Chapter 75 A Short Poem

Countless deities were worshipped across the Aifala Continent, and many of their domains overlapped.

Unless someone had received a proper higher education or happened to be deeply interested in theology, an ordinary person would struggle to name every deity, much less explain each one’s divine portfolio.

That created an obvious problem.

People needed a simple way to tell one deity from another.

Something recognizable at a glance.

Something that could direct worship, spread belief, and strengthen a god’s influence without requiring theological study.

Thus, holy symbols came into being.

The [Maiden of Pain] Loviatar had her bloodied nine-tailed barbed whip.

The [Lord of Storms] Talos had his three diverging lightning bolts.

Every deity possessed a symbol that, to some degree, reflected the authority they wielded.

And the white human skull stamped onto the strange leather book represented…

[Lord of Bones].

[Reaper].

[Lord of the Dead].

“Myrkul.”

Alton muttered the name with open disgust.

Myrkul was one of the Dark Gods, a powerful deity who held dominion over the dead, decay, dusk, and several other domains.

Cruel and malicious, He delighted in spreading fear to every corner of the continent.

Almost every adult had experienced at least one nightmare involving a scythe-wielding Skeleton in a black hood or undead wandering through some dead and silent wilderness.

His believers encouraged that fear.

They often committed extreme, even brutal acts designed to make people fear and revere death, thereby expanding the influence of their church.

Myrkul’s sinister teachings, combined with the mind-corrupting power of the undead, also made Him a favored master among countless cultists.

And the cemetery keeper kneeling before them was clearly one of those people.

“I’ve spent my entire life in this cemetery.”

The old man’s shriveled face shone with fanaticism.

“I watched countless dead souls leave this world and enter His divine realm with my own eyes.”

“Then, on that night when the moonlight was dim, the merciful and mighty Lord left a gift for His most devout servant!”

The severed arm did not seem to hurt anymore.

At least, the cemetery keeper’s expression showed no sign that he could feel it.

Ingram frowned at the leather-bound book.

“Was this the only thing?”

“There was also the bone whistle containing the deity’s power.”

The cemetery keeper’s gaze suddenly shifted.

Straight to the malformed palm bone in Xia Nan’s hand.

Xia Nan kept his expression calm.

His heart, however, gave a small jolt.

[Seriously?]

[I thought this was just ordinary loot.]

[It actually has that kind of background?]

As though reading the concern on his face, Alton stood on tiptoe and patted Xia Nan’s shoulder.

“Relax.”

“At this old man’s level, he doesn’t even qualify as the lowest kind of cultist.”

He jerked his chin toward the guards.

“Two people grabbed him and he confessed everything before anyone even had to torture him. You call that devout?”

“How could someone like him receive a gift personally bestowed by a deity?”

Alton waved the concern away.

“Keep it. Sell it when you get back to the city. Nothing’s going to happen.”

The cemetery keeper exploded.

“You!”

His face flushed scarlet.

“How dare you!”

“How dare you belittle my devotion to the Lord!?”

Still kneeling, he pitched his body forward as though one more word from Alton would send him lunging at the halfling.

“Shut up!” Ingram barked.

The two guards immediately tightened their grips on the old man’s shoulders.

The cemetery keeper bowed his head at once.

Quiet as a quail.

Alton glanced at Xia Nan and pursed his lips.

“See?”

“I told you.”

Ingram, meanwhile, had already begun openly leafing through the leather-bound book.

He worshipped Sun God Amaunator, and holy light flowed within his body.

Ordinary undead power was not something he needed to fear.

Then his hand stopped.

He pinched the spine of the book between his fingers and turned it toward the cemetery keeper.

“What happened here?”

“Why are these pages missing?”

“My lord, I… I really don’t know!”

The cemetery keeper’s voice immediately became weak and shaky again.

“The night I heard someone knock, I opened the door and found the book lying on the ground outside.”

“It was already like this!”

His thin body started trembling once more.

The guards’ hands tightened on his shoulders.

The bandages around his severed arm were now soaked completely red.

Whatever fanaticism had filled him moments ago vanished under the pressure.

He no longer dared to ramble about divine gifts and sacred revelations.

Now he spoke in plain, frightened words.

The missing pages appeared to have contained the most important part of the strange leather-bound book.

What remained was a short poem written in faded, blurred handwriting.

Its structure was disjointed.

Its rhythm was practically nonexistent.

“The moonlight is pale, and the girl lies still;

The prostitute envies her beauty and removes her ring; the staggering sailor takes off her leather shoes;

The pickpocket steals her bracelet beneath the night, and her anklet rests upon the merchant’s scales; greed stains the gambler’s fingertips, and the pendant rolls away without a sound; the maimed old man cloaked in dusk cuts off her long hair;

The heretic in the wilderness digs into fresh earth and buries her with his own hands;

Sink into darkness, sleep forever.”

The poem was crude.

There did not seem to be any deeper meaning hidden in it.

But the wording was far too specific.

Ingram had already thrown himself fully into the case, and the connection struck him almost immediately.

“The prostitute. The sailor. The thief. The merchant…”

Those were the identities of the victims who had been attacked one after another.

More than that.

The objects mentioned in the poem corresponded exactly to the body parts each victim had lost.

One of the guards understood as well.

“So Tim has been following this order?”

“Not necessarily.”

Ingram’s expression turned thoughtful.

“But one thing is certain. He’s going to target people who match the remaining descriptions.”

The first was the gambler.

That alone was a problem.

The Bagful of Gold tavern saw people come and go every day. In one sense or another, nearly every customer inside could qualify as a gambler.

Ingram could not possibly protect everyone who had ever visited the tavern.

Stationing a few guards nearby was already the most he could realistically do.

Troublesome.

Then there was the heretic.

That was even worse.

On a continent where countless deities were worshipped, you could grab a random beggar off the roadside and discover that he was the nominal believer of some obscure god.

There was no way to narrow down the target.

As for the final description…

A maimed old man cloaked in dusk.

“There’s one right here.”

Xia Nan casually glanced at the cemetery keeper.

The meaning was obvious.

“Cloaked in dusk” fit a cemetery keeper who had come into contact with undead power.

“Maimed” fit even better.

Xia Nan had just cut off half his arm.

And as for “old man”…

That needed no explanation at all.

Ingram went still.

He looked at Xia Nan with clear surprise, apparently not expecting him to identify a fitting target so quickly.

After a brief hesitation, the sheriff nodded.

“Now that you mention it, he really does fit the description in the poem.”

“But…”

His expression turned serious.

“I had someone else in mind.”