Chapter 449 - 415: Conversion

Chapter 449: Chapter 415: Conversion

The stone walls of the prayer room were cold and damp.

THWACK.

The whip lashed against his spine, landing with a muffled thud.

’It isn’t as painful as I’d imagined.’

Fabian knelt before the statue, his bare torso covered in a crisscrossing web of bloody welts. A mixture of sweat and blood slid down his spine, dripping onto an open letter on the floor and blurring the ink.

Estimated three thousand deaths.

Sales of Holy Water up by forty percent.

Every word on that letter had become a red-hot branding iron, searing his mind.

THWACK.

Another lash. Droplets of blood flew, splattering onto the statue’s cold instep.

Fabian tossed the whip aside and collapsed to the floor. He lifted his head, staring at the merciful face of the God of Holy Radiance.

Carved from stone.

All of it carved from stone.

No matter if a believer knelt until their knees were raw or kowtowed until their forehead was broken, this stone would not shed a single tear.

"Why..."

Fabian clawed at his hair, his nails digging into his scalp. "Tell me... is this the light?"

Only echoes ricocheted off the four walls.

CREAK.

The heavy wooden door was pushed open.

A sliver of light cut in, somewhat blinding.

Fabian instinctively curled into a ball, trying to hide the ugly scars on his body.

"No need to hide."

The voice was gentle, like flowing spring water.

Elias walked in. This young Priest of the True Origin Sect wasn’t wearing the elaborate robes of a Priest, but rather a simple linen tunic. He held a thin, hand-copied book in his hands.

He walked over to Fabian and squatted down.

Unbothered by the blood and filth on the floor, Elias took a clean handkerchief from his robes and wiped the cold sweat from Fabian’s brow.

"Does it hurt?" Elias asked.

Fabian gave a bitter laugh, his voice as hoarse as if he had swallowed a handful of sand.

"This is penance... I am washing away my sins..."

"You can’t wash away blood with blood."

Elias placed the hand-copied book on Fabian’s lap. The cover was rough, and he could even smell the fresh ink.

"God isn’t in the heavens; He doesn’t need you to please Him with pain." Elias pointed to his own chest. "The True Origin is in the bloodline. Faith is in the heart."

Fabian was stunned.

He looked at the young Priest. The other man’s eyes held no condescending pity, only peace.

A kind of peace he had never seen in the eyes of the bishops at the grand cathedral.

"Stop wasting your breath on him, Elias."

Another voice rang out.

Mateo was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. The former scribe adjusted the monocle on his nose, the lens flashing and hiding the emotion in his eyes.

"This guy has been locked in here for ten hours. If self-torture could solve problems, what would we need armies for?"

Mateo walked up to the two of them, looking down at Fabian.

"You think you’re dirty?"

Fabian lowered his head, his body trembling.

"Then go and kill the people who made you dirty."

Mateo’s voice was cold, yet it carried a strange, incendiary power.

"Instead of weeping in front of a piece of rock, you should become a fire. Burn all those insects hiding under their magnificent robes, counting their Gold Coins and drinking the blood of the people."

"Burn... them..."

Fabian muttered to himself.

He reached out a trembling hand and opened the book on his lap.

The first page had only a single line of text.

—"The True Origin is the only foundation; the bloodline is its own proof."

There were no complicated ritual requirements, no strict hierarchical divisions.

Between the lines, there was only a primal reverence for life and a resolute will to resist all shackles.

As Fabian read, tears streamed down his face.

Not from pain.

But from relief.

The giant stone that had weighed on his heart for thirty years, the shackle known as "original sin," shattered in that moment.

’So I don’t need to atone.’

’I just need revenge.’

...

「Dawn.」

The fog over Minas Tirith had not yet lifted.

In the study of the Lord’s Mansion, candles burned brightly.

Velin sat in a high-backed chair, twirling a quill pen in his hand. Tristan stood by the window, holding a freshly delivered morning paper.

KNOCK KNOCK.

"Enter."

The door opened.

Fabian walked in.

He had shaved his head. The white robe that symbolized his status as a church deacon was gone, replaced by a dusty, coarse-spun tunic.

It was the attire of an ascetic monk.

But he was not barefoot. He wore a pair of sturdy leather boots—the kind of footwear for someone preparing for a long journey.

Fabian walked to the desk.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees.

THUD.

His forehead struck the floor heavily.

"The sinner Fabian, pays his respects to the Lord."

His voice no longer trembled, but held the resolve of a man who had died and been reborn.

Velin stopped twirling his pen and looked at the man prostrate on the floor.

"You’ve figured things out?"

"Yes."

Fabian raised his upper body, took a roll of parchment from his tunic, and held it high above his head with both hands.

"This is my resolve."

Tristan walked over, took the parchment, and unrolled it for a glance.

The ever-impassive Civil Servant raised an eyebrow.

"Whoa... this is a long list."

Tristan handed the list to Velin.

It was covered in densely packed names.

It not only listed the secret contact points for the church in several surrounding Baronies, but even the code phrases for liaisons that only insiders would know.

This wasn’t just a list.

This was a plan to uproot the Holy Radiance Church’s foundations in the entire region.

"I want to know why," Velin said, placing the list on the desk and tapping his fingers on its surface. "Betraying your faith can’t feel good, can it?"

"I haven’t betrayed my faith."

Fabian looked up.

In his eyes, once always filled with fear and confusion, two spectral flames now burned.

"I’ve just... found the true god."

He pulled a pendant from his collar.

It wasn’t a cross.

It was a teardrop-shaped pendant wrapped in iron wire, pointing downward—the emblem of the True Origin Sect. Though crudely made, Elias had stayed up all night to make it for him.

"From this day forward, there is no more Deacon Fabian."

Fabian’s voice was low.

"There is only Fabian, the Law Holder of the True Origin Sect."

Velin stared at him for three seconds.

Then, he smiled.

"Very good."

Velin stood up, walked over to Fabian, and helped him to his feet.

"Since you’re one of us now, there’s no need to kneel."

Velin brushed the dust from Fabian’s shoulder, his gaze traveling past him to the messengers outside the window, who were already poised for action.

"Go. Tristan will coordinate with you to dispatch the sealed letters to all the territories of the Pan-Gray Sea Alliance. I want not a single church rat left in these lands."

"As you command." Fabian performed a standard monastic bow, turned, and left. His departing figure was like a newly drawn blade.

As a dozen swift horses galloped away, a joint purge against the church and hostile forces erupted simultaneously throughout the Pan-Gray Sea Alliance, with the White Tower Territory at its center.

There were no public trials, only a chilling, methodical hunt.

The list became a death warrant. Whether it was a dockworker, a tavern owner, or an old woman selling flowers on a street corner, spies who had lain dormant for years were uprooted. The intelligence network that Marquis Hector and the church had infiltrated into the Western Territory was paralyzed in an instant.

Under this lightning-fast campaign, barely one in ten of the spies who had once riddled the territory remained.

By the time the "Decree of Religious Freedom" was posted on every street and alley, Velin had completely blinded his enemies.

—"Whether one believes in the True Origin, the Holy Radiance, or the spirits of nature, all who abide by the laws of the territory shall be protected."

This seemingly fair decree was, in fact, a ruthless move.

It stripped the church of its right to be the "sole orthodox" faith.

Meanwhile, in the shadows, the tendrils of the True Origin Sect began to grow wildly.

With Fabian, the "insider," leading the way, and with the backing of Velin’s official resources, the True Origin Sect, which had previously operated only underground, rapidly established public strongholds.

The poor who had been exploited by the church, and the "bloodless"—those who yearned for power but had no access to it—flocked to them.

A vast intelligence network, centered on Minas Tirith, began to radiate outward.

...

「Three days later.」

The training ground.

CLANG!

A greatsword and a dagger collided.

Sparks flew.

Ola slid back three steps, his combat boots plowing two deep grooves in the sand.

The dust had not yet settled.

Ola looked down at the two-handed greatsword in his hands.

This weapon, named "Rockbreaker," was forged from high-purity steel mixed with trace amounts of Mithril. It weighed eighty pounds, enough to sever the leg of a heavy cavalry horse.

But now, a notch the size of a grain of rice had appeared on its thick spine.

It was a clean cut.

As if something incredibly sharp had nonchalantly sliced off a piece of butter.

"Damn it."

Ola cursed, spitting sand from his mouth. He looked up at the small figure a few meters away.

Xiaolan stood there.

She wasn’t in a defensive stance. Her hands hung at her sides, the dagger named "Silence" spinning unconsciously between her fingertips.

No killing intent.

He couldn’t even hear her breathe.

But the hairs on the back of Ola’s neck stood on end.

In that single instant, he had felt a pure, unreasoning sense of "finality." Not that he would be wounded, nor that he would be defeated, but that if he hadn’t retreated those three steps, both his sword and the wrist holding it would have been severed.

"Hey! Girl!"

Ola drove his greatsword into the ground, making it tremble. "What are you spacing out for? Again!"

No reaction.

Xiaolan was still staring at a point on Ola’s chest—or rather, she was looking through him at something in the void.

Her pupils were unfocused, containing only a vast emptiness.

"Stop."

Kael’s voice came from the edge of the field.

He hopped down from a weapon rack, the hem of his black trench coat flaring up and then settling.

"That’s enough for today."

Kael walked between them and placed his good right hand on Xiaolan’s shoulder.

She felt cold to the touch.

Like pressing on a piece of cold marble.

Xiaolan shuddered violently. The emptiness in her eyes quickly faded, and they refocused. She looked blankly at Kael, then at the frustrated Ola.

"Kael... Teacher?"

"Go rest." Kael withdrew his hand and pointed to the rest area. "Drink some hot water."

Xiaolan nodded obediently, sheathed her dagger, and walked away with her head bowed like a child who had done something wrong.

"I’m telling you, what’s with her?"

Ola pulled out his greatsword, looking annoyed. "We just finished warming up and she’s gone? That girl’s been like a zombie lately, just zoning out in the middle of a fight."

"She’s not zoning out."

Kael watched Xiaolan’s retreating back as he took out a half-finished wood carving and a carving knife from his coat.

"She’s looking for a door."

"A door?" Ola scratched his messy beard. "What door?"

"The Gate of Ascension."

The carving knife in Kael’s hand shaved off a thin curl of wood. "She saw it once, with Adam. Now, she wants to squeeze through that door before it closes."

Ola froze for a moment, then sucked in a sharp breath.

"You mean... Level 5?"

Kael didn’t answer, but the carving knife in his hand paused for a moment.

Level 5.

The watershed moment that separates a Low Tier Extraordinary from a Middle Tier Extraordinary.

Cross it, and you become a different species altogether.