Chapter 1064: Act 236 – The Madness of Gain
“Praise the slaughter, praise d*ath, praise war, praise the bl**d-soaked land.”
“Your name, written in bl**d, spreads deep in hell; the north wind howls as your blade, sickness and old age as your spear. You are undefeated, undying, unyielding; as we chant your name, you shall return once more to this land.”
“Great Frederic, you are the master of all, the end of everything!”
The sounds of murmurs in the square converged into a single wave, akin to the groans of a dying patient lingering in everyone’s ears. Streams of bl**d flowed through the gaps between the mud and cobblestones, like red snakes coiling and spreading, staining the ground beneath the crowd a deep crimson.
Above the uneven rooftops, the flames cast a red glow over the night sky as columns of thick smoke surged skyward. Sparks floated on the rising warm air across the entire imperial capital, like a river of stars.
Far outside the square, the Archbishop raised his head, revealing hands marked by age spots as he pulled back his thick cloak, reverently observing the scene. He spoke in a low, hoarse voice:
“Thirty years ago in Metz, I dreamed of all this. I witnessed the black flames rising from the depths of the earth, turning this decaying empire into ashes.”
The young followers looked up at the Archbishop with reverence. For those living in darkness, the large-scale purge of thirty years ago was memorable from any angle. In any rural village in East Metz during that time, countless witches, wizards practicing dark arts, and those labeled as heretics were dragged from their homes, either hanged or placed on the pyre.
That was the darkest period in all of East Metz’s history. Although it had severely cracked down on evil forces, it also caused a stagnation in local production. After all, no one could prevent the dissatisfied hearts from using the name of the Temple to strike down their foes. The end result was that almost every countryside in East Metz was deserted, and it had yet to recover even now.
Ironically, the relentless slaughter did not stop the spread of darkness; instead, the fear and desolation of the countryside provided fertile ground for the survival of heretical faith. The fact was, in the decades following the Temple’s purge, its control over the countryside of East Metz weakened even further.
Most of these young people were followers who had developed after that time. They had never experienced the brutality of that era, but through word of mouth within the sect, they had a considerable understanding of the terrors of that age and held great respect for the older generation of believers who had survived it.
However, compared to elders like the Archbishop, the flames of revenge burning in these young people’s hearts were by no means inferior; it seemed as though only reducing this thousand-year-old imperial capital to ruins could satisfy their desire to destroy everything.
Every pair of eyes glinted with fanaticism.
Below the square, the robed disciples of the secret order moved forward in a line, gripping bright blades. As they neared each row of citizens kneeling on the ground, they would seize a neck and stab through the heart.
The agony of d*ath awakened them from their delusions, the dying would struggle and turn their heads, wanting to see the face of their killer, like livestock being slaughtered, bl**d and foam spewing from their mouths as the light in their eyes dimmed gradually. The disciples quickly laid the lifeless bodies flat, allowing the bl**d to mingle with the mud, flowing across the square.
Yet most people didn’t even have the chance to resist, crumpling to the ground with spasms, row after row, like lambs in a collective slaughter. The disciples moved swiftly, and in no time, the rear half of the square was left with entangled bodies upon one another.
The air was thick with the rich scent of bl**d, as if summoned by something, the bl**d flowed toward the center of the square. A statue of a knight stood tall in the center, sword held aloft, coldly observing the scene.
The shadows cast by the torches loomed over its face, making it appear as if the past hero was shrouded in deep twilight.
Yet, the faithful citizens in the front row seemed oblivious to all that was happening around them. They chanted devoutly, their knees drowning in the bl**d of those in front. They continued prostrating with their heads to the ground, worshipping in trepidation, as if a voice within them declared, I am your master, and I will grant you everything—be it revenge or immortality.
The Archbishop watched this scene with satisfaction.
The riotous crowd, under the shepherd’s incitement, was converging on the inner city. They ignited everything visible, and in the fervent atmosphere, they gradually lost their sanity. While they had normally been cautious in protecting their possessions, at this moment, their minds were fixated on a single thought:
Plunder, burn, destroy everything!
And this scene was just a reflection of one corner of the entire Rustra. Within the entire imperial capital, numerous such rituals were taking place simultaneously in various locations; as long as one-third of them succeeded, they could summon the ‘gift’ they had long prepared.
This was a grand gift for this empire on the brink of demise.
It had once been so formidable that no one believed this empire, founded by one of the Four Sages, the King of Flames Gilt, would come to an end someday. Even though countless kingdoms and principalities had risen and fallen over the centuries, the Four Great Empires remained at the pinnacle of civilization, without the slightest hint of fading.
But an unexpected opportunity brought all coincidences together, allowing them a moment to control and subvert the fate of this behemoth.
He could not help but recall his experiences in Metz decades ago, the arrogance of the Temple’s knights and nobility, how the empire hardly regarded them, letting them grow wild, only to brutally suppress them when the time was right.
Like wheat in the field, simply not yet time for harvest.
When the nobles looked at his colleagues being hanged, their gaze was no different from watching the wheat being cut down; both were treated lightly, with an air of spectating.
It was such gazes that pierced him deeply.
The Archbishop took one last look in the direction of the square, where he saw a pool of bl**d convening at the center, thick like a mirror. Twisted monsters, red and winged, struggled within the pool, the viscous bl**d cloaking them, intertwined like embryos gestating in a womb—ugly enough to make one gag.
He knew that the spawn of the evil god had arrived.
In any place in Vaunte, the black fire disciples and shepherds were inseparable as shadows; they worshiped the twisted power—not chaos and demons, but the evil god. And as to whether the evil god was indeed a god, scholars had debated for a thousand years without resolution. However, these terrifying and grotesque beings were undoubtedly part of the divine—they were birthed from divine bl**d, and no one knew who created them or with what intention, but these horrifying, twisted monsters seemed cursed by all the malice and hatred in this world since the day they were born, crazed and lacking reason, worshipping slaughter and cold d*ath, powerful and grotesque, as if their very existence unsettled the world.
Therefore, from the day the evil god was born, they were sealed deep by the faithful, with only a few offspring scattered across the land, known as divine messengers.
Among them, the most famous was the blasphemous child birthed from the bl**d of Gaia, the demon tree Finlidos; its progeny, the golden demon tree, spread throughout the world under the careful nurturing of the shepherds, giving rise to the title of shepherd.
The followers of the shepherd—black fire disciples—worshiped these grotesque beings’ immense power, yet for a long time, they had been far from acquiring such strength. The weak divine messenger appeared to be the limit of mortal power, and since the Holy War, no one had ever been this close to a true god.
Even an evil god.
The scholars’ debate seemed to reach a conclusion at this moment in the Crusian imperial capital Rustra.
He pulled his cloak back down, nervously muttering to himself.
“Beg for mercy, but I will not grant you the chance.”
There was nothing more pleasurable than watching a once-feared enemy fall at one’s feet and groan; he intended to savor the expressions of those who once indulged in decadence within the inner city when faced with impending d*ath.
He casually turned to the people beside him and said, “Have those we sent to the Cat and Whiskers Inn returned?”
The young disciples began to inquire among themselves, quickly receiving a negative answer.
The answer made the Archbishop frown, for it seemed their power was so strong now that even the empire must bow before him, yet this trivial matter still posed a challenge?
Such feelings left him deeply dissatisfied.
“What, not even a scrap of news?” His tone turned noticeably condescending, filled with dissatisfaction.
The disciples shook their heads again.
“The city is in chaos right now; perhaps they ran into trouble on their return,” someone in the crowd offered a reasonable explanation.
The Archbishop considered this and accepted the explanation. In his mind, the Queen’s plan had no possibility of failure; he had investigated the people in the inn and knew that small nobleman’s fiancée had absolutely no capability.
Of course, the unexpected factor of White Mist was not something he had anticipated.
He decided to put this issue aside first and continued, “The rituals in the city must be expedited; the main ritual is nearing completion, and with dozens of small rituals, cannot those fools manage to complete even one-third within my specified time?”
The young disciples exchanged glances, unsure why the usually fairly agreeable Archbishop was suddenly so enraged.
However, these individuals were not lacking in common sense, and soon someone suggested, “Perhaps we could contact them?”
The Archbishop thought for a moment and nodded. They had rarely communicated privately due to fear of being detected by the omnipresent witches, but on this night, there was no such concern; one could only fear that the self-important Queen was too preoccupied to care.
The young disciples hastily retrieved a communication crystal, carefully activated it, and then respectfully handed it to the Archbishop.
“Whose crystal is this?”
The Archbishop turned and asked, the torch’s light casting a heavy shadow over his face, as if every wrinkle hid a vividly etched mark underneath.
“It seems to be Denis’s.”
“Then it’s the ritual at Ninth Street.”
The Archbishop held the crystal in his hand and casually asked, “Is this Denis? Respond if you can hear me.”
The crystal fell silent for a moment.
Then it flickered slightly, and a voice emerged from it.
“I hear you, but I am not Denis.”
The Archbishop was momentarily taken aback.
Everyone present also fell silent for a moment.
Then the former anxiously replied, “I don’t care who you are; have Denis come and speak with me immediately.”
“That might be a bit difficult,” the voice from the crystal responded awkwardly.
“What’s so difficult about it? Where is he?”
There was a sound of rummaging from the other side of the crystal before the response came: “Well, I don’t know which body at my feet you mean to reference, but how about I send them over one by one for identification?”
The Archbishop held the communication crystal, and the atmosphere became so tense one could hear a pin drop.
“Y-You… who are you?”
“Oh, right, I forgot to introduce myself,” the voice on the crystal replied. “My name is Brendel. Whether any of you recognize me is irrelevant; it’s best you clean your necks and wait for me to come and k*ll you.”
Click.
The crystal fell to the ground.
Under the scrutinizing gazes of everyone present, the Archbishop felt a surge of fury rapidly gathering and blazing within his chest. It felt as though he had just gained unparalleled power, so formidable that even the empire dared not meet its edge and had to bow before him. Yet, a band of clowns dared to come out and test their blades.
He hardly paid attention to the person’s name, instinctively thinking they were simply a group of imperial nobles going mad with ambition, eager to impress the Queen.
Unable to contain his anger, he laughed in a twisted way, “These fools just want to be famous so badly. All right, let them clean their necks, and let’s see how they plan to k*ll me.”
Unfortunately, this group of madmen seemed to think it was all just a joke and had no real intention to k*ll him.
However, what happened next only made the Archbishop feel more miserable than being killed himself.
Within less than a quarter of an hour, under everyone’s watch, the communication crystal on the ground lit up repeatedly, and each time it did, a stranger’s voice introduced themselves.
Then they would inform him: “Your subordinate unfortunately met their demise at my hands, but I assure you, there will most certainly be a next time.”
The Archbishop’s complexion shifted from furious red to green with rage, yet after several rounds, those present began to show signs of paling.
Because they realized, in less than half an hour, more than seven ritual sites had been attacked, and according to the responses from the crystal, there were absolutely no survivors left.
Only then did the Archbishop come to understand that the other party was not a group of young people driven mad.
This was undoubtedly a retaliatory response organized by some force after realizing what was going on. Unfortunately, this retaliation was so swift and heavy that it nearly made him tremble, and he couldn’t help but ask in a shuddering voice:
“How many people have we lost?”
In truth, he was more concerned about how many ritual sites were still operational. For a fleeting moment, he almost thought the organization’s meticulously planned operation was going to fail in his hands.
