Chapter 140 : Village of the Theocracy
Chapter 140: Village of the Theocracy
The land seemed to have turned into sand, not a single weed growing.
From afar, one could see a village ahead.
George perked up. Ever since he had left the territory of Baron Belair, he had crossed the Nation of Werewolves and finally arrived at the borders of the Cross Painted in Blood Theocracy.
The Nation of Werewolves wasn’t particularly large, only slightly bigger than the York Territory.
But during the crossing, George discovered that the werewolves were breeding humans, seemingly exploring new ways of transforming them.
So he killed those werewolves and rescued the people.
However, having stayed in the Marquis' Territory for so long, George also knew he was not suited to lead those he had rescued.
Thus, he could only direct those people to head toward Belair’s lands along the path he had carved through bloodshed.
And because of that, he now arrived at the Cross Painted in Blood Theocracy.
He remembered hearing Priest Nyx say that the northern border between the Principality of Patlin and the Principality of Corlay was the edge of Greenwood, a hilly terrain.
But George felt that even hills shouldn't feel this desolate, like a desert.
Not even a weed grew here.
Still, George had never been to this place before. Though puzzled, he continued toward the village ahead.
It seemed the villagers were not inside their houses.
George found it odd, but after going a little deeper, he could hear some commotion.
He followed the direction of the noise, and as the sounds grew clearer, turning a corner, his eyes were suddenly met with a crowd.
Roughly a hundred people—likely the entire population of the village.
They were gathered around a raised platform.
Atop the platform stood an erected cross.
It seemed these people were believers of the Theocracy, and that the Theocracy had not forgotten the faith derived from the Holy Scriptures.
George should have felt pleased.
If not for the man nailed to the cross.
His arms were spread open, and iron nails as thick as knuckles were driven through his palms into the horizontal ends of the cross.
His legs were overlapped and pressed against the lower part of the cross, with an iron nail piercing through the top of his feet, fixing them to the lower end of the cross.
His head drooped low, and around his neck was a hemp rope, tying his head to the top of the cross.
As if fearing he might struggle and snap the rope, causing him to fall off, his shoulders were also nailed in place.
Although his body remained motionless, covered in blood and whip marks, George could sense that he was still alive, barely breathing.
Beneath the cross, wood was piled up. A man stood beside the pile, holding a torch in hand.
He wore a black robe. His figure was somewhat obese, and the robe could not hide his large belly.
His scalp was bald, with only dark brown hair remaining on the sides. His face, full of fat, was sweating, likely from the torch he held.
He was shouting loudly, and George found his voice grating.
“Igor stole the food that everyone stored together, which was meant for us to share and survive the famine.”
“But he chose sinful theft because of his greed.”
“He has committed a great crime.”
“And because of his great crime, our food reserves have dwindled, making it even harder to survive this famine.”
“We must now reduce the food ratio for each meal. Everyone will go hungry.”
“Look, this is evil. This is how his sin has harmed us!”
He shouted so loudly.
Below the platform, the people stood with blank expressions, their bodies thin and frail, dressed in robes that hadn’t been washed in who knows how long—
Tattered robes that couldn’t even hide their modesty.
Yet they seemed not to care. Listening to the man shouting atop the platform, their eyes began to shine.
It was a fanatical light that made George’s skin crawl.
“This is sin—it must be purified!”
“Burn him! Burn him!”
“He is a sinner—”
They shouted these things, their voices filled with a hatred George couldn’t comprehend.
George hesitated, walked to the outer edge of the crowd, and gently tapped the person nearest to him.
That person turned around sharply, appearing to be around eighteen or nineteen, but his face was pale from hunger. His eyes were filled with fanaticism and fear.
However, upon seeing George’s appearance, the fear faded slightly, and he resisted crying out.
“You’re an outsider, aren’t you? Don’t ask anything, don’t interfere, just watch. After it’s over, I’ll tell you everything.” His voice was low and hurried.
After speaking, he quickly turned back around and joined the crowd in shouting.
George was slightly stunned by the reaction but, after a moment of hesitation, refrained from disturbing him further. He quietly moved to an inconspicuous corner to observe.
George wore the armor gifted by Belair, a longsword at his waist and a spear slung across his back.
Although when facing Dark Creatures, he preferred using the Oak Spear or Oak Long Spear.
But influenced by Knight Borien and Knight Julian, he had gradually begun to properly wield a longsword.
His eyes turned toward the man standing on the platform.
After seeing the crowd’s frenzied voices below, the man revealed a contemptuous smile, quickly hidden and replaced by an angry expression.
“Yes! This is sin, and sin must be purified by flame.”
He turned and looked up at Igor nailed to the cross, shouting harshly.
“Igor, you have committed sin and must accept the purification of fire.”
“But the Lord is merciful, and so grants you a chance to defend yourself. Speak the names of those who, like you, have committed the sin of greed.”
“Then even in death, you may still enter the Lord’s Heavenly Kingdom.”
With his words, the frenzied crowd below fell silent, all eyes fixed on the man nailed to the cross.
Like a group of dead fish staring blankly at the sky.
Perhaps it was an illusion, but George thought he saw some of their throats twitch, as if they were swallowing.
The thought alone chilled him.
Something felt very wrong.
He had received teachings from the Bishop.
He also knew that sin indeed needed purification. So, upon hearing that the man had committed theft, although he found death by fire somewhat cruel, this was the Cross Painted in Blood Theocracy, not the Church of the Sanctuary. Perhaps here, the punishment for theft was burning.
After all, this was the law of the land. So, he merely observed.
But seeing these people, he felt something was off.
Looking closely at the one being questioned on the cross, he only slightly raised his head, his jaw moving.
Yet George noticed his tongue had been cut out, his mouth showing signs of having been roasted.
How could such a man answer?
Sure enough, the man let out a loud sigh.
“Igor, you still refuse to name your companions? To think sin has taken such deep root, making you hide the sins of others.”
“In that case, you must undergo the cruelest purification.” he said, then threw the torch into the pile of wood.
Whoosh—flames roared, rising with a plume of blue smoke.
The man nailed to the cross trembled, as though suffering unbearable agony from the scorching flames.
The people below cheered and cursed, their eyes wild, raising their hands, shouting and cursing—
Unable to help themselves from licking their lips.
The man standing on the platform had his back to George, his head slightly tilted back, seemingly experiencing the Lord’s Glory with devout sincerity.
George could see that the one who had told him to ask nothing was also raising his hands, but his body trembled, and his expression seemed tinged with sorrow.