Chapter 252: Commoners Killed a Noble

“People from your Church are really all lunatics.” Oscar sighed with some emotion.

“Magicians should be even crazier than us.” Monk Agamemnon said.

The two of them sat on top of Viscount Youn’s fortress, their eyes falling upon the chaos in the town below.

News had already reached the town that the knights at the front line had been broken through by a group of commoners. Disbelief spread, and at the same time, the pressure from the massacre previously carried out by Knight Wolf suddenly burst open.

Killing, looting, fleeing—the entire town was in chaos. It was hard to tell whether the people wanted to escape or simply seize the chance to plunder amidst disorder.

“Just look at those three magicians—one dared to become the vessel of a power that creates gods, one dared to make a pact with the Lord of Annihilation, and one dared to sell himself to the Lord of Annihilation. These are things no normal human would ever do.” Monk Agamemnon said.

Oscar laughed. “That’s why they are magicians. The moment they accepted the power of magic, they could no longer be considered human.”

Monk Agamemnon asked, “What about you then?”

Oscar said, “I had intended not to be human, but now I have no choice but to be one.”

Monk Agamemnon said, “See, if you are human, then you should be crazier than us.”

Oscar said, “But I am only one person, while you manufacture lunatics batch after batch. Compared to me, you are far crazier.”

Monk Agamemnon said, “Why don’t you ask your apprentices, and see in their eyes, whether we or you are crazier?”

Oscar said, “They are not worthy to judge me.”

The two chatted idly. Their eyes gradually glowed faintly blue, and beyond the city of Forth, silhouettes slowly began to appear.

“They’ve arrived.” Oscar said.

Monk Agamemnon asked, “And how is that thing below?”

Oscar glanced down. “Still howling like a dog.”

Then he looked at Monk Agamemnon and asked, “Do you really not need me to kill him in advance? No matter what, his body carries the strength of an Upper Warrior. After being modified by Valo, he should be able to match a Wild Knight. If they truly fight him, it will cost at least a dozen lives.”

Monk Agamemnon said, “No need. If a story is to appear real, it must have sacrifices.”

Oscar clicked his tongue. “You’re starting to look more and more like the senators.”

Monk Agamemnon asked, “How so?”

Oscar said, “For the sake of goals, for the sake of gain, they dare to use any means.”

Monk Agamemnon said, “There is still a difference.”

Oscar asked, “What difference?”

Monk Agamemnon said, “They act for profit. I act for a greater profit.”

“Haha, a greater profit?” Oscar laughed. “Profit is profit. There is no such thing as greater.”

Monk Agamemnon only smiled without replying, then said, “When we return, you will write their story.”

Oscar said, “Me? You sure you don’t want Scholar Caleb, that old man, to write it?”

Monk Agamemnon said, “He still has some bottom line. You don’t.”

“Ha, you know me well.” Oscar chuckled. “I’m thinking of opening a new discipline—Bards, dedicated to learning how to tell stories.”

Monk Agamemnon said, “Just to tell stories?”

Oscar said, “Of course not just that. They must spread stories. They must know how to write in ways people enjoy, how to spread across a wider range, how to tell stories so captivating that the whole world would want to listen, and even chase after them.”

Monk Agamemnon asked, “Like when the bishop celebrated Marl’s triumph?”

Oscar said, “Yes. That was the inspiration given to me by our great bishop. With just a little falsehood, people’s hearts can be played with. That is stronger than the restrained powers you priests wield.”

Monk Agamemnon said, “Sounds impressive. Then how long will it take for you to spread today’s story to the whole world?”

As he finished speaking, Monk Agamemnon waved to the sky, and a white dove flew toward them.

Oscar said, “Ten years is enough—from here, to the world’s east, and then to the west.”

Monk Agamemnon said, “Then ten years. If, ten years later, today’s story is sung across the world, I will petition the bishop to give you freedom.”

Oscar froze, then immediately grew excited, rubbing his hands. “Just wait and see.”

Monk Agamemnon caught the white dove, placed a prepared letter into the tube, and released it.

The dove flapped its wings, flying in the direction from which the commoners came.

The commoners were already near the open gates of Forth Town.

From the moment the news spread, Forth Town had descended into disorder. Those who fled in all directions cared nothing for the open gates.

The commoners charged in. The townsfolk on the streets turned pale, quickly dodging aside. Those too slow were swept away by the crowd. Some fainted silently—lucky ones collapsed at the roadside, while the unlucky ones in the middle were trampled to death in their sleep-like stupor.

They charged straight toward the fortress, unaware of the two sitting on top.

“Brave commoners, under the Lord’s protection, stormed into the den of sin. Like heroes, they faced the sins of the Land of Absolute Punishment. That noble lord, once exalted, had been corrupted by sin, reduced to a beast crawling on all fours like a lion. Its great maw could bite off a man’s head in one gulp, its horn of sin could pierce through human flesh with ease, its crouching legs could spring up and cling to the fortress top, launching attacks from above the heroes’ heads.”

Oscar declaimed loudly, his tone rising and falling as he narrated the fortress scene below.

Pausing, he asked, “How about that passage? Should I put it in the storybook?”

Monk Agamemnon shook his head. “No, you didn’t describe the role of the priests.”

“Fine, then add this.” Oscar’s eyes flickered as he glanced at the movements inside the fortress, then declaimed again: “The priests raised the Holy Scriptures, crying out to the Lord of Hosts. Fearless, they pounced upon the embodiment of sin, using their heads, mouths, and hands to bite and batter, caring nothing for their own pain. In that moment, the priests seemed to be Blessed by the Lord of Hosts. They fought like knights, with one foot already stepping into the Heavenly Kingdom.”

“How about that description?” Oscar asked.

Monk Agamemnon shook his head again. “No. In this story the knights are the villains. You must clarify which knights—are they the Virtue Knights of the Church Nation, or the Oath Knights of the Adrian Diocese?”

Oscar grew annoyed. “Why not use Guardian Knights or Punishing Knights instead?”

Monk Agamemnon still shook his head. “No. Those are internal Church titles. If later Guardian Knights or Punishing Knights rise up, and they find priests unworthy of their Commandments, what then? Besides, does it not seem excessive that it takes so much effort just to kill one noble?”

Oscar laughed in frustration. “You lunatics care about such things? Or have you already adopted the mode of the Senate and its senators?”

Monk Agamemnon said, “Trouble must be avoided at its root.”

Viscount Youn’s fortress was his residence, not a military stronghold. It could house at most a hundred people. When Valo left, he had even tied Viscount Youn inside the hall, so that the commoners would see him immediately upon entry.

Now, the surging crowd nearly packed the hall solid.

No matter how strong or agile Viscount Youn was, he was truly drowned in the human tide.

Soon after, waves of people spilled out from the fortress’s other exits, as though the entire fortress had been washed clean by flowing water.

Those who emerged waved bloodied rags or torn tufts of hair, shouting loudly: “The sin of has been purified!”

Oscar noticed and asked, “Viscount Youn is dead, then what? You sentenced this entire land to Excomunication.”

Monk Agamemnon said, “Originally, I instructed the priests to kill Viscount Youn, then guide the believers to tear down the walls of the subordinate villages. If the crowd grew too restless, they were to use Divine Word to pacify them. Used only once or twice, this calming power leaves little lingering Mystery. By the time the bells toll, all residue will be cleared away.”

“But now that Viscount Youn has become like this, it is even easier to manage. After all, the Church of the Sanctuary produces only about twenty priests per year.”

As he spoke, a priest stumbled out.

This priest was drenched in blood. One arm looked bitten off by a beast, leaving only an empty sleeve dripping with blood.

He shouted, “That inhuman sin has been purified by us! He was the sin of the Land of Absolute Punishment! But besides him, other sins left by his oppression await our purification!”[a]

With that cry, he led a group out of the fortress, charging in another direction beneath the rising White Star. Soon, other priests imitated him, shouting and leading crowds of commoners in different directions.

Under the soft glow of the White Star, they spread like streams of water washing away filth.

Monk Agamemnon said, “Although many priests of the Diocese of York believe that after Excomunicstion, all people of the land must die, in truth once the main sin is killed, the others will regard themselves as devout believers of the Lord.”

“Look—those who failed to flee have mingled into the crowds led by priests. I imagine when they topple the village gates, no matter who the people were before today, they will all proclaim themselves devout believers of the Lord.”

“No matter if they are commoners, gentry, or illegitimate noble offspring—whatever differences, one thing is the same: they all long to live.”

Suddenly Monk Agamemnon asked, “Has the power of the Slumbering Horn been spent?”

“How could that be? It’s just that with the lord’s death, the earth vein shifted, and magic failed. The stored power was devoured by surging mana.” Oscar explained, then clicked his tongue. “You should really become a scholar in the history discipline. Compared to old Caleb, you’re far more practical. That old man is near death, unwilling to use magic to extend his life. No suitable successor has been chosen yet. Why not join the Monastery once you come of age? After I win freedom, you will be the Dean.”

Monk Agamemnon did not answer. Instead, he said, “Cast some magic. Disperse those who still linger.”

Oscar twitched his fingers, then suddenly noticed a priest with shield and spear separating from the group. He asked, “That priest has a special task?”

Monk Agamemnon glanced over. “No, he is the brother of Priest Landon. If not for Priest Landon, he too might be one of those who cause Bishop Claudy headaches at the Great Church.”

Oscar asked, “You arranged this too?”

Monk Agamemnon shook his head. “No. He alone I gave no orders. Every other priest I instructed.”

Oscar asked, “Aren’t you afraid of accidents?”

Monk Agamemnon said, “That is why I came myself. But things turned out better—at least, after Valo stole Viscount Youn’s Holy Relic, fewer people died.”

Oscar said, “I mean this priest.”

Monk Agamemnon was silent for a moment, then said, “Priest Landon’s Faith was firm. He should not remain trapped here forever. He should not endure loneliness.”

Oscar said, “You could have found a fraud to impersonate him. Or not even bother with this ending—I could have simply added someone into the story. You didn’t need to play the villain.”

Oscar had always avoided mentioning Landon, but could not help himself now.

Placing a hand on his chest, Monk Agamemnon said, “Faith comes from the heart. One cannot deceive oneself. Priest Landon had become obsessed with this land. Bringing him back would leave him wracked with guilt, shaking his Faith. Better to let him burn for his ideals.”

Oscar said, “You’re not afraid his brother will ruin your plan?”

Monk Agamemnon stood up, patting dust off. “At this point, my purpose is fulfilled. No later accident can change it.”

Then he walked back. “Come, let’s take Viscount Youn’s corpse and finish one last matter before returning.”

The fortress had been cleared. More than a dozen corpses lay slain by Viscount Youn. His own body had been torn and trampled into a pulp barely resembling a human form, showing thick, inhuman bones and a small hard horn atop his head.

“Truly not giving me this corpse?” Oscar waved, stirring magic, wrapping it in cloth.

Monk Agamemnon asked, “How about I lock you with him inside the Burial Mechanism?”

“Forget I said anything.” Oscar snapped his fingers. The two, with the bundled corpse, vanished from the fortress and reappeared at the ritual site.

“What else is left?” Oscar asked.

Monk Agamemnon closed his eyes, steadying the dizziness from the sudden spatial shift.

Then he looked at the sky, estimating the time. The faint sound of knights’ warhorses reached his ears. “I still need to bring you back.”

Oscar froze, then shut his eyes, his body going limp as he collapsed, snoring in sleep.

“I only borrowed you for half a day. Now the time is up.” Monk Agamemnon finally added.

[a]Needs rewording

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