Chapter 208: Sloth

Corleon glanced at the Fallen Knight who had lost both soul and bodily vitality, then turned his gaze toward the Black Swamp.

At that moment, a figure appeared above the swamp.

It was a woman’s body, wearing a black nightdress, bare feet standing in the swamp. On the pale tops of her feet seemed to be black threads, spreading upward from the swamp.

She spoke, “I already advised them — cutting this place off would have been enough, but they insisted on not listening. After painstakingly gathering enough will to descend by possession, they still chose to provoke you.”

Her voice was languid, as if half-asleep and half-awake.

“I think they’ve been confined for too long and wanted some excitement. Even knowing clearly that your power is something we cannot resist right now, they still had to seek trouble with you.”

“And now, look at this — that little bit of will they had has been erased by you. They’ll have to spend time gathering it again. Half a year, or a year, or five, or ten… though for existences like us, that’s not even enough for one nap, who knows how far you’ll have advanced by then?”

“Instead of using this time to accumulate power, so that when Pegiraov dies we can break through the seal and regain freedom, they just had to go chasing after some thrill.”

Corleon stood on the ground, before the two Guardian Knights lying there trembling, and looked at her as he said, “This is Original Sin. Beings fallen into sin are solipsistic, acting only according to their own instincts, seeking stronger stimulation to make themselves feel their existence. Only in that way will Original Sin believe it exists — it is the proclamation of its own existence.”

The other nodded, wearing a lazy smile. “That’s true. If we don’t proclaim our existence, how would this world know we’re still here? Just like now — even as Sloth, I still can’t resist standing here to confront you.”

Corleon said, “So, have you finished saying what you wanted to say?”

Sloth replied, “Not yet. After who knows how many years of imprisonment, how could the desire to speak be satisfied in just a few sentences? But someone like you is far too boring.”

With that, Sloth crouched down, scooped up a handful of black mud from the ground, and held it toward Corleon. The black mud dripped like viscous liquid through her pale fingers.

“In your Holy Scriptures you recorded us as Original Sin, so call this ‘Sin’,” Sloth said. “This is the Sin condensed from the will of the seven of us. From the shores of Lake Salvador to the border of the Northern Kingdom, all this land has been polluted by our Original Sin. No life will exist here. Any being stepping in will be devoured by Original Sin — nothing can withstand it, not even you.”

“Of course, this boundary can’t stop beings like you and us, but it is enough to stop the armies of mortals.”

“Look at the ones behind you. Without your protection, their will would have been erased long ago.”

“I promise you this — if you don’t let your warriors set foot in our territory, this sinful swamp will not continue to grow. Believe me, over countless ages, even while we are still sealed, the evil we leak out could easily bury an entire nation.”

“Oh, and you have those eyes — you should be able to see the consequences.”

Sloth seemed too lazy to say more, directly leaving Corleon to see the future himself.

Corleon silently raised his hand, a finger slightly bent, and Holy Light gathered upon it.

Sloth’s gaze shifted slightly aside. “Truly dull. In the north, at the junction between your territory and the Northern Kingdom, we have not completely cut off the passage. Your people can enter the Northern Kingdom from there to spread your faith. Of course, right now, the Lord of Annihilation has already dropped an anchor point there. His will has descended. Though he is not one of your recorded Original Sins, he is pure desire…”

“It’s too troublesome to explain. You can see for yourself. I think they will never coexist with you.”

Sloth said no more. Corleon flicked his finger, and a beam of Holy Light instantly shot into the motionless body of Sloth, erasing that incarnation in an instant.

Withdrawing his hand, he glanced back at the people still trembling on the ground. His figure dissipated, leaving only a cross faintly glowing…

…

It was like a game.

Marl thought numbly.

Everyone’s face seemed to be veiled by an obstacle, deliberately blocking Marl’s sight. Only when he truly understood the other would that veil be lifted, letting him clearly see their face.

Only, Marl had to repeat infinitely within this scene.

He no longer knew how many times it had looped.

Each time, it began with his mother cooking food, then his father came to persuade her, then those people came into their home, and finally, his whole family died.

Marl had tried running away with his family at the start, or lying in ambush to assassinate, or imitating Zezel to incite the villagers to riot.

It was useless.

Escape was impossible. Without the Church of the Sanctuary present, the Local Gentry kept the villagers penned in. Without their permission, they couldn’t even leave the village. As soon as they neared the village outskirts, they would be caught and killed.

With only his own body and his ordinary father, they couldn’t even kill the two who came into their house.

They were collateral relatives of the gentry family, lacking nothing in food and drink, trained since childhood, their physiques near that of Upper Warriors.

Rousing the villagers was even more hopeless — under gentry rule, they had long grown numb. How could they dare think of resistance?

So in the end, it was always death.

And through these endless repetitions, Marl finally restored the true cause.

It had all started because those two men made a bet.

They wanted to know if a woman’s womb would change after bearing many children.

And so they learned about Marl’s mother — she had only given birth to Marl.

Before her, they had already used a prostitute who had borne seven children, and a girl who had borne none.

Marl’s father knew about this, but how could he resist them? He could only tell Marl’s mother.

Marl’s mother was terrified, but likewise unable to resist, unable even to flee.

The neighbors all watched them — if they dared to run, and the neighbors caught them and handed them over, they might even receive rewards.

So in the end, Marl’s mother had Marl’s father go to those men himself and offer her to them, to show their submission to the gentry, and perhaps to gain connection with them. Then Marl’s father would no longer have to live in their stone hut, could live more decently and with higher status. And later, Marl would not have to remain a commoner like they were now, but might have the chance to be valued by the gentry.

Marl’s mother believed so firmly in her husband, believing he would not waste her sacrifice.

And both parents believed so firmly in their son, believing in his excellence.

Thus, even with terror and pain, they made that heart-wrenching but most “valuable” choice.

In this game, after countless attempts at other choices, Marl discovered this was the most rational decision.

Look — only one person died, but the other two lived. And Marl’s later life truly became as his mother had said — those who survived indeed lived better and gained greater benefits.

Purely rational, measured in value, it was only one insignificant human life. Later, in just one trade journey serving the gentry, Marl’s father received rewards enough to buy ten people.

But Marl could not accept it. He refused to accept it. Yet even in this world, he could not change it.

Even when he remembered every step, every glance of those men, and used this foresight to kill them as a child, in the end he and his family would still be brutally executed by the Hayes Family, rulers of the village.

And the reason wasn’t even vengeance for the dead — it was simply because they had resisted, living outside the order set by the Hayes Family. So the Hayes Family would kill them.

All three were bound to the execution platform at the village center, limbs stretched apart, and the Hayes butchers dismembered them bit by bit like slaughtering beasts.

They were so skilled that they prolonged the agony until death finally came.

Marl felt despair — pure despair, like being born inside a cage.

Never had he felt so clearly that the Lord he believed in was so great, and that the work of the Church of the Sanctuary was so great.

And so, when it restarted this time, he simply sat on the ground, praying devoutly to the Lord.

Light streamed into the house, like a line separating him from his parents, widening to illuminate the small room. And at last, he saw their faces, in the shadowed half — proud smiles. They were looking at him, as if to say, “Look, my child, my pride, has done something so great.”

…

His body twitched, and Marl’s eyes snapped open. He felt weak.

Looking up, the sky was still filled with dark clouds.

His gaze turned toward the Black Swamp. It seemed as if the swamp marked a boundary — on the other side, the glowing Morning Star was visible.

From the Morning Star’s position, Marl judged it to be about nine in the morning.

He touched his stomach, gauging his hunger — he must have stayed in that place for a day and a half.

His eyes were still vacant, as if not fully returned from that place, sitting blankly under the Lord’s Throne. Before him still lay a group of warriors on the ground, bodies occasionally twitching.

Marl didn’t know what they had dreamed, but he imagined it must have been something similar to his own.

Marl suddenly laughed a little. Thinking about it, the only regrets and pains came from those in the old ways before the Church of the Sanctuary.

After all, back then, even their lives were prearranged.

He looked back at the cross — a White Dove perched upon it, staring at him.

He raised a hand, extending a finger.

The dove hopped down, landing on his finger.

He untied the letter from its leg.

“Place the cross and the Lord’s Throne at the border, then take them home.”

Just two short sentences, yet Marl felt like crying, though no tears came.

He put away the letter, released the dove, looked once more at the still-unconscious men, took out his Holy Scriptures, and, enduring his hunger, recited the words within.

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