Chapter 522: The Twisted Fate Of A Mother And Daughter

After the prayer for the dead had been whispered by the crowd and the priests alike, the square fell into a silence.

Then, without a word, one of the nuns—clad in ceremonial black, her expression as cold and unreadable as Joy’s stepped forward.

In her hands, she held a crystal vial filled with holy water. She uncorked it without ceremony and poured it over Joy’s hands.

The water splashed over her skin, washing away the thick red that coated her fingers and wrists, as if absolving her of sin itself. Joy cupped some of it, splashed it on her own face.

Another nun silently handed her a handkerchief and Joy accepted it and wiped her face slowly, her expression never changing.

Then she turned toward the bodies.

“Hang all eight of them in the middle of the square.”

She said quietly, her tone firm and emotionless.

“Let every soul that passes here remember what happens when greed mocks the Goddess. Let their bodies teach what words cannot.”

“As you command, Saintess.” The leading nun bowed her head.

At once, the others moved—efficient, silent, trained.

The scrape of flesh against stone filled the square as they began lifting the fallen bodies onto carriages.

Joy on the other hand turned to the crowd. Her gaze swept across them slowly.

“May the Goddess be with you all.” She said at last.

The people lowered their eyes. Many whispered prayers under their breath, some out of reverence, some out of fear.

It made no difference to her; their voices blended together into a single low hum that filled the square with uneasy devotion.

Satisfied, she turned and walked toward the carriage that waited at the end of the street.

This one was sleek, black and gold, with velvet seats and a glowing seal of divine appointment embedded into the door.

It was a carriage fit for a Saintess—but hers carried no frills of comfort, only a sense of power.

But just as she stepped up the stairs, about to enter, a soft, melodic voice rang out from within—half-chiding, half-worried, like sugar laced with a hint of sorrow.

“Oh Joy, baby…How many times do I have to tell you not to let the blood splatter all over your face like that?”

The voice was warm, scolding with affection.

“It carries a stench! I could smell it from miles away!”

Before Joy could respond, she was ambushed by a sudden cloud of sweet perfume—puff! puff!—sprayed into her face, her shoulders, her cloak.

Joy blinked through the haze of floral sweetness and when her eyes cleared, she was met with a sight that always struck a strange chord in her chest.

Across from her sat a woman in a black nun’s dress, elegant and graceful.

Her pink hair—longer, softer, and more carefully brushed than Joy’s own framed a face that radiated warmth. Her blue eyes sparkled with a light that was kind, disarming, almost luminous.

And unlike Joy’s tall, firm frame, hardened by battles and sacrifice, this woman exuded softness, warmth, and healing.

And yet their resemblance was unmistakable.

It was her mother.

Maria.

After Joy had been declared the Saintess, Maria had been reinstated as a nun, this time not out of obligation or punishment.

But out of honor.

The Church welcomed her back and the spirits that had been crushed inside her for years had been reignited with purpose.

Her prayers, once weak and whispered through tears, now rang out strong with love and hope.

But with Joy being a target of political conspiracies and enemies within and beyond the Church—those who resented her appointment, those nobles who trembled at her divine wrath—Maria could not be left behind.

So Joy brought her everywhere she went.

But Maria didn’t mind.

“A temple…” She often said. “…is anywhere the heart can whisper to the heavens.”

And besides…this way, she could stay close to her daughter, her light, her reason for surviving.

But right now, though, she wasn’t smiling. She reached over, fingers fussing with the hem of Joy’s stained robe as she finally sank into her seat.

“You worry me, you know that? Every time you return from one of these…duties, you look less like a saintess and more like a executioner.”

“That’s not far from the truth.” Joy’s voice was calm.

“You could at least wear something less—white.”

She said, her brow furrowing as she saw the dark stains marring the fabric.

“No matter how many times I wash these, you always come back looking like this. Completely drenched! I even brought a whole chest of new dresses again, just in case. And do you have any idea how many hours I spend scrubbing the last ones?”

Joy’s lips curved faintly—not quite a smile, but close.

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself, Mother. The stains are…deliberate.”

“Deliberate?” Maria blinked. “Joy, don’t tell me you—”

“Most people wear jewels and silks to display their achievements, their wealth, their pride.”

Joy looked forward, her tone even and quiet, yet the conviction in it was unmistakable.

“I wear white to display something else entirely.”

“To display what, dear?” Maria frowned gently, unsure.

“To remind them.” Joy said. “To remind the world of what sin looks like when it’s laid bare. Every stain on my robes is a reflection of the corruption I have erased.”

“The people see the blood, and they remember the Goddess’s judgment. They learn to fear what they cannot escape…the weight of their own guilt.”

“You mean to frighten them.” Maria’s eyes softened.

“I mean to teach them.” Joy corrected quietly. “Fear is the purest form of faith. A soul that fears divine wrath is less likely to fall into sin. Mercy cannot exist without fear of consequence.”

Hearing her daughters dutiful words, Maria sighed and reached for her daughter’s hand.

“You speak like the high priests now, all fire and righteousness. But the Goddess is not only punishment, Joy.”

“She is compassion. You must remember that too.”

“I remember.” Joy said, her gaze distant. “But compassion was your gift, not mine. You gave it freely, and they destroyed you for it.”

“I myself was not blessed with mercy. I was blessed with the will to make them answer for what they’ve done.”

Her voice darkened slightly, steady but cold.

“That is why I wear white. It isn’t for vanity, or purity. It’s so that when I return, drenched in crimson, they will see it and understand—that sin always stains.”

“And perhaps, one day, when that red no longer belongs to others but to me, they will understand that even the instrument of the Goddess is not exempt from her judgment.”

Maria’s fingers, still resting on Joy’s sleeve, curled slightly. “Oh Joy…” She whispered.

She had always dreamed of her daughter living a life untouched by the world’s cruelty.

A life filled with laughter, mischief, classmates, friends.

A girl who would run through fields without fear, who would stay up late braiding hair and talking about silly things.

A daughter who would grow into a woman who knew happiness first…not hatred.

But fate had never allowed Joy to be a normal girl.

The world had been merciless to Maria…and even more merciless to her child.

And though the Goddess had chosen Joy—lifted her, sanctified her, blessed her—Maria knew all too well what the divine blessing had cost.

Her daughter’s childhood.

Her warmth.

Her innocence.

“I wish…I truly wish your life had been different.”

Maria leaned back, folding her hands in her lap, eyes pained yet resigned.

“A life without burdens. Without blood. Without the weight of the world pressed onto your shoulders.”

Joy didn’t turn. She stared straight ahead, unreadable, while Maria continued, her voice quiet almost as if speaking to herself.

“But this is the path the Goddess has set for you. And I…I cannot take that from you.”

“Even if I want to. Even if every part of me screams to pull you away from this darkness, to hide you somewhere safe and warm, to let you grow as any child should…”

Her eyes softened, brimming with an emotion too deep for words.

“…I can’t.”

“But…” She squeezed her daughter’s hand gently. “I will simply pray for you. Pray for your safety. Pray that the Goddess guards every step you take. And I will walk beside you…as long as I draw breath.”

“If you must be the executioner of the wicked…” Maria whispered. “…then let me be the one who stays at your side…in your cold world…so that you never walk it alone.”

Joy did not pull her hand away. She simply closed her eyes for a moment, a subtle acceptance, a silent gratitude only a mother could understand before opening them again with the same resolve.

But then, Maria realized the air in the carriage had turned heavy again and that was the last thing she wanted now.

So she straightened her back, clapped her hands lightly, and flashed a bright smile.

“Enough of this gloomy talk…We’ll start sounding like a pair of widows if we keep going!”

Before Joy could respond, Maria bent down and pulled out a neatly wrapped wooden box from the bag at her feet.

“Leaving that aside—ta-da! I made lunch for you.”

Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she set the box on Joy’s lap.

“And not just any lunch. I made all of your favorites today!”

She began listing them with an almost childlike excitement:

“Butter-roasted lamb cutlets, seasoned the way you like them with just a pinch of rosemary and crushed black pepper.”

“Freshly baked rye bread with honey glaze, the soft kind you always sneak bites of.”

“And your favorite stewed apples with cinnamon!”

“Oh, and I even made the spiced vegetable pie, the one with the flaky crust that always falls apart when you try to cut it.”

“I made all of it myself, with you in mind, so you’d better eat every last bite!”

She smiled proudly and hearing her mother’s enthusiasm, Joy’s eyes softened.

But she tried to avert her gaze before saying,

“Mother, I already ate a bit of bread earlier. That should be enough.”

“Enough?” Maria gasped as if she’d just heard a mortal sin. “Oh no, young lady, you’re still far too thin! Now open up, baby girl, open up! Let Mommy feed you.”

“Mother…” Joy muttered, but before she could protest further, Maria had already taken a spoonful of stew and held it up with the authority only a mother could wield.

“Come now, open up before it gets cold!”

Joy hesitated, clearly reluctant. But after a short pause, she sighed and opened her mouth just enough for her mother to feed her.

“There we go! My sweet girl.” Maria beamed.

She watched expectantly as Joy chewed slowly, her expression blank as usual.

“Well? Is it good?” Maria asked eagerly. “Did I add the right spices this time? I used the blend you liked when you were little.”

Joy swallowed, then replied simply.

“It’s good.”

But after a small pause, she added,

“Though…it could use a little more salt.”

“A little more salt?!”

Maria’s jaw dropped, scandalized.

“Joy! You can’t just—oh, you—” She huffed, crossing her arms dramatically. “When your mother cooks for you, you’re supposed to say it’s the best meal in the world! Not complain about it!”

Joy blinked.

“But that would be lying.” She said plainly. “And lying is a sin. The Goddess would punish me for that.”

Maria’s mouth fell open again.

“Lying is fine if it makes someone close to you happy!” She said, pouting so hard her lips almost trembled. “The Goddess will understand that much!”

For a moment, Joy hesitated, her lips twitching between resistance and affection. Then, finally, she gave in…just a little.

“It’s…delicious.” She said, and though her tone was calm, the faintest smile tugged at her lips.

“Ha! I knew it!” Maria lit up instantly, eyes sparkling. “My cooking always wins you over!”

Before Joy could speak again, another spoonful was already coming toward her.

“Now, open up again! You think I didn’t notice how you’ve been skipping breakfast lately?”

And so it went—Maria humming softly as she spoon-fed her daughter, and Joy, despite her authority and coldness, obediently opening her mouth every time, eating bite after bite without complaint.

Even though the world saw Joy as a monster, an executioner, the living embodiment of divine wrath—inside this carriage, with her mother smiling beside her, she was just a daughter again.

Quiet, obedient, allowing her mother to fuss over her as much as she pleased.

By the time the meal was done, Joy leaned back slightly, full and silent. Maria, satisfied, closed the box with a triumphant nod.

“There! Every bite gone. You’ll thank me later when you have the strength to smite evil on a full stomach.”

“Yes…Mother.” Joy merely sighed.

It was then that the carriage door opened, and one of the nuns stepped inside, her black habit fluttering as she bowed respectfully.

“Saintess. Sister Maria.”

“Good afternoon, Sister Stella.” Maria smiled warmly. “We’ve just had lunch, but I still have some lemon tarts left. Would you like some?”

“Thank you, Sister, bit I’m quite full.”

Stella shook her head with a smile before turning to Joy with a frown and saying,

“I bring word from the palace, my lady.”

“What is it?” Joy’s expression sharpened.

“The Empress has summoned you.” Stella replied. “Her Majesty requests your immediate presence. It concerns…” She hesitated, her eyes lowering briefly. “…Cassius Vindictus Holyfield.”

The air inside the carriage stilled.

For a moment, Joy’s face remained unreadable.

But her eyes—those cold blue eyes—flashed with a dangerous light and her lips curved into the faintest, cruelest semblance of a smile.

“So…” She murmured, voice low. “…we finally get our chance to lay hands on that devil.”

Without another word, she turned toward the front of the carriage.

“Driver.” She commanded, her tone like a blade. “Full speed. Straight to the royal palace.”

“Yes, Your Holiness!” The man called out.

The carriage lurched forward, wheels cutting through the cobblestone as the horses neighed and accelerated.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep