Chapter 206 : Black Mud
Chapter 206: Black Mud
That night, a great fire broke out. Although the knights and warriors worked desperately to extinguish it, by the time the flames died down at dawn the next day, nearly nine thousand of those who had previously been enslaved by the werewolves had perished, leaving just over a thousand survivors.
Fortunately, the supplies had not been burned, and none of the knights or warriors were injured in the blaze.
On the ninth day, when George awoke and heard the news, he merely remained silent without saying much, then began bleeding himself once more. That day, he bled over one hundred and twenty cups.
On the tenth day, George fell unconscious again, and Puniel was preparing to return. Before leaving, he sought out Marl.
Puniel said, “The werewolves have been completely cleared out, and the news has already reached the rear. While they are celebrating, I still need to keep watch over them—after all, they have yet to receive the Church’s enlightenment and are still deeply set in their old ways.”
Marl nodded and said, “Thank you for your assistance. I will report each of the merits you achieved in this war to the Bishop.”
Puniel gave a reserved smile. “I am a noble of humanity; naturally, I should protect humanity. These are all things I ought to do.”
Then his smile faded slightly. “Priest Marl, I feel it has been rather dry lately. Should I have the lads stay alert for the possibility of another fire?”
Marl was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No need. The losses from the last fire were too severe. Everyone is being very cautious now.”
Puniel nodded. “Alright then, I’ll take the lads back. Knight Julian will stay with Knight George to finish these matters. He wishes to move to York Town, but I declined on the grounds that I, his liege, still need his help. If you need anything in the future, Priest Marl, you may seek assistance from Knight Julian.”
Marl nodded.
On the eleventh day, George awoke and continued bleeding himself.
…
On the fifteenth day, George once again fell unconscious.
On the seventeenth day, George awoke again.
…
On the twentieth day—unconscious.
On the twenty-sixth day—unconscious.
On the thirtieth day—after feeding the last person, unconscious.
…
On the thirty-first day, it was now April, the season for planting wheat.
George awoke. His body was reduced to skin and bones; his eyes were sunken and vacant, his pale hair disheveled, and his whole being reeked strongly of blood. He looked like a frail old man at the very brink of life.
Marl sat beside him and said, “One thousand four hundred and twenty-seven people have drunk from the cup of your blood. The newly arrived batch of supplies includes a piece of burlap for each of them to cover their bodies, and enough wheat flour to make black bread for their journey to Lake Salvador, where they will settle.”
“News has come from York Territory that, after the port was built, the freight ship developed by the Monastery completed its trial voyage. That voyage was precisely to deliver the burlap and beast hides used to set up simple tents. A basic settlement is already being established there. Once you lead them over, they will have shelter from the wind and rain.”
“And your story has already been sung among the apprentices of the Monastery. In honor of you, they have named this model of freight ship the George.”
“The Bishop has sent me new orders via a white dove—I am to travel to the border with Knight Leo and Knight Vito. So I will not be able to accompany you on the southern road.”
Marl went on at length, while George only stared vacantly, making it unclear if he even heard.
“Knight Julian will stay, bringing his squires and warriors to protect you.”
Beside him, Knight Julian nodded, his eyes toward the bedridden George filled with respect.
He knew the cost. Not only had George been drained of enough blood in a month to fill a small pool, but he had also endured the tearing away of his will one thousand four hundred and twenty-seven times.
Julian didn’t know what it felt like to have one’s will torn away, but he knew what it felt like to lose blood. Puniel had told him that the pain of having one’s will torn was even more excruciating than any bodily wound.
The body could become numb to physical pain, but the rending of the will was the most direct agony—pain that reached into the depths of the soul. Each time a piece was torn away was like dying once, and unlike physical pain, the mind had no defense to adapt or block it out.
Marl stood, looked at Knight Julian, and said, “Then I leave the rest to you, Knight Julian.”
Julian inclined his head. “Rest assured.”
Marl added, “Puniel told me of your bravery in this battle. Once my tasks are done and I return to the Church, I will report your merits to the Bishop.”
Julian replied, “Thank you for your recognition.” He hesitated, then said, “If possible, I would like to go to York Territory as an ordinary man.”
Marl said, “I will discuss this with the Senators. You are, after all, a knight—Sir Belair’s knight. I came here with Puniel only to help him expel the werewolves. Now that they are gone, once Sir Belair’s territory is restored to order, we may leave—and Sir Belair will likely still need your aid.”
Hearing this, Julian could only nod.
From recent reports by those delivering supplies, Sir Belair had managed to get out of bed but soon broke all four limbs in an accident, and Puniel had no choice but to remain and oversee order.
Still, in law, Belair was the lord here, and Julian was his knight. To relinquish his title or leave for York Territory would require Belair’s permission.
After this, Marl left the tent.
Outside, the Church of the Sanctuary’s forces were assembled. Leo and Vito were at the front, followed by the Temple Warriors who guarded the Lord’s Throne.
Leo and Vito rode the warhorses gifted by Puniel, with a slightly weaker riding horse behind them.
Marl walked to this riding horse and mounted it.
“How is Knight George?” Vito couldn’t help but ask.
“Still alive,” Marl replied simply, glancing toward the wooden-fenced enclosure not far away, where over a thousand burlap-clad people wandered aimlessly.
Leo and Vito exchanged uneasy looks. For the past month, they had confessed in prayer every night to the Lord for their cowardice.
After the first day of bleeding George, they could no longer bear the psychological strain. On the second day, they did not dare enter his tent. Later, when it was their turn with Marl to deliver food, they saw him, hand still dripping blood, trembling as he cut open his other wrist, barely healed from before.
They had never felt so cowardly and sinful, and they could no longer bring themselves to see him again.
“Alright, we’ve delayed long enough. The Bishop’s white dove arrived five days ago,” Marl said.
…
At the former border between the marquisate and the Principality of Corlay—
Or rather, as it was now called, the border between the Nation of Werewolves and the Church Nation.
The land here had turned into a swamp.
The black soil was like a pool of thick liquid, bubbling from time to time.
Marl frowned, while the faces of Knights Leo and Vito openly showed disgust and revulsion.
Vito covered his mouth, fighting the urge to vomit, soothing his restless warhorse. “What a repulsive stench… I feel a visceral rejection of it.”
Leo, also pale, said, “Just looking at it feels like something is churning inside my head.”
Marl stared silently at the black mud, recalling what Alice had said about the Church Nation’s enemies—those heretics who worshipped Original Sin.
“This may be the filth of heresy—the existence of Original Sin,” he said.
“Original Sin?!” Both men froze, their hands instinctively going to their swords.
Marl explained to them what Alice had told him of the heretics in the Church Nation.
“So that’s it… these heretics…” Vito repeated the word. “Extremes opposed to the Holy Scriptures?”
“Whatever the name, the Church Nation may not yet be certain whether they are friend or foe, but these heretics are surely enemies we must cleanse,” Marl said, dismounting and stepping to the edge of the black swamp. He took a wooden tube from his hand.
Opening it, he poured out the Holy Water inside.
The Holy Water struck the black swamp with a hiss like cold water on red-hot iron, releasing faint smoke.
The swamp seemed to shudder, rippling like the surface of a lake.
Marl’s face changed; he quickly retreated several steps.
The black swamp was creeping toward his feet.
“This thing… it’s like it’s alive,” Marl muttered. “No… not necessarily alive. Perhaps… it has its own instincts.”
The warhorses grew more agitated, and Leo and Vito struggled to control them. Marl’s riding horse tried to bolt, and only the quick reaction of the Temple Warriors behind him stopped him from having to walk back.
Vito’s expression hardened. “You mean it’s still growing?”
Marl looked ahead—the swamp stretched out of sight.
“Yes… and it’s still absorbing nutrients to grow.” As he spoke, the black swamp, stimulated by the Holy Water, gradually calmed.
Vito asked, “Is it the work of those damned heretics?”
“I’m not sure,” Marl replied, walking back toward the cross, “but it’s likely the nutrients for this… dead land come from them.”
He used the term “dead land” deliberately.
He could feel that this black swamp was far more evil than the werewolves’ method of corrupting the land.
At least the werewolves’ corruption, according to Scholar Dennis of the Natural Discipline, could be restored after years of recovery. But Marl could feel that this black swamp had completely killed the earth vein of this land.
And the earth vein—an intangible, naturally formed channel of magic power tied to the land—if it could be described as “killed,” then this place had truly become a land of total desolation.
Just like what those mages south of York Territory had done.
Only, those mages used poison to pollute, while this black swamp used sin.