Chapter 337 : Unable to Write Lies
Chapter 337: Unable to Write Lies
The four figures appeared within the mysterious space inside the unknown colossal beast.
“These are—?” Oscar’s pupils trembled violently as he looked around the space filled with more than ten strange beings.
“The revived progenitors of the Dark Creatures,” Corleon said.
Oscar asked, “What are they doing?”
Corleon replied, “They are creating mythology.”
They could see those progenitor beings clutching a copy of the Holy Scriptures while lost in deep contemplation.
Some had spread their Holy Scriptures open in midair with their own power, pondering each word line by line.
Others, seemingly less intelligent, scratched their heads in confusion or punched themselves out of frustration when they couldn’t think of answers.
The three beside Oscar all found this scene rather eerie.
Dark Creatures, meticulously studying the Holy Scriptures?
“They can’t see us?” Melia asked.
Oscar let out a scoff.
Corleon answered, “We stand on the far side of time. They cannot perceive time—thus, they cannot perceive us.”
Melia gave an awkward laugh and dared not speak again.
Clearly, Oscar’s scoff had made her realize just how foolish her question had been.
Since she already had suspicions about Corleon’s true identity, as the Holy Scriptures described, this matter was not surprising at all.
Agamemnon asked, “Why would they do something like this—fabricating myths?”
Corleon said, “Because they want to survive.”
“To survive?” Agamemnon was startled.
Corleon asked, “Do you still remember the matter of Ando?”
Agamemnon nodded slightly.
“Before that incident occurred, I had a conversation with Marl. I had him transcribe it and place it within the Monastery—you must have read it,” Corleon said.
Agamemnon seemed to have understood a little.
“Marl said that what the Holy Scriptures define is the Great Order, and only when the Great Order is realized can the Heavenly Kingdom on Earth be attained. This is the vision of all believers of the Church,” Corleon continued, then asked, “And what do you think the Great Order should be?”
Agamemnon fell into thought.
Over the years, Agamemnon had become perhaps the most powerful man in York City—or even in all of Greenwood.
Power was like a ladder—it allowed Agamemnon to view matters from a higher perspective.
In his eyes, the simplest truth was this: up to now, Greenwood’s Great Order had been maintained solely by the power of the Church of the Sanctuary.
Under absolute power, nobles and gentry chose to act according to the Church’s will.
Beneath this Great Order existed the smaller orders of every region and noble territory.
However, Agamemnon knew that in unseen places, those nobles were far from obedient. The massive underground city—who knew what the nobles had turned it into? In villages without priests—who knew if the laws were truly followed? Even the buying of slaves—the Church would not forcibly demand their release, as they were considered private property of the nobles.
Only in villages with priests could the laws be barely upheld.
Yet even so, greed would eventually blind the gentry and officials again and again. Though many had been executed for such transgressions, after a while, new ones always appeared to repeat the same sins.
Agamemnon finally said, “It is the set of fundamental rules that can sustain stability.”
Corleon shook his head. “You should look higher.”
He raised his head slightly. Following his gaze, a seed appeared above the space.
The three looked up. Soon, the seed quivered, cracked open, and sprouted roots. A trunk grew, then branches, and from those branches, leaves began to unfurl.
The tree floated in the void, radiating a faint light. The Dark Beings below remained unaware.
Corleon said, “The Great Order is like this trunk, the smaller orders are the branches, and the leaves are the individuals.”
As he spoke, threads appeared beneath the roots. They connected to the root tips and began to draw the sap away. Cracks appeared on the trunk, the branches broke, and the leaves drifted down—the tree died.
The threads, unsatisfied, danced through the air, clutching at the fallen leaves.
Corleon said, “When the Great Order collapses, the small orders vanish, and individuals can only cling to existences outside of order.”
Oscar opened his mouth, wanting to ask whether those threads represented curses—but he could not speak.
Agamemnon replied, “And the existences outside of order—like the nobles and gentry?”
Corleon asked, “Then in your eyes, what is the trunk, and what are the branches?”
Agamemnon said, “The trunk is the Church, and the branches are the Senate.”
Corleon looked toward the direction where the threads drifted. There, another complete tree suddenly appeared.
Corleon pointed to it. “Then, do you believe that existences outside of order should cease to exist?”
Agamemnon hesitated.
He had seen how, after nobles and officials were killed, new ones always emerged. If there were no nobles or gentry at all, basic governance seemed impossible.
He realized his reasoning was flawed.
He said, “I am dull.”
Corleon said, “You are thinking only within the world you can see. You have seen the Frost Giant, and at that time, magic had not yet been released—it was merely awakening. Even then, with its raw strength alone, it could easily destroy half a barony. Given time, it could annihilate Greenwood, perhaps even the entire world.”
“When such an existence appears, the Senate, the nobles, the gentry, the commoners—all will perish alike. At that time, the Great Order in your eyes will instantly collapse.”
As his words fell, the complete tree shattered into countless glowing fragments.
Agamemnon roughly understood what Corleon meant by the Great Order, but still looked dazed. “I am dull. All I can see is Greenwood.”
Corleon said, “That which you cannot see is what truly exists outside of order. Without them, regardless of who is trunk, branch, or leaf, the tree will continue to exist—whether flourishing or withering—but it will not suddenly collapse. Only then can it be called a tree.”
The glowing fragments gathered into a green sphere of light.
Agamemnon said, “So, those outside of order should be cleansed.”
Corleon pointed toward the strange beings below. “They are the ones beyond order. Each one of them could destroy Greenwood.”
Agamemnon hesitated. Those beings still lived, and he did not believe Corleon incapable of erasing them.
He recalled Corleon’s words—look higher.
He looked toward the green light sphere, and as if sensing his thought, it sprouted once more, growing into a tree.
Agamemnon said, “If the trunk represents the world, and the leaves represent Greenwood, then those beyond the rules should become the branches of this world.”
After saying so, Agamemnon looked down at the strange beings flipping through the Holy Scriptures. He seemed to understand now why they were desperately studying it—as Corleon had said, they wished to survive.
Agamemnon said in a complex tone, “So, what they want now is to make themselves a part of the Great Order—and that Great Order is what Marl once spoke of: the Holy Scriptures.”
Oscar suddenly found himself able to speak again. He didn’t ask about the “curse” anymore, but instead said, “Then—can they succeed?”
Corleon did not answer. Agamemnon did, his voice heavy. “They have already succeeded. Otherwise, they would not still exist here.”
Oscar froze, glancing at Corleon, and suddenly shuddered.
He thought of the underground city beneath York Territory—where nobles bred Dark Creatures like livestock.
Then what of the Church’s future?
Oscar felt a creeping dread so great he dared not ask further.
Before him, the complete tree slowly faded. Corleon gazed at the one bound only by threads.
He said, “The Church must spread the Lord’s Teachings, ensuring all things in the world know of the Order and abide by it. Those who defy the Order shall be punished.”
As he spoke, the threads clutching the leaves snapped and vanished. The remnants of branches and leaves merged into a new tree.
“Thus, the world gains its Great Order.”
Agamemnon swallowed dryly. “And this Great Order—is the Holy Scriptures.”
Corleon said, “I, as the Pope, shall convey the Lord’s Words—this shall be the Lord’s New Covenant.”
As his voice fell, the tree dissipated.
Agamemnon’s face turned slightly pale.
Melia wrapped her arm around Agamemnon’s shoulder and patted him lightly.
She sounded strained, but she could feel that this was an important matter—so important that the always composed Agamemnon was showing a panic like that of a child who had lost the care of his parents, just as she once did when she lost her grandfather.
Melia’s comforting barely managed to calm Agamemnon. He asked, “Then what about the previous Holy Scriptures?”
Oscar said, “That was the Holy Scriptures written during the time of the curse—it naturally no longer applies now.”
As he spoke, he glanced at Corleon and added, “That should be the covenant from the old days, the pact between the Lord and man—it should be called the Old Covenant.”
Agamemnon fell silent, the unease within him slowly subsiding.
Corleon did not respond directly, but instead began to speak.
“In the beginning, the world was nothing.”
“And the Lord created the world.”
“The Lord said, ‘Let there be light,’ and thus there was the first light of the world—the Sun.”
As he spoke, a small point of light appeared before the three of them.
Corleon continued, “The Lord said, ‘Where there is light, there must also be darkness,’ and thus the Moon came to be.”
Within that light point seemed to rest a hidden moon.
“The Lord said, ‘The Sun and Moon shall alternate,’ and thus came time and space. Every alternation between the Sun and Moon would be a day, and wherever the light shone would be the place of the world.”
The Moon separated from the Sun, orbiting it, while the Sun’s light grew ever brighter, its body ever larger.
“The Lord said, ‘From the rotation of the Sun and Moon, from the meeting of time and space, there shall come order. From this order were born earth, flame, storm, and water, forming the foundation of the world—and thus, life began to stir.’”
The scope of the Sun and Moon’s orbit expanded, and within their dance emerged a silent sphere—endless land and endless sea. Fierce winds swept the heavens, and volcanoes erupted from the earth.
“The Lord said, ‘Life is conceived and will one day meet death, just as the world itself shall perish when order collapses—and this is fate.’”
“Born through order, destroyed through the collapse of order.”
Agamemnon stared intently at the ever-evolving sphere.
Melia felt a strange sense of wonder.
Oscar was trembling all over. He wanted to remember everything, yet he thought of what Corleon had told them before—the creation of the Twelve Pillar Gods. The words now were the same, only with the addition of “The Lord said.”
His mind flashed back to when he met Nyx, and to what Nyx had told him about rewriting reality.
And now, this reality seemed rewritten from its very root.
Oscar felt as if he was hearing something even more terrifying.
He wanted to cover his ears, to block out those words—but he wasn’t foolish enough to do such a thing.
The three of them wore different expressions. Corleon finally sighed and said, “This is Genesis.”
The evolving vision of creation faded away. None of them dared to speak, yet they still had not returned to the Monastery.
Oscar could no longer hold himself back. Pointing downward, he asked, “Then what about what they are doing now? That’s not the New Covenant You have written.”
Corleon said, “I am the Pope of the Church of the Sanctuary. The Church of the Sanctuary is the dwelling of the Lord’s human believers and the gospel bestowed upon mankind—it is the Lord’s sanctuary within the hearts of mortals. Therefore, the New Covenant I have written is naturally the Words the Lord has delivered to mankind.”
Oscar asked, “So what they are writing—will that be another covenant? Or do they, too, hear the Lord’s Words?”
Corleon said, “Would you like to stay and see the result?”
Oscar forced a faint smile.
Those beings below might look foolish now, but they were still the progenitors of alien races.
Olivia had once fought against the Progenitor of Vampires—and even she had admitted that being was at least Tier Seven.
Oscar himself was only Tier Four.
Wait—
Oscar suddenly realized something. Normally, staring directly at such beings would crush one’s will. Yet now, he could gaze upon them freely.
He recalled how Corleon had redefined the laws in the Hall of Heroes and suddenly felt relieved.
If he could look upon these progenitor bodies directly, then perhaps he could dissect and study them, right?
At least, he wouldn’t have to hide beneath a cross as he once did when healing Knight Wolf, for fear of contamination by even a mere Tier Five mystery.
Right—Oscar suddenly remembered something and asked, “Can Knight Wolf enter the Hall of Heroes? By the standard You just mentioned, he should qualify, right?”
Corleon repeated, “Heroes are those who, in life, left behind deeds worth remembering. They will leave their marks upon human history, and reciting their stories is akin to wandering through humanity’s own history.”
Then, the four of them vanished from the mysterious space.
Three figures reappeared in the Monastery, inside Oscar’s office. Corleon had already returned to the Clock Tower.
Oscar looked at the heavy-faced Agamemnon and asked, “So—is the answer yes or no?”
“Of course not,” Agamemnon said, then walked out together with Melia. “Now, there’s no one left to tell Knight Wolf’s story.”
Oscar suddenly understood.
So the other conditions were met—it was only the act of remembrance that was missing.
Indeed, in the flourishing Greenwood City of today, hardly anyone would speak of such a butcher’s tale. After all, Knight Wolf had slain many innocent civilians—something the Church despised.
Still, Oscar thought that perhaps his troupe of bard apprentices had found a new story to tell.
The pen was in his hand; the mouths were on the bards’ faces. What the listeners heard was up to him, wasn’t it?
Wait—by that logic, couldn’t one elevate someone to the Hall of Heroes through storytelling alone?!
Oscar’s eyes shone.
He immediately grabbed a pen, opened his large magical tome, and began to write down his inspiration.
But he found himself unable to write a single word.
A bad feeling rose within him.
Trembling, he muttered, “It must be the pen…”
He changed pens and tried again—still nothing.
He switched to a second, a third…
By the tenth pen, he finally gave up and tried writing his own name—“Oscar.”
Still, nothing appeared.
Then, his hands shaking, he wrote his true name.
The ink flowed smoothly. The black letters mocked him silently.
Oscar sat lifelessly in his chair, as though all color had drained from his world.
He could no longer write lies.