Chapter 141: Heretic
This wasn’t right.
This was very wrong.
Faith was not supposed to be like this.
The Lord loved all people and would never allow them to suffer such cruel pain.
Thus, George could no longer restrain himself.
He drew his longsword and held it tightly.
Slightly bending his knees, he inhaled.
Then he leapt, soaring over the frenzied crowd and landed on the platform.
He could see the shock on the face of the man in the Black Robe.
It seemed he had not expected anyone to leap up at this moment.
He could also see the anger and hatred in the eyes of the man nailed to the Cross.
Only pain was absent.
With one swing of the sword, a forceful strike swept aside the burning Woodpile and at the same time severed the base of the sturdy Cross.
“What are you doing! This is the Lord’s Judgment! You’ve committed a great sin!” the man rebuked furiously, yet his steps retreated continuously, then he nimbly leapt off the platform.
After hiding among the crowd, he pointed at George who was supporting the fallen Cross and shouted loudly.
“He is Igor’s accomplice, also a sinner!”
“And now, at the moment the Lord’s Flame purifies the sinner, he does not kneel on the ground to plead for the Lord’s purification, but instead dares to trample upon the purifying Flame, to attack the sacred Cross.”
“This is no longer mere sin—this is heresy!”
“A heretic whose sins cannot be cleansed even by the purifying Flame!”
“A heretic who must be punished by the blade!”
“O great Believers of the Lord, kill this heretic, this is what the Lord wishes to see.”
“You shall be rewarded with merit, and gain the Lord’s favor.”
“Fear not death, for death is not the end.”
“You shall die for the Lord’s Glory—this is a noble act, one that will earn you a place in the Heavenly Kingdom after death!”
He shouted and roared, and those pale-faced, scrawny figures began to cry out fanatically, waving their arms, scrambling onto the platform, and rushing toward George.
These were merely feeble people; even setting George aside, a knight in Full Plate Armor could have easily slaughtered them all.
But George felt fear.
At that moment, he suddenly saw the one who had told him earlier to keep quiet waving frantically at him from afar, his expression agitated.
Without hesitation, George hoisted the Cross and leapt over the human wall, charging toward the man.
This village had few people, and all those present had gathered in tight formation.
Even while carrying the Cross, George’s speed hardly decreased, and he quickly reached the man’s side.
The man’s face was filled with shock—he hadn’t expected George to move so swiftly, nor that he could leap over the human wall while carrying the Cross with someone nailed to it.
He had thought George would have to fight his way out.
Yet after the surprise, his face lit up with elated joy.
The stronger George was, the better it was for him.
He opened his mouth, preparing to speak, but George grabbed him and lifted him up, fleeing at full speed.
The rushing wind stuffed his mouth.
...
It was a ravine, backed against a cliff. George lit a campfire.
Lifting his gaze, he looked to the side.
Landon was carefully cleaning the wounds on Igor’s body.
Landon was the name of the one who had guided George.
“Endure it, Brother Igor.” Landon wiped while offering words of comfort.
“Ugh... ugh...” Igor could only let out such groans.
Suppressing pain, yet it also sounded like he was begging Landon to release him from his suffering.
Even after being taken down from the Cross, his limbs had been ruined by the Iron Nails that pierced them.
His tongue had been shredded, his vocal cords burned, even breathing was difficult.
He now lived in a world of torment.
“No, no, you can’t die. As long as you live, there is still hope.” Landon comforted him.
George couldn’t bear to watch. He walked over and placed a hand on Igor’s head.
Closing his eyes slightly, he spoke softly.
“O Lord, if he is without sin, then I beseech You to grant peace to this suffering man.”
As his voice fell, Igor’s trembling eyes gradually calmed, his eyelids slowly closed, his breath steadied, and he entered a state of sleep.
His chest rose and fell gently, and a faint smile even appeared on his face.
This was Prayer, a technique the Bishop had personally taught him before he left the Church.
Compared to Divine Word, Prayer demanded greater faith—only those with firm belief and the Lord’s favor could use it.
It allowed one to make a plea to the Lord; if approved, the Lord would grant it.
George didn’t know the limits of Prayer. Most of the time, he used it to help warriors alleviate pain from injuries or to find paths.
Once, he had attempted to use Prayer to help a warrior regrow an arm lost in battle, but the Lord did not respond.
George believed that perhaps such wounds were part of what a warrior must endure in battle.
After all, the Lord was the Lord of past, present, and future. That which happened must be the Lord’s will.
But relieving pain—this was the Lord’s Mercy upon mankind.
Opening his eyes, seeing the now-sleeping Igor, George let out a sigh of relief.
It seemed he hadn’t done wrong.
There was indeed something wrong with Igor’s situation.
Moreover, there must now be someone who knew the truth.
With that thought, George looked toward Landon.
But at this moment, Landon had already retreated several meters away, glaring at George with hostility while holding a rusted, worn-down dagger.
“You’re also one of the Lord’s hounds. I was wrong about you.” His voice trembled, as if facing something exceedingly wicked, cruel, and savage.
George fell silent.
Thanks to the teachings of Knight Julian, he understood something from Landon’s words.
“I am from the Church of the Sanctuary in the York Territory, currently serving as a Temple Warrior of the Church,” he said.
“By order of the Bishop of the Flower Church, I have come to the Cross Painted in Blood Theocracy to seek their Nation Founding Manifesto.”
“Perhaps you mistook me for one of the Theocracy’s people.”
“But I am merely a Temple Warrior who has just stepped into the Theocracy’s lands.”
George spoke earnestly, yet Landon merely snorted disdainfully.
“Who would dare trust you anymore?” he said with a cold sneer.
“Raising the Cross Flag, you killed the Lord and told us it was to liberate us.”
“After we helped you kill the local gentry, we let you manage the village. But you did things more evil than the gentry ever did.”
“The Priest told us to hand over all our food, because after you came, the land became Desertified, we could no longer grow crops, and famine struck us.”
“He said this was the Lord purifying the sins of the land, and we had to endure.”
“He said all food should be distributed by him, for he was the Lord’s Servant, the Lord’s Shepherd, and we were the lost lambs—we ought to trust him.”
“But more than ten of us starved to death, and he only grew fatter.”
“This was exploitation even the gentry never committed.”
“You even did all this in the name of the Lord.”
“Look at Brother Igor—he was starving. All he wanted was to retrieve the food he had devoted to the Priest with sincere Faith.”
“He didn’t want to eat the flesh of the dead.”
“Is that a sin?!”
“Ha, yes, the Priest said it was flesh purified by the Lord, that it was pure, the Sacrament granted to us by the Lord.”
“But I never saw him eat it.”
“And everyone who ate that Sacrament—every single one—went mad.”