Chapter 470 - 431: Prairie Fire and Iron Wall

Chapter 470: Chapter 431: Prairie Fire and Iron Wall

Beliville, Black Pine County, Forest Sea Province.

This was an inconspicuous corner on the edge of the kingdom. Days of incessant rain had turned the dirt road at the village entrance into a quagmire that swallowed ankles whole. The air hung thick with the damp scent of pine resin and rotting leaves, while the tall conifers unique to Black Pine County stood like a black wall, trapping the tiny village within.

Seven or eight men in tattered clothes squatted by the mud at the village entrance, hugging their knees like a flock of drenched crows. Their eyes were sunken, fixed on the far end of the road.

A freight wagon from the Golden Sail Commerce Association was mired in a pit of mud, its axle groaning under the strain.

Besides the carter, two figures walked alongside the wagon, their trouser legs rolled high.

One was a barefoot man in a simple grey robe. His feet were wide and heavily callused, moving without hesitation through the gravel-strewn mud as he helped Old Jack push the wagon.

The other wore a priest’s long robe, its insignia torn away, giving him the look of a disgraced ascetic. He too was barefoot, but his feet were jarringly pale and soft. He took each step timidly, his toes curling in pain, clearly unaccustomed to this kind of genuine hardship.

"Old Jack, you’re two days late."

The speaker was Hans, the leader of the farmers. His face was sallow, and his body trembled faintly in the shade of a tree—the tell-tale sign of withdrawal.

"Don’t even start. This damned weather, and that damned Luca." Old Jack, the carter, spat on the ground. He didn’t stop working, urging the two skinny horses to pull the wheel from the mud. "The Royal Capital is in utter chaos. Half the gates are sealed. We’re lucky we managed to get this shipment out at all."

"The Royal Capital... is in chaos?" Hans pressed his throbbing temples, his eyes staring blankly.

Beliville wasn’t too far from the Royal Capital, Zelheim, and was a parish supplied directly from there. Normally, a church carriage would arrive punctually every morning to deliver the raw "Holy Water," but for the past two days, the white-painted wagon had vanished without a trace.

’After two days without Holy Water, he felt the perpetual fog in his mind begin to lift, his thoughts clearer than they had been in years. But this clarity came at a price: a churning hunger that coiled in his stomach, a ceaseless craving that made him want to fall to his knees and beg for another taste of Holy Water, even just a single drop.’

’It wasn’t the kind of hunger one felt for bread. It was like countless tiny mouths gnawing at the walls of his stomach, desperate for that strangely sweet liquid.’

"Enough talk, Jack." Hans swallowed, his voice hoarse as he stared at the back of the wagon. "How much Holy Water did you bring? The Father said he’d distribute it as soon as the raw supply arrived. I’m dying from the pain..."

Old Jack straightened up, his clouded eyes scanning the area before he slowly shook his head.

"No Holy Water."

"What?!" Hans shot to his feet. The sudden movement made his vision go black. "How can there be none? We pooled our money!"

"The Holy Water workshops in the Royal Capital have shut down. Nobody’s sending you that stuff anymore." Old Jack threw back the oilskin tarp on the wagon, revealing not the familiar wooden barrels, but a jumble of everyday goods and several unremarkable burlap sacks.

"Then what are we supposed to do? The pain will kill us!" The other farmers crowded in, crying out in despair.

"It won’t kill you." Old Jack hopped down from the wagon and pointed to the man in the grey robe. "This man is a doctor from the city. He says he can cure your ailment."

Only then did the villagers’ attention fall upon the two men.

The grey-robed man took a step forward, his bare feet planted as firmly as stone on the slick ground. He wasted no time on pleasantries.

From within his robe, he produced a transparent glass bottle filled with a clear liquid.

"Holy Water! You do have Holy Water!" Joy exploded in Hans’s formerly dead eyes. The surrounding farmers, like sharks smelling blood, began to surge forward to snatch it. "Quick, give it to us! We’re dying from the pain!"

"You want to drink it? Then take a good look." The grey-robed man’s cold voice cut through their frenzy.

His movements were swift. He uncorked the bottle, produced a small vial of vinegar and poured it in, then casually dropped in a fingernail-sized piece of raw pork.

This scene had played out countless times in the Royal Capital’s Lower City District, but to the eyes of these illiterate farmers, it was like a clap of thunder.

In an instant, the once-calm liquid began to boil. The piece of dead flesh quivered violently, and then several long, thin white worms frantically burst through the skin, writhing and slamming against the inside of the bottle, their hideous mouthparts clearly visible.

"GACK—" Hans was the closest, and the moment he saw the creatures clearly, his stomach churned. He doubled over, dry-heaving on the spot.

"What Demon Technique is this?!" someone shrieked in terror.

"It’s not a Demon Technique. This is the ’Holy Water’ you’ve been drinking."

The disgraced priest, who had been cowering in the corner of the wagon, finally stood. He climbed down unsteadily, his face a mask of fear, but he still pointed a trembling finger at the bottle and cried out hoarsely:

"I was a deacon at the St. Louis Cathedral in the Royal Capital... I saw with my own eyes how they prepare this stuff! Those are parasite eggs! They’re worms meant to suck your blood and eat your flesh!"

"Impossible... The Father said it was a gift from God..." Hans’s lips trembled, his entire world crumbling around him.

"A gift?" The disgraced priest let out a wretched laugh and violently tore open his collar, revealing a festering sore on his neck. "Look at me! I grew up drinking this stuff, too! If the masters of the True Origin Sect hadn’t cured me, I’d be worm food by now!"