Chapter 203: The Grand Cremation

George’s body trembled uncontrollably, every muscle and internal organ pierced by sharp pain.

His lungs heaved, and beneath the confinement of his helmet, he could clearly feel the heat of his own breath scorching his face.

This ceaseless surge of heat within him made him want to remove his helmet, to undo his armor.

But now, even twitching a finger took great effort—undoing armor was out of the question.

George looked up at the sky. The clouds above were visibly closing.

“As I thought, you’re still watching here.” George gritted his teeth. The hollow he had blasted open above Holy Land Town had not closed nearly this quickly before; back then, it had taken five days before there was any obvious sign of gathering.

Now, the only thing that could hasten the clouds’ closure was Ymir’s interference.

At the same time, George heard a wolf’s howl.

It was the howl of an Upper-Ranked Werewolf, its penetrating power far clearer than that of a Lower Werewolf.

George could tell the sound came from far away, but soon, answering howls rose in succession, surrounding him from all directions. From the sound alone, there were at least thirty Upper-Ranked Werewolves.

He understood. They were here for him.

No wonder that during the earlier siege there had been only a handful of Upper-Ranked Werewolves—they had all been waiting here.

Looking up again, he saw the clouds closing at a pace that seemed to match the charge of the Upper-Ranked Werewolves.

Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale…

George adjusted his breathing, doing his best to recover some strength. Around him, those within the circle of light sat blankly on the ground.

He did not think about Leo or Vito.

The light of the Morning Star he had blasted out in a circle did not reach that far.

Time passed. The clouds thickened and shrank. Through the narrow slit in his helmet, George could see the charging Upper-Ranked Werewolves.

The heat in his body had lessened somewhat—at least his breath inside the helmet no longer burned his face—but the pain in his body persisted, and his movements were stiff and tingling.

The Upper-Ranked Werewolves stopped just outside George’s circle, not attacking or probing, merely waiting like hunters.

George felt regret, but focused harder on recovering his strength.

Soon, more Upper-Ranked Werewolves arrived. Behind them, Lower Werewolves closed in as well.

The clouds above left only a thin slit. A single ray of light shone through, falling upon George like a gauzy veil of twilight.

The light vanished, and in that instant, the Upper-Ranked Werewolves moved.

They howled together, and with the pulse of that sound, the bloodline pressure they released caused the fur of the surrounding Lower Werewolves to bristle, their bodies swelling. The agile frames they once had grew rigid and massive.

Blood trickled from their eyes, nostrils, ears, and jaws.

They howled in something like a scream, then stamped the ground and slowly charged George.

There was not a trace of werewolf agility in them.

The Upper-Ranked Werewolves simply watched, then silently slipped into their midst.

These Lower Werewolves, forced to burn their bloodline for a final surge of power, became living cover for the Upper-Ranked Werewolves.

George slowly stood, took a deep breath, and abandoned the idea of covering his armor in Holy Light—he only imbued the blade in his hand with it.

The sword tore through werewolf flesh, but those Lower Werewolves also left marks on his armor where there was no Holy Light.

A harsh sizzling sound echoed within his armor, stabbing his ears with pain and muddling his thoughts.

He did not know when his sword had been knocked away, nor when his shield was taken. He only felt claws probing to pry open his visor, forcing him to guard it with both hands.

Claws slipped into other joints of his armor, scraping against the chainmail beneath, and amid the chaos, he heard the snapping of buckles.

The inner padding of the gambeson could not stop the claws—he felt his flesh being torn.

So this is it. I’m going to die… and this time, there will be no miracle.

George felt the pain of claws rending his body, and suddenly thought—

Last time, he had a mission: to retrieve the manuscript. This time, it was his own action, his own choice.

He did not fear death, for to him, death was merely a return to the Heavenly Kingdom, to the embrace of the Lord.

What he regretted was that he would not be able to save these people.

His consciousness blurred. Certain he was dying, he slowly closed his eyes.

Then he felt the earth tremble.

…

George slept for three days before waking.

Layer upon layer of healing bandages bound his body tightly, rendering him immobile.

Even his faint stirring alarmed the squire attending him.

“Sir George, you’re finally awake!” The squire exclaimed joyfully, then, seeing George unable to speak, hurried outside.

Soon, Vito entered.

“Sir George is finally awake.” Vito said with a smile.

He still had bruises on his face and was clad in armor.

Though George could only communicate with his eyes, Vito seemed to understand and explained, “You’ve been asleep for three days. When we dug you out from the pile of wolves, your chest and leg armor had been stripped away, leaving you covered in claw marks. The Upper-Ranked Werewolves had also left wolf-toxin in your body.

“Of course, their toxin can’t truly corrupt us knights of the Church, but it still had some side effects—it greatly slowed your natural recovery, according to Priest Marl.”

“Oh, and after you charged out, Knight Julian arrived quickly, saved us, and helped pull you out. The night before last, Sir Puniel and Priest Marl also arrived—the bandages on you were brought by Priest Marl.”

George roughly understood. Then he thought of the captives, wanting to ask, but the tight bandages made it impossible to open his mouth—he could only make muffled sounds.

Vito caught his meaning, hesitated, and said briefly, “The people from Paradise have been rescued, and we’re slowly gathering them here.

“This is, after all, the final gathering place of the werewolves. Even though our assault wiped out a wave of them, stragglers still roam. The knights and warriors are out hunting them down—these past two days, we’ve slaughtered seven to eight hundred werewolves daily.

“Of course, the rest are just Lower Werewolves now. The Upper-Ranked Werewolves—over thirty—were killed during the rescue, though that battle cost Sir Puniel two knights.

“With our current force, any remaining Upper-Ranked Werewolves will likely retreat to the Northwind Mountains. After that, it’ll just be repeated sweeps.”

“Sir Puniel says it will take at least three months of clearing before we can relax. Even here in camp, I still wear armor—no one can guarantee this place is truly free of werewolves.

“Sir Puniel and Leo are also out clearing werewolves, so for now, I’m responsible for guarding the camp.”

But George kept staring at him, hearing the evasiveness in his words.

Vito’s gaze wavered, then he added, “Even though we cleared the werewolves, the dark clouds above haven’t dispersed. Sir Puniel believes the clouds are connected to the earth veins—we’ll need scholars to see if they can fix it.

“And the land here… it’s not just the earth vein’s supply that’s ruined. The werewolves also polluted it with some kind of black water. Without the Morning Star’s light to purge the black water, crops can’t grow, and no one can live here.

“Baron Belair’s lands are untouched for now, but that’s just a quarter of the marquisate. The rest is…”

“Cough…” George suddenly interrupted, forcing his jaw open and tearing the bandages. Blood welled from his mouth, choking him into a cough, but he still asked, “What is Sir Puniel planning to do with them?”

Vito was silent.

George only looked at him.

At last, Vito sighed. “After rescuing you, Knight Julian didn’t know how to deal with them and waited for Sir Puniel.

“But when Sir Puniel arrived, he said their souls were already dead—just human-shaped shells. They couldn’t even perform labor. Killing them now would be the most merciful act; otherwise, they’d live worse than beasts, without even the instinct for life.

“Priest Marl disagreed. For the past two days, he’s been trying to restore their souls with Divine Word, Baptism, and Blessings, but using them so often is already beyond his limits. Sir Puniel tried to persuade him, but he refused to stop.

“Sir Puniel knocked Priest Marl out, planning to discuss it once he woke, but in the meantime, he’s been gathering them together…”

Here, Vito paused before continuing.

“Sir Puniel says there are simply too many—just those gathered so far number roughly fifteen thousand. The mercenaries from York Territory, influenced by the Church, won’t agree to such slaughter, and Baron Belair’s people would find kin among them. Doing it would affect them personally and harm the Church’s future control here.

“So… he plans to gather them all, and once Priest Marl accepts reality, give them a grand… cremation.”

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