Chapter 277: The Opportunity to Redeem Sin

Afterward, Corleon’s gaze turned eastward, toward the northern territory of York. Above the sky, faint clouds still lingered.

Through the scholars of the monastery altering the earth veins, the clouds once cast by the werewolves were about to disperse.

Corleon did not intend to intervene. What could be achieved by human effort should be left to humans to accomplish.

His gaze shifted to Lever Town, where George lay within beast hide, eyes closed in rest.

Within the slumbering George, at the very depths of his being, was a will already tattered and worn.

As Corleon’s gaze fell upon him, that broken will slowly gave rise to golden radiance, mending itself piece by piece.

At last, Corleon withdrew his gaze, and the bell tolled for the final time.

…

Inside the Great Church, the nobles looked at one another.

The bells had stopped, yet the bishop who was to be crowned as the Pope had not yet appeared.

They glanced at those seated in the front row. To the left were the three barons of York’s Senate, while to the right sat the only two surviving earls of all Greenwood.

Yet now, all five of them merely sat silently, making no movement.

They looked toward Bishop Claudy and Priest Agamemnon, both standing with eyes closed, heads slightly lowered in prayer.

The situation felt eerie, but no one dared to grow angry.

If even those with the greatest authority showed no anger, how could the rest dare to speak up? They were nobles, and no noble who survived until now was truly foolish.

But the bells had already stopped. It was the dead of night, and yet they, the nobles, had been herded into this crowded Great Church as if merely left there to wait.

Some finally could not help but whisper softly among themselves.

At that very moment, the Great Church suddenly blazed with light. Instantly, every eye turned to the great cross at the front, which was radiating Holy Light. From that cross, platinum brilliance spread outward, coating every wall in glowing sheen. The flames of the candles were drowned by the light, and the Great Church shone bright as day.

No—rather, it was as though the entire church itself was submerged in light, without a trace of shadow remaining. The nobles felt as though they had entered a realm of light beyond the mortal world, their bodies laid bare without secrets.

Their breaths grew heavy, none daring to speak, faces uneasy.

Just then, Bishop Claudy and Monk Agamemnon bowed slightly beneath the cross and said aloud, “Praise be, Pope Corleon.”

Clad in white robes, eyes of brilliant gold, Corleon gazed upon the nobles with utter calm.

To those under his gaze, it felt as though he looked upon weeds and stones at the roadside.

Even the three York senators in the front row felt the same. They had intended to rise and praise together with Agamemnon, but beneath that gaze, their bodies seemed bound, leaving them motionless on their pews.

Like the others, it was also their first time beholding Pope Corleon.

Corleon spoke, “In the name of the Pope of the Church of the Sanctuary, I convey the Lord’s teachings to you.”

“The Lord says, you are guilty. As nobles, you have not fulfilled the duties that are yours to bear. This is wrong, and you must understand.”

“The Lord says, I am merciful, therefore I grant you sinners a chance to redeem your sins.”

“The Lord says, in the east, fishmen have invaded the lands that should be guarded by you nobles. They slaughter wantonly upon that land. They are guilty. They are to be purified.”

“The Lord says, with the swords and shields in your hands, reclaim your duty and purge that evil. This is also the way to cleanse your own sins.”

“The Lord says, when you purge the sins from within yourselves, the gates of the Heavenly Kingdom shall open for you. Otherwise, in Hell, your sins shall be judged.”

The word “sin” seemed to echo endlessly in their ears before slowly fading away.

As the word vanished, the platinum glow in the church receded, revealing darkened walls once more. Candle flames flickered, casting twisted, trembling shadows upon the walls. In the dim and crowded church, those shadows looked as though they struggled in hell itself.

Suddenly, a fat noble trembled, and the suffocating atmosphere seemed to stir again.

The platinum light was gone, and the figure at its center had vanished as well. Yet their exchanged glances confirmed it was no illusion. Especially that voice—it seemed carved into their minds.

They understood its meaning. And yet, they did not. Their eyes turned to one another, until finally settling upon the nobles seated in the second row.

Those were the only viscounts left, each carrying a Holy Relic.

Yet those viscounts pretended not to notice the eyes upon them.

They had sensed far more than the others.

When the light had first shone, their relics seemed to cower in fear, hiding their will deep inside. For a moment, those who held them thought their relics no more than common objects.

None dared speak. It was far too strange. Even when meeting Lord Pegira, nothing like this had happened. Who would dare raise their voice now? No noble who had survived to sit here was truly foolish—least of all those who bore relics.

So their gazes shifted forward once more.

To the three York senators. To the two earls.

But Agamemnon spared them needless guessing. Stepping into the center, he declared, “Pope Corleon’s coronation is complete. And the Pope has bestowed upon all nobles here, who bore witness, a gift.”

Though he thought inwardly, A gift you will not be pleased to learn of.

His smile eased the tension immediately.

Compared to that Pope whose visage none could now recall, Agamemnon—so clearly human—was far less frightening. His boyish appearance, especially, made him seem unthreatening.

As for the so-called “witness,” none questioned it. They had indeed only heard a few words, but none would dare ask.

Someone finally spoke: “What is this gift?”

Agamemnon’s smile deepened. “You have long borne the curse of blood, unable to see your line flourish. The Pope has removed this curse.”

“Of course, the curse that bound the conferring of knights has also been lifted. But knights are still bound by fiefs, so conferring must be measured.”

“Perhaps Administrator Piero, who oversees Lord Pegira’s territory, will later redefine how many knights each noble may confer. Naturally, he is no noble himself, and thus is not present here.”

At his words, the church grew heavy once more.

The nobles knew full well: though the curse limited their line’s growth, it also preserved their nobility.

Now that curse was gone…

They recalled whispers from York: how under the Church’s influence, both nobles and commoners alike had seen their bloodlines flourish.

Yet Agamemnon continued, and they forced down their dread to listen closely.

“…The Lord loves mankind, so the Pope also bestowed a gift upon the people, removing their curse as well. They will grow wiser, stronger.”

“So, congratulations, my lords. More excellent men will arise in your lands.”

So Agamemnon concluded.

The gift also included removing the Lucid Dream curse from all, ensuring that even mysteries on the level of Dragon-Eagles could be beheld. Those with relics would no longer, after mere use, end as Knight Wolf had—consumed by them.

Of course, Oscar, who had not heard the bells, received none of this gift.

Corleon had bound it into a ritual: at each New Year’s bell, only those yet untouched might receive it anew.

But such mysteries, hidden and divine, were not for Agamemnon to speak aloud. Nobles who touched such truths would understand. Those who did not needed only to hear what he had said.

Yet even with only this much, the nobles could not accept it.

Look at the Church’s actions before.

Letting commoners kill knights—no matter, for knights were not nobles.

Letting commoners kill nobles—that had stirred complaint, yet only complaint. After all, even if they could kill nobles, commoners were still commoners—lacking noble blood.

But now, paired with this “gift,” without noble blood, fear gripped them.

They thought of York’s commoners. They finally realized the people’s lack of awe was not because they were bastards, but because under the Church’s hand, the people had already lost their godlike reverence for nobles.

Their eyes turned to the senators. The senators sat still, unmoving, clearly long reconciled to this.

Again, the nobles turned to the front rows—the earls.

The higher the rank, the nobler the blood. And among them, none could claim blood more noble than earls.

They were not disappointed. Richard rose.

Richard asked loudly, “If so, then in my territory, as long as one abides by the oaths I set, may I not confer knighthood upon him?”

A sharp hiss of breath echoed through the hall, but none cared who made it. All only stared wide-eyed at Richard as if he were mad.

Agamemnon smiled gently at him and replied, “That is your territory’s matter. You may discuss it with Bishop Marl. But I sincerely hope that the Oath Knights of your land will be honored by all, just as we honor the Virtue Knights of the Diocese of Rod.”

Beside Richard, Earl Gregor’s eyes flickered as he recalled Jeremiah’s words before his departure:

‘I shall return to the small church to welcome the New Year, and thus will not go with you. When you arrive, if you are unsure what to do, sit with Earl Richard. You are an earl, and it is your right. Afterward, do as Earl Richard does. He is a devout believer. By learning from him, you too will be devout.’

Gregor had wanted to ask why he should follow Richard, who seemed so foolish.

But instinct warned him that asking might cost him his head. So he had agreed.

Now, seeing Agamemnon converse amiably with Richard, with no hint of displeasure, Gregor prepared to heed Jeremiah’s advice.

He rose and asked, “Then in my territory, if one abides by my oaths, may I also confer him as a knight?”

Richard froze. Agamemnon froze. The hiss of breath grew louder behind them.

Agamemnon knew Richard’s oath—courage, protection of the weak, the spread of justice—praises the Pope himself had acknowledged.

But Gregor? He had never heard of any oath from him.

Yet facing Gregor’s eyes, so steadfast as Richard’s had been, Agamemnon hesitated, then answered, “So long as your oath is in accord with what the Holy Scriptures praise, then it is permitted.”

It was all he could do—vague reassurance.

He wished, more than ever, that he were a bishop, to receive the Lord’s revelation and see what oath this earl meant.

But Gregor knew nothing of oaths. He knew only that such matters would be left to Jeremiah to decide later. For now, he simply followed Richard.

He glanced at Richard, whose eyes held curiosity.

Gregor returned the same curious look.

Richard showed surprise, then smiled, nodding.

Gregor showed surprise as well, then smiled and nodded in turn.

Richard sat down. Gregor sat down.

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