Chapter 472 - 432: Under the Gray Flag

Chapter 472: Chapter 432: Under the Gray Flag

The Royal Capital, Zelheim.

With a dull mechanical groan, a secret door disguised as a marble relief sculpture slowly opened behind the main hall of the Grand Cathedral of Holy Light.

Archbishop Edmond emerged from the dark, secret passage. Long-absent sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows of the dome, bathing the entire hall in a golden, resplendent glow.

He squinted instinctively, then his gaze swept slowly across his surroundings.

It was still flawless. The white marble walls gleamed under the sun, without so much as a trace of smoke. The massive, pure gold Holy Emblem hanging above the main entrance remained high and lofty, shining with a light one dared not look at directly.

Edmond reached out, gently stroking the spotless mahogany pew beside him, a contemptuous sneer playing on his lips.

"Hmph. This is what you call a foundation."

He muttered to himself, his voice dripping with arrogance.

This "calculated sacrifice" had been perilous, but his gamble had paid off. No matter how wildly the rioters rampaged, no matter how bloodthirsty they became in the Lower City District, they would still tremble to their very bones before this cathedral—this ultimate symbol of theocratic power—and wouldn’t dare to throw so much as a single stone.

Those damned poisoners simply didn’t understand. The accumulated "Stigmata" implant data from over a hundred years, the cadres who controlled key technologies, the Holy Water manufacturing equipment—these were the true roots of the Church.

As long as the roots remained, what did it matter if every last believer in Zelheim’s Lower City District died? Discarding the low-level Priests and useless followers on the periphery like a lizard shedding its tail had ensured the core’s strength remained completely intact.

"Archbishop, you’re out."

An acolyte who had been waiting at the side immediately hurried over, offering a warm, damp towel.

Edmond wiped his hands unhurriedly, as if he had just finished an afternoon nap.

"Let’s go. To the bell tower terrace."

He tossed the towel aside and adjusted his immaculate, gold-threaded vestments, his gaze turning sharp.

"The riots should be over by now. I don’t expect those plebs to have cleaned the place up, but since they’ve vented their frustrations, it’s time for the Church to step in and handle the aftermath."

He had already braced himself.

In his mind, the Lower City District should be a living hell right now: corpses littering the streets, plagues running rampant, and survivors killing each other over a moldy piece of bread amidst the ruins.

Then, all he would have to do is stand on high, sprinkle a little Holy Water, and dispense a few sacks of old wheat. The same foolish masses who had just been rioting would immediately fall to their knees, weeping with gratitude and begging for God’s forgiveness.

Everything would return to normal. This was the art of ruling.

However, when Edmond ascended to the cathedral’s highest bell tower and stood on the terrace overlooking the entire city, the smile on his face froze.

There was no chaos.

No mutual slaughter as he had expected.

Even the mountains of trash that had littered the slums were gone.

From this vantage point, the streets of the Lower City District, though still dilapidated, displayed a chillingly orderly state.

The rubble of collapsed houses had been cleared and neatly piled by the roadsides. Every few blocks, there was a soup kitchen set up under a gray tarp.

Long lines snaked around, with no shoving or fighting. Everyone held a wooden bowl, waiting quietly for food. Even more shockingly, people were organizing teams to clear the sewers, working with great fervor in the filthy, muddy water.

And on the flagpoles of those soup kitchens, it was not the Holy Cross Banner of the Church that flew.

It was a flag with a white design on a gray field, snapping smartly in the filthy smog of the Lower City District.

The design was simple: a water droplet encircled by chains.

At the sight of that symbol, Archbishop Edmond’s pupils constricted as if he had been scalded.

"These Ghosts... they’re not all dead yet?"

That symbol was the nightmare every Cardinal was warned to be wary of for their entire lives from the day they took office—it belonged to the Church’s most ancient enemy, the True Origin Sect, which had once vied with the theocracy for the right to interpret the truth of this continent.

Edmond’s fingers dug into the marble railing of the terrace, his nails nearly breaking as they pressed into the stone.

This terrified him more than the sight of the rabble burning the Lower City District to the ground.

If it were just hungry rioters, they would be chaotic, easily suppressed, divided, and exploited.

But this banner represented another kind of order... an order built specifically to target the weaknesses of theocratic rule!

Edmond’s voice sounded as if it were squeezed through his teeth. "These sewer rats... they want to take over the flock."

’If these old enemies help the plebs establish order without the Church’s intervention—and an order even more organized than when the Church was in charge—then what value does our divine authority have?’

The shepherd had not only returned, but he was also going to feed the sheep until they were utterly docile, just to prove the Church’s incompetence and hypocrisy.

"Archbishop..."

The heavy footsteps of the Grand Inquisitor approached from behind. The man, usually known for his cold ruthlessness, now wore an expression of unprecedented gravity.

He was holding that damned book, *A Record of True Origin Sightings*.

"We confiscated this at a border checkpoint." The Grand Inquisitor’s voice was hoarse. "Your judgment was correct. The True Origin Sect, which has been silent for decades... they never disappeared. They were merely hiding in our shadow, waiting for this day."

"They’re distributing food." The Grand Inquisitor swallowed hard. "And... they’re organizing people to repair the river dikes. The division of labor is clear, and everything is in perfect order."

"Orderly?" Edmond whipped his head around, a muscle in his eye twitching. His voice was filled with incredulous fury. "That’s impossible. According to the activation cycle of the Holy Water, they’ve been drinking it for seventy-five consecutive days. Their minds should be as slow as paste by now, capable only of following orders like livestock."

He gripped the edge of the window sill, his voice laced with the bitter hatred of someone whose plan had failed at the final moment.

"For hundreds of years, we’ve used this method dozens of times throughout the Empire, and it has never failed. We were only half a month away... Just ninety days, and the potion would have completely locked down their ability to think. And it had to be interrupted at this critical juncture!"

The Grand Inquisitor lowered his head, not daring to meet the Archbishop’s predatory gaze, and forced himself to continue his report.

"The people in the Lower City District are all saying..."

"Saying what?" Edmond didn’t turn back. His eyes remained fixed on the fluttering gray flag, boiling with killing intent.

The Grand Inquisitor’s voice trembled. "They’re saying... that a bowl of hot soup they can actually drink is more real than a false god who only knows how to collect taxes."

This doubt did not stop in the muddy slums of the Lower City District. It had already spread silently over the high walls that symbolized class and privilege.

Saint George District, Baron Valen’s Mansion.

The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, blocking the midday sun, leaving only a single dim whale oil lamp lit in the study.

Baron Valen sat behind a priceless mahogany desk, his trembling hands clutching a crystal vial.

The vial was inlaid with small Rubies, its mouth sealed with gold foil bearing a Cardinal’s signature: "Special Grade Water of Holy Blessing, for the Exclusive Use of the Noble Court."

This was the life-saving talisman he had spent a full five hundred Golden Suns and pulled three layers of connections to obtain!

On the desk sat a white porcelain bowl half-filled with aged vinegar stolen from the kitchen, along with a freshly cut piece of raw beef.

"It can’t be... this cost five hundred Golden Suns..."

Baron Valen muttered to himself, but his voice lacked any real confidence.

He didn’t even dare to speak loudly, as if afraid of disturbing some unnamable presence.

His fingers, slick with cold sweat, slipped as he tried to pull out the cork.

POP. With a soft sound, the cork came free, and a strange, sweet fragrance filled the air.

The scent, which he had once found utterly sacred, now made his stomach clench.

He closed his eyes, steeled himself, and poured the crystal-clear liquid into the bowl of vinegar.

One second.

Two seconds.

The raw beef lay motionless at the bottom of the bowl, showing no reaction.

"Ha... haha..."

Baron Valen collapsed into his chair, letting out a dry laugh of someone who had just survived a disaster. "I knew it... Those wretches were just spreading rumors! This is the exclusive supply! How could it be the same as the stuff those peasants drink..."

Before the words had even left his mouth.

SIZZLE.

The Baron’s laughter died abruptly, as if he were a duck being strangled.

He lunged for the desk, his face nearly pressing against the rim of the bowl.

It moved.

Something was pushing up from underneath the beef.

Then, a thread-like worm, thinner than a strand of hair and glowing a bizarre, faint gold, slowly wriggled out from the muscle fibers.

It writhed in agony in the vinegar, its pale golden skin reflecting a nauseating "sacredness" under the lamplight.

It was followed by a second, then a third...

A whole cluster of golden worms writhed and tangled in the bowl, looking even more active and resilient than the white ones of the lower-class rabble.

"BLECHHH—!!"

Baron Valen shoved the desk away and scrambled toward the spittoon in the corner.

’Five hundred Golden Suns. Five hundred Golden Suns, and what did I buy? A nest of gold-plated maggots! And I treated it like a goddamn treasure, locking it in my safe and piously drinking a mouthful every single day?!’

"Liars... They’re all a bunch of goddamn liars..."

The Baron was sprawled on the floor, having thrown up even his bile. Tears and snot smeared his face, but that didn’t stop him from cursing.

"To hell with your divine protection! To hell with your noble-exclusive supply!"

He snatched the ruby-inlaid crystal vial and smashed it violently into the bowl of writhing "Golden Soup."

"This is the exclusive supply? Huh?! This is the ’Essence of God’ I had to bathe, change clothes, burn incense, and pray just to be worthy of drinking?! This is the ’blessing only the purest bloodlines can digest’ that old bastard of an Archbishop was talking about?!"

"Pah! No wonder I felt like there was an opera troupe dancing in my guts every time I drank this crap! And they said it was the Holy Spirit communing with my organs... Communing my ass! It was goddamn worms holding a salon in my intestines!"

Baron Valen roared hysterically, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as if trying to scrub away a phantom stench of shit.

"Five hundred Golden Suns... If I’d given that to the beggars in the Lower City District, they would have died for me! And what was the result? I paid for a nest of wriggling parasites, and I had to get on my knees and beg them to sell it to me?!"

After the fear came overwhelming rage, and even more so, the shame of having his intelligence utterly trampled and humiliated.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. A rapid knocking sounded at the door.

"Get out! No one comes in! Unless you want a taste of this ’golden maggot’ soup!" the Baron roared.

"My lord, it’s... it’s a messenger from Prince Willandar’s estate," the butler’s trembling voice came from outside the door. "He says there is an urgent meeting regarding the ’Royal Capital’s Safety and Sanitation’..."

Baron Valen scrambled up from the floor, roughly wiping the filth from the corner of his mouth with his expensive silk sleeve. A reckless, desperate ferocity shone in his eyes.

"Go! Of course I’m going!"

He looked at the bowl of writhing golden worms on the table, then glanced out the window toward the Lower City District, which, though lacking the chimes of church bells, was unnervingly quiet.

"Since God wants to use my stomach as a nursery, he can’t blame me for smashing his altar!"