Chapter 441: Holy Judgement
Time rewound slightly.
When Bishop Marl used the Holy Relic and incarnated as an angel, that pillar of divine light piercing the heavens was naturally visible to Jeven.
A vague sadness surfaced in his heart.
Among them, Marl had been the first to become a bishop—and now, he was also the first to die.
Even before becoming a bishop, Marl had been among those bishops Jeven had admired.
After Marl’s ordination, though there had been minor frictions due to differences in belief, they were ultimately all bishops of the Church—people who looked toward the future.
Thinking of Jeremiah, who now suffered torment day after day, Jeven sighed slightly.
Then he looked forward.
There, stood a cross.
And beyond the cross, stretched an endless expanse of blackness.
That place had not been stepped into for four or five years—and for those same four or five years, he had gazed upon it.
Four or five years might not be long in the eyes of this world.
But to him, it encompassed the majority of his awakened life.
He believed it was during this period that he had truly lived.
And throughout this span, there was never a moment he hadn’t thought of purging the sin before him.
How could a bishop of the Church allow sin to stand blatantly in his presence?
And now, he felt—the time to cleanse it had finally come.
He stepped forward and stood before the cross, raising his hand and pressing it against it.
The cross suddenly emitted a faint white light. That light slowly spread and extended, and then—like a blade—cleaved apart the sea of sin before him.
He opened his eyes, their light bright and sharp.
With both arms, he exerted strength and pulled the cross from the Lord’s Throne, hoisting it onto his shoulder.
With a resounding cry of "Holy Judgement!", he strode forward.
Behind him, the Virtue Knights followed.
Behind them came seventy-two members of the Chorus of Maidens, all clad in white robes, wearing wreaths of saffron on their heads. Each held a wooden cross in one hand and the New Testament Scriptures in the other.
They were all pure youths aged twelve to sixteen—regardless of gender.
Only in a place like the Diocese of Rod, a land of pure faith, could such a devout and untainted Chorus of Maidens be cultivated.
They recited the Psalms of the Seven Deadly Sins from the latest ceremonies, calling out the names of those sins.
Pride of Lucifer, Envy of Leviathan, Sloth of Belial, Wrath of Samael, Greed of Mammon, Gluttony of Beelzebub, and Lust of Asmodeus.
They denounced them, commanded them to return to the depths of Hell.
With their chants—though lacking the divine white radiance—the black sea of sin on both sides, surging and seeking to merge, seemed to be repelled by their voices.
Following the Chorus of Maidens were three hundred Crusaders.
They wore armor forged under the Pope’s personal oversight, wielding sturdy shields and sharp swords.
They were paragons of unwavering faith, individuals who had received the finest education from a young age.
Only the Diocese of Rod, this sacred bastion of belief, could produce such people.
After the early-year bishop’s council, Jeven had formed this resolute Crusader legion.
He had been so overjoyed then, knowing the Church had so many exceptional youths.
And now, he felt only sorrow.
After this battle, how many of these Crusaders—or the members of the Chorus of Maidens—could return alive to the Diocese of Rod?
Jeven did not know.
He dared not use Revelation to divine the future.
He was afraid.
Afraid that knowing would make him falter.
These people represented everything he had built during his years of service in the Diocese of Rod.
Now, they would die alongside him.
Yes.
Everyone here knew this was a march toward death.
Yet no fear was present in their eyes.
Their fighting spirit remained high; their hearts were full of conviction. They believed all they did was righteous—that their swords and bodies would pave the road to the future, to the Heavenly Kingdom on Earth.
They believed death was not the end, but rebirth.
Rebirth within the Heavenly Kingdom.
But—was there truly a Heavenly Kingdom?
Jeven questioned himself.
At least, after they became bishops, none of them had spoken of it again.
The voices in the Revelation could naturally guide them to its location.
Jeven had once asked, in secret.
He had even come close to blasphemy, asking if Heaven truly existed.
The answer he received was not a cold revelation.
It was a familiar voice.
That voice said, "Heaven exists within everyone’s heart."
Was he disappointed by the answer?
Not quite.
He had already suspected as much.
He simply accepted the truth quietly.
But the voice had then added, "The Heavenly Kingdom on Earth does exist—in the future you strive for."
That answer brought him joy.
It proved that all they had done was not in vain.
Yet now, he found himself wishing he could return to that moment and receive a lie instead.
To believe again—like when he first became a believer—that Heaven truly existed.
But when he thought of the thirteen Temple Warriors at the end of the procession, Jeven felt that such a lie would only insult their faith.
Instead, the phrase "Heaven exists within everyone’s heart" affirmed their beliefs.
For only those who believe in Heaven allow it to truly exist.
And what about himself?
Someone who no longer believed in a real Heaven?
Jeven suddenly wondered—did Bishop Claudy, who remained at York Territory’s Great Cathedral, still believe?
The three of them, who had grown less devout, had deliberately excluded Claudy from their circle.
They did not wish to taint him.
Just as, during council meetings, the Pope most enjoyed listening to Claudy's reports on trivial matters.
They, too, hoped that one day, their own dioceses would be filled only with such trifles.
No—more than that—they wished for a day when the whole world had only such trifles.
For that was what they fought for.
Their formation marched forward in perfect order, each step resolute—so resolute it surpassed even Jeven, who led them.
Until the sun rose high in the sky, and they finally beheld the enormous Black Cocoon.
Jeven plunged the cross, carried through the night, into the earth, then drew out a golden Cup of Life.
It was the same one once used by Knight George.
After Knight George regained full consciousness, the Pope had handed it over to the Great Cathedral of Rod.
Now was the time to use it.
Jeven expertly slit his wrist, letting his blood flow into the Cup of Life. He even circulated his blood forcefully, making the wound spurt like a fountain.
The Cup seemed bottomless, silently receiving his offering.
The Black Cocoon had also been called the Black Cup—and thus was tied to the Cup of Life.
From the moment he first held this cup, he had known—it was meant to counter that cocoon.
Before life, what evil could remain hidden?
Dizziness overwhelmed him.
His bleeding ceased—his body now drained like a dried husk.
With a flick of his wrist, the blood in the Cup of Life poured forth like a stream of pure vitality, seeping into the sand long buried beneath black sin.
Instantly, the sand solidified, green sprouts emerged.
Vital energy surged like a breeze, sweeping through the army behind him, dispelling their fatigue and uplifting their spirits.
The Chorus of Maidens raised their voices. This time, they began reciting the New Testament Scriptures from the beginning.
With their chant, every member of the army began to emit a faint glow.
Golden light shone from their eyes. Holy Light glimmered on their blades. Wings seemed to form behind their backs.
As if resisting the chorus, the Black Cup trembled faintly. That ripple spread, then churned, until cracks appeared on its surface.
And then—like a flower of darkness blooming—a woman three times the size of an average human emerged, naked.
Jeven found her strangely familiar.
Wasn’t she Melia’s friend—once a Saintess of the Theocracy?
"This is blasphemy!"
Jeven heard the furious shout from behind.
"Those sinners dare to defile the Saintess’ body!"
It was Odysseus.
The voice of this Virtue Knight was filled with rage.
He had come from the Theocracy.
He was devout.
He had witnessed the Saintess’ martyrdom.
And so—he burned with fury.
So—had the war begun?
That fury was Original Sin.
As this thought struck Jeven, the massive woman seemed to hear it. She opened her eyes and locked gazes with him.
She slowly opened her mouth and let out a piercing scream.
A shriek so sharp it seemed to echo in everyone’s soul.
But their faith was firm. The Chorus of Maidens’ voices dispersed the spiritual assault, rendering the scream nothing more than a sharp noise.
Jeven raised his hand—and brought it down.
Behind him, the warriors charged at the woman birthed by the Dark Flower.
Or rather—charged at the sin born from it.