Chapter 471 - 431: Wildfire and Iron Wall (2)

Chapter 471: Chapter 431: Wildfire and Iron Wall (2)

He snatched a booklet from Old Jack’s hand. Though the farmers were illiterate, he pointed to the woodcut print on it—a depiction of a bishop’s stomach exploding—and roared,

"They’re not sending you Holy Water because the roads are blocked—it’s because they’re afraid! The people in the Royal Capital have woken up, and they’re killing these bloodsuckers! Are you going to stupidly wait to drink your fill of worm water?!"

"But... but we’re starving..." Hans clutched his stomach. The gnawing ache made him almost unable to stand. "If we don’t drink this, what will we eat?"

"Food!"

The gray-robed man pointed to the still-gleaming, spired church in the center of the village.

"Your food, your money, it’s all in there," the gray-robed man said coldly. "The priest’s cellar is piled high with hams and wine, all bought with the money you spent on ’worm water.’ You’re out here starving enough to eat dirt, and he’s in there feasting on meat."

"If you want to live, go and take it for yourselves."

Those words were a spark landing on a field of dry grass.

Hans whipped his head around, his gaze falling on his own leaky, dilapidated hovel, then shifting to the towering church.

Hunger—an extreme, gnawing hunger—mixed with the rage of betrayal, finally burst the dam of reverence.

"He has food..." Hans murmured, his eyes glinting with a feral green light. "He’s eating meat..."

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

No further encouragement was needed. Old Jack began striking the bronze gong on his cart.

"To the church!" Hans snatched a sharp stone from the ground and let out a beastly roar. "Time to eat!"

"Eat!"

Dozens of farmers, their eyes bloodshot with hunger, followed him like a pack of enraged wolves, charging toward the once sacred and inviolable structure.

Half an hour later, the main doors of the Beliville church were smashed open with a massive log.

The usually haughty, fat priest was seated at his dining table, enjoying a plump chicken roasted to a greasy sizzle. Startled by the tremendous crash, he knocked over his wine glass in a panic. Just as he opened his mouth to scold them, Hans rushed in and smashed a fist into the bridge of his nose.

"You’ve rebelled! This is rebellion! It’s blasphemy!" the priest shrieked, clutching his bleeding nose.

"Blasphemy my ass! Hand over the food!" His eyes bloodshot, Hans charged forward and violently flipped the exquisite dining table.

CRASH—

The roasted chicken tumbled to the ground, landing in the dirt. But the tantalizing smell of meat only grew sharper, like a stinging slap across the face of every starving farmer.

The priest cowered in his chair, terrified. A smear of grease clung to the corner of his mouth, and his corpulent body trembled violently with fear, making him look exactly like a white pig awaiting slaughter.

"That’s meat bought with our money..." Hans stared, transfixed, at the roasted chicken, then at the thick layers of fat on the priest’s body. "We sold our families’ entire food supply for Holy Water and drank our fill of worms... and you’ve been in here, eating meat?!"

The fallen Priest, who had followed the crowd, added at the perfect moment, "He’s fattening himself on our flesh and blood! He’s a man-eating monster!"

In that instant, all reason vanished.

"Kill him! Make him spit out everything he’s eaten!"

"Take the food!"

Fists, clubs, and even stones rained down. The priest’s shrill screams grew faint, then fell silent.

Ropes were looped around the neck of a gold-leafed statue of a saint. Dozens of farmers chanted as they heaved, pulling backward as if in a game of tug-of-war.

CRASH!

The statue toppled and shattered.

Someone picked a gilded candlestick from the rubble—it was worth several years of food for Hans’s family.

"Burn it all!"

"Melt down the gold! We’ll split it and buy food!"

Flames shot toward the rainy sky. Beliville was not an isolated incident. Similar scenes followed the cart tracks of the Golden Sail Commerce Association, replaying in every corner of the Forest Sea Province.

Once the oppressed masses, pushed to their absolute limit, found an outlet for their rage, the destructive power they unleashed frightened even themselves. They no longer needed complex doctrines, only the most simple and brutal logic: anyone willing to down a bucket of Holy Water in front of a crowd was a fellow victim, a brother in suffering. But anyone who didn’t dare drink it was a mortal enemy who wanted them all dead.

This inferno, born from the instinct for survival, swept like wildfire across the kingdom’s western regions and its heartland. But as it spread east, it came to a dead stop.

Beyond the border east of Forest Sea Province and north of Flower Province lay the Duchy’s Northern Province—the stronghold of that overwhelmingly powerful core member of the Imperial Faction, the Iron Wall Marquis.

In stark contrast to the fervent, chaotic turmoil in the west, this land was shrouded in a suffocating, deathly stillness.

Here, there were no rioting mobs, only submission. Any attempt to ignite a spark of rebellion was mercilessly crushed.

"So this is your so-called ’True Origin’?"

A Knight commander in black plate armor sat astride his warhorse, a blood-drenched riding crop in his hand.

Kneeling in the square before him was a row of people, bound securely. They wore simple gray robes embroidered on the chest with an emblem of a water droplet encircled by thorns—they were all Law Holders of the True Origin Sect.

Behind them, a great bonfire roared. Piles of confiscated copies of the *Annals of the True Origin* were burning in the flames.

The pages curled and blackened in the inferno, the words about "worms" and "bloodsuckers" turning to ash and scattering on the wind.

"Speak," the Knight commander said, coldly looking down at the young Law Holder in the center of the row. "Tell me, where is your ’Origin’? Where is the leader of your heretical sect hiding?"

The young Law Holder lifted his head.

His left eye had been whipped blind and was now a mangled ruin of flesh, but his right eye shone with a terrifying brightness.

"The True Origin..." He gave a gap-toothed smile and spat out a bloody tooth. "It’s in everyone’s blood."

"Obstinate."

The Knight commander’s brow furrowed in disgust. With a wave of his hand, he commanded, "Hang them."

Several soldiers moved forward, slipping coarse hemp nooses over the Law Holders’ necks.

A large crowd of commoners had gathered to watch. Most wore coarse linen clothes soaked through with sweat. Their faces were numb, and they swayed on their feet under the scorching sun, looking ready to collapse.

Under the rule of the Iron Wall Marquis, any defiance toward one’s lord meant death. They too had seen the pamphlets and doubted the efficacy of the Holy Water, but faced with the gleam of drawn swords, fear crushed all else.

"Watch closely!"

The Knight commander drew his Longsword and pointed it at those about to be executed. His voice echoed through the sweltering air.

"This is what happens to those who follow heretical cults! The Church is the cornerstone of order in this kingdom. Anyone who attempts to shake that foundation is a traitor to the nation!"

The nooses tightened.

The young Law Holder’s feet lifted off the ground. He didn’t struggle, instead using his last ounce of strength to stare at the imperious Knight commander and force out one final sentence.

"You can... burn the paper... but you can’t burn away... the hearts of the people..."

SNAP.

The sharp snap of his neck breaking cut his words short.

The body swayed in the shimmering heat, soon attracting flies. A wooden plaque hung from his chest, on which was written a single, large word in blood-red ink: "Heretic."

The Knight commander sheathed his sword, his gaze sweeping across the crowd.

"Hang the bodies at the city gates. Let them bake in the sun for three days. Anyone who dares to take them down will be charged with the same crime."

A murmur of unrest passed through the crowd before it fell silent once more.

Only the searing wind continued to howl, sweeping the unburnt ash high into the air. It looked like a swarm of countless black butterflies, flying toward the distant, overcast south.

Within the Lord’s Mansion, a series of harsh decrees were dispatched by fast riders to all corners of the territory: Possession of heretical books is punishable by beheading. Spreading rumors is punishable by having one’s tongue cut out. Informants will be rewarded with ten Silver Moons.

These oppressive policies temporarily suppressed the unrest in the Eastern Territory.

However, while an iron wall of oppression could block an open flame, it could not stop the hidden currents in the hearts of the people. In the dead of night, pairs of eyes would always be watching from the darkness, staring at the bodies swaying in the wind. They buried their hatred deep in their hearts, like seeds of thorn, waiting for the inevitable downpour that would allow them to sprout.