Chapter 379: The Holy City V - The Cross |
Greed, cruelty, indifference, preying on the weak... The original sins of humanity are as old as time itself.
The people, blessed by their god's mercy, had only just settled in the Holy City when society fractured along lines of wealth. A class system emerged, and the old, the weak, the sick, and the disabled—those deemed incapable of creating value—were cast out to live in the East District.
A priest, who spent his years serving in the grand temple, carried a heavy heart for the common folk beyond its walls. One day, upon returning from the East District, he knelt before his god and spoke of the poverty and sorrow he had witnessed there.
Haunted by the tragic sights and frustrated by his own powerlessness, he could only turn to the merciful god in prayer. "O great and holy Lord," he pleaded, "can you not save these impoverished people? Can you not grant them the happiness of a new life?"
The weary god opened his eyes. From the boughs of the World Tree that draped beside his throne, he broke off a golden branch. "Take this piece of my power," he told the priest, "and turn it into sustenance for them."
The priest carried the god-given branch to the East District. Following the divine command, he plucked the golden leaves one by one and bestowed them upon those tormented by hunger and disease.
Men and women, young and old, bathed in the radiance of the holy Lord and consumed the leaves. The god's own power now flowed through their veins, soothing their sorrowful souls and banishing death from their bodies.
And so they became the people most like their god.
...
Only when the temple’s shadow had vanished completely behind them did Vader abruptly speak. "Asakura Yuko, let's form an alliance. I'm a guildless solo player, and as a member of the Listening Wind Guild, you're basically on your own in this instance. If we don't want to get taken out by some underhanded move from those bastards who queued up together, our only option is to unite."
Asakura Yuko wasn't surprised by Vader's proposal. The moment she had suggested exploring the East District, he had immediately declared he was going too. It was clear he'd been planning to team up with her.
But she didn't know the first thing about him, and as the holder of the Taboo Scholar card, she wasn't desperate for an ally. She maintained a neutral expression. "With Fu Jue here to keep order, it might not come to PvP," she said coolly. "When you put a group of top-ranked players in a competitive instance, no one can guarantee a kill on anyone else. Precedent suggests they'll likely favor a PvE approach to clear the instance."
Vader scoffed. "Fu Jue will be lucky if he can protect himself. This instance has leveled the playing field, and it's given us the 'heretic' mechanic—an easy way to kill. Not everyone can resist the temptation to slay a god."
"Then why approach me for an alliance?" Asakura Yuko asked, adjusting her glasses. "From what I can tell, you have far better options, whether you group by strength, nationality, or gender. Cooperating with Fu Jue directly would also be a perfectly viable choice."
"'Alliance' is just the polite term for it," Vader said, his smile turning into a predatory grin. "What I want is a teammate I can direct—someone to help me gather intel and vote with me when the time comes. Simple as that."
So Asakura Yuko understood. Vader thought she was a pushover, someone he could use as a tool...
She had always observed the world from a detached, bird's-eye perspective. To her, every type of person had a logical reason for their existence and was merely a subject to be studied.
So she felt no anger, only curiosity. She studied his expression and asked calmly, "How can you be certain we're on the same side? And how do you know I'm not a heretic, fully capable of killing you myself?"
Vader shrugged, utterly unconcerned. "What does it matter? If we kill everyone else, it ends in a draw even if we're on opposite teams. Nobody dies, we just get a smaller reward."
She had to admit, when faced with unknown allegiances and motives, simply eliminating everyone else was a clean and simple solution—if you had the power.
But that was the ideal scenario. Reality was rarely so straightforward.
Asakura Yuko considered this, then asked, "Can I refuse? I have a feeling that if it came down to just the two of us, you'd probably kill me for a bigger reward."
"Of course you can refuse," Vader said, his smile suddenly bright and boyish, like a friendly neighbor you'd meet in a sunlit hallway. "But let me ask you this: with your abilities, even if you avoid being killed by another player, do you really think you can survive the dangers of the instance itself without any help? I seem to recall you mentioning you were a non-combatant."
"Fine, I agree. On the condition that you guarantee my safety," Asakura Yuko conceded, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Just tell me what you need me to do in advance. And a piece of advice: don't show your bloodlust on day one, unless you want to be the first one to die tonight."
"I'm not an idiot. I don't need you to tell me that."
They spoke no more, continuing their walk. After leaving the temple, their clothes had reverted to black robes, allowing them to blend perfectly into the somber tone of the Holy City without attracting any attention.
Along the way, countless other black-robed believers milled about, their gazes never lingering on them. Everyone wore an expression of pure solemnity, but a closer look revealed a blank, vacant daze.
Turning a street corner, they saw a small square come into view. A massive, dark crowd clustered together, a sea of bobbing heads packed several layers deep in a tight circle, leaving only a small clearing in the middle.
They waited in silence, without a sound or a stir, as if some momentous ceremony was about to begin and they were all essential participants.
An elderly priest in white robes emerged from the crowd and stood in the center of the clearing. His face was more sinister than Priest Raki’s, his eyes as murky as a swamp.
He spread his arms and announced gravely, "During the recent collection, someone refused to give an offering to our great and holy Lord. Upon investigation, I discovered that he fell from grace last night and became a shameful heretic."
A mechanism in the ground was triggered. Movable marble slabs slid apart, and a black cross, twice the height of a man, slowly rose, stopping at an angle about half a meter high.
The priest raised his right hand and recited in a loud voice, "Let us pray for our brother, that his sins may be washed away, and that he be granted a pure and flawless new life..."
The crowd parted to form a path. A young man with brown hair, wrapped in a gray burial shroud, was shoved forward by two men in white robes and pushed into the center of the square.
The young man's eyes were wide with terror, and he shouted incoherently, "I'm not a heretic! I didn't refuse the offering! I was just scared..."
His voice was quickly swallowed by a tidal wave of noise from the crowd.
"Crucify him! Crucify the heretic!"
"It's because of him that the nights grow longer!"
"Crucify him! Appease the Lord's wrath!"
The believers' placid, serene expressions had vanished, replaced by faces contorted with righteous fury. They stared at the young man as if he were the sworn enemy who had murdered their families, as if only devouring his flesh could quell their hatred.
They all chanted the same words, repeating the sounds that were perfectly correct for the situation. The power of the collective was overwhelming, an avalanche of righteous fury. Every individual swept up within it felt a profound sense of security, even pride.
Asakura Yuko watched it all in silence, no stranger to such religious fanaticism.
The Balance Church, which she had served for six years, had held its own executions of heretics. She herself had once been one of those tied to the execution rack. Her own experience, combined with theoretical study, gave her a deeper understanding than most.
Six years ago, at twenty-two, she had been an intern journalist covering the conflict zones in Africa, where resistance forces were rampant. Along the way, she was captured by a group of Balance Church zealots.
The bearded believers, chattering in a local dialect, were preparing to execute her and her fellow travelers publicly as a bargaining chip to intimidate the Federation.
At the last moment, White Crow arrived. She rebuked the fanatical, stubborn believers, telling them that their true enemy was the Federation's ruling class, not innocent civilians.
From the first moment she saw White Crow, Asakura Yuko was captivated by the woman's gentle yet commanding presence. She realized that this so-called evil cult leader, so despised by the Federation, was not the monster of the rumors. On the contrary, her story deserved to be told, just as the public deserved to know the truth.
Before leaving for Africa, she had written in her diary: "The official narrative about the occupied zones is clearly filled with wild speculation and exaggeration. I want to see the truth for myself and, through my writing, leave a record for posterity to understand this chapter of history."
White Crow seemed to have read her mind. She smiled and said, "If you'd like to stay a while longer, find a place to settle in. I've brought a new shipment of supplies; we have more than enough food for one more."
So Asakura Yuko stayed. She helped with simple chores, taught the children in the Balance-occupied zone how to write, and spent most of her time observing and interviewing White Crow.
In that month, she learned the stories of many Balance members, hearing how they had all suffered countless injustices, how their families and their hopes had been ground to dust beneath the millstone of the "Federation."
She also came to understand White Crow's ideals. She learned that the current Federation was corrupt; foundations plundered the assets of the common people, corporations squeezed every drop of value from them, and a web of harsh decrees trapped them in their fates. None of it should have existed.
The world needed a revolution. The old order had to be rewritten. Every single person should be equal, regardless of wealth, gender, or nationality.
That day, Asakura Yuko donated all her assets to the Balance Church. White Crow, in turn, formally invited her to join.
Asakura Yuko spoke earnestly. "While I agree with your philosophy and hope you achieve everything you're fighting for, I am a staunch atheist. I have no intention of believing in an illusory god."
A sudden smile bloomed on White Crow's face. "After twenty-two years, perhaps I'm not as devout as you imagine. In my view, members of the Balance don't need to believe in a god. They only need to believe in 'Balance' itself."
The woman paused, her tone shifting to a lighthearted jest. "Besides, Yuko, didn't you want to write my biography? I'm still alive, you know. It won't be so easy to finish."
And so, she stayed, becoming a member of the "Balance" who did not believe in a god.
...
Now, in the center of the square, the young man condemned as a "heretic" had been tied to the cross.
His hoarse voice grew fainter, uselessly repeating, "I'm not... a heretic..."
Not a single onlooker was moved. They all watched the dying heretic with detached composure, maintaining a cruel indifference, as impartial as a jury in a courtroom.
The priest pointed at the young man on the cross and solemnly proclaimed, "He was tempted by the devil and believed the words of heretics. We shall now deliver his final judgment."
The believers erupted in cheers, their faces glowing with fervor. The irrational emotion spread like a virus, and every single person became a part of the grand performance.
A man in a white robe gripped a viciously long nail and hammered it into the youth's wrist. Blood and a piercing scream sprayed into the air.
Asakura Yuko heard the believers beside her gasp, and their shock quickly gave way to a fresh round of cheers.
One by one, long nails were driven into the young man's limbs. His screams grew weaker, drowned out by the boiling roar of the crowd.
As the final nail fell, the priest raised his hand. The tilted cross was cranked upright, standing tall and straight in the center of the square.
The conspicuous scaffold and the body upon it formed the square's most eye-catching landmark—bloody, yet sacred.
"We have executed the heretic!"
"Lord! Look upon us!"
The crowd's emotion reached a crescendo. They watched the execution of the heretic with rapt attention, their loud shouts a testament to their direct participation.
Asakura Yuko stood amidst the uproar, observing the farce with a calm that bordered on coldness.
This was an instance. Everything in an instance was fake. There was no need to care about an NPC's death.
Even if he were real, she wouldn't waste her sympathy now. Compassion for a single individual was useless in the face of systemic suffering.
As long as the rules of the world remained unchanged, saving any number of people was futile. All she could do was help White Crow achieve her ultimate ideal, no matter the cost, even if it meant staining her hands with blood.
The young man on the cross let out a helpless, despairing groan. The sound grew fainter and fainter until, at some point, it stopped altogether.
He was dead. His head slumped forward.
The judgment of the heretic was finally over. The believers began to disperse, flowing outwards like a tide receding from the shore.
Chaos was the perfect cover. Asakura Yuko quickly locked onto her target—a believer in a corner who seemed lost in thought.
She drew a short knife. Feigning a casual conversation, she moved toward him and, in one clean motion, pressed the blade against his neck.
The cold steel was hidden by the folds of his robe. From behind, they looked like the best of friends, one with an arm slung over the other's shoulder.
Asakura Yuko spoke in a low voice, her words clipped and sharp. "Come with me, or die."
Even Vader was stunned for a moment by her clean, professional act of thuggery. Until now, he had assumed she was the type of theorist who only knew how to fight battles on paper with a pile of clues.
You call this a "non-combatant"? Who pulls a knife at the drop of a hat? She was more decisive than a combat-focused player like him.
The unlucky believer was now being dragged by the collar into the shadows behind a marble building.
This believer had an utterly unremarkable face, the kind that always vanished in a crowd. He had only been standing on the street for a moment before Asakura Yuko had targeted him. It was truly a disaster that had fallen from the sky.
Looking at the trembling NPC, who was clutching at the waistband of his pants, Asakura Yuko pressed the blade a little deeper. Her voice, usually used for asking questions, was now calm and chilling. "What is your name?"
"F-Flor..." the believer stammered, his eyes darting about.
"Tell me the legends of the Holy Lord," Asakura Yuko said, her enunciation crisp and clear. "The dangers in the darkness, and the specific details of the doomsday prophecy. Tell me everything you know."
"You don't know these things... You're a heretic!" Flor looked as though he'd heard something unbelievable. His eyes widened in terror, and he opened his mouth to scream.
Asakura Yuko was prepared. She clamped one hand over his mouth and with the other, plunged the short knife deep into his left palm. Her voice, low and devoid of emotion, followed. "If you don't want to answer, the next one will go into your throat."