered his nose.

Another fell to his knees, begging for mercy and trying to pacify the mob with "the Lord’s forgiveness," only to have his mouth stuffed with horse manure and mud.

Before the ruins of a small chapel, a group of ragged women frantically smashed a life-sized holy statue.

It was Saint Raphael, an Angel of the Lord of Eternal Radiance, who presided over health and purity. The church claimed that by praying to him, one could be free of sickness and pain.

CRUNCH!

A hammer slammed into the statue’s compassionate face, shattering half its nose.

With a sickening crack, the plaster statue toppled backward, crashing against the base of the altar.

CRACK—BOOM!

The impact seemed to trigger a hidden mechanism. The seamless altar base cracked open, revealing a dark, cramped hidden chamber beneath.

There was no mountain of treasure as one might imagine, only a few scattered Silver Coins glinting in a corner. The rest of the chamber was filled with stacks of thick, musty-smelling ledgers.

One of the ledgers slid down and fell open. In the daylight, its sickening title became visible: *Record of High-Quality Believer Development*.

Someone flipped to a random page. A familiar name was written there in stark ink: Martha, the widow.

[Subject: Martha (age 32, widowed, one son deceased from chill).]

[Method: Exploit longing for deceased husband and son. Induce belief that "physical offerings" accumulate merit, ensuring the dead will not go hungry in the Divine Kingdom.]

[Execution: Administer an extra-strength dose of "Paradise Holy Water" (obtain from the supply Priest at Saint Louis Chapel). After consumption, target loses all will to resist and retains only blurred memories of the event, allowing her to be used at will.]

Below this entry, five or six "feedback" and "comment" entries were crammed together in different handwriting, left by a succession of resident Priests and deacons:

"Potion is highly effective, but she tends to cry upon waking. Suggest increasing the dosage."

"Skin is a bit rough, but she is very compliant. Recommended."

"She’ll do anything to make sure her son has food in the Divine Kingdom. Such is a mother’s great love, hahaha."

Each sentence sent a wave of boiling rage through one’s chest and an icy chill down one’s spine.

The widow herself was in the crowd.

She stared at the ledger, her eyes looking as if they would burst from their sockets. A scream like that of a dying animal tore from her throat.

"AHHHHH—!!!"

She lunged forward, ignoring the paper cuts on her fingers, and tore the page—the record of her humiliation and despair—from the ledger, ripping it to shreds.

"You animals! You’re all animals!"

"You lied to me! You said that Holy Water would help my son... You devils!"

More and more people saw the contents of the ledger, and with each discovery, the fury grew.

If before they were fighting for money and an antidote, now they were fighting for their basic human dignity.

"They won’t even spare a widow!"

"Kill them all! Leave none alive!"

Rage spread like wildfire. More holy statues were toppled, and beneath every altar, they found similar filthy secrets. The high and mighty clergy didn’t just profit from the people’s suffering—they reveled in it.

There were hoards of forbidden books, stashes of Alchemy Potions used for debauchery, and even "guides" detailing how to best extort their flock.

The cloak of faith was stripped away, revealing the greedy, rotting corpse underneath.

The people were no longer fighting for survival. They were fighting for dignity.

Flames soared into the air, setting the gloomy skies of the Lower City District ablaze.