Chapter 366: What Was Seen on the Holy Spirit Plains

At Rockhold Fortress, Priest Light held vivid memories—not because of the fortress’s unique geography or its storied past, but because his childhood was spent in a nearby town just north of the stronghold.

Back then, he was an orphan with no parents, taken in as a lowly helper by the abbot of a small monastery north of the fortress. Those few years at the monastery were the calmest and most comfortable days of his life. Though he had not yet awakened his Holy Light gift, nor become the revered “Ascendant” that ordinary people feared, the old abbot was still alive then.

Rockhold Fortress itself was a massive city, but it couldn’t sustain itself. Many of its supplies came from surrounding towns and villages. The monastery where Light lived was responsible for providing the knights stationed at the fortress with holy water, sacred oils, and protective charms. At the end of each month, Light would accompany the old abbot on a creaky horse-drawn cart, traveling from the town to the fortress to deliver these sacred items to the fortress commander.

The fortress was filled with fierce knights and combative soldiers, yet they treated the monastery’s people with courtesy. On delivery days, Light would wander beneath the fortress walls in the lower district, slipping between the dark battlements lined with gleaming copper strips. The catapults mounted on the walls fascinated him the most.

But those days didn’t last long. The old abbot was reassigned to the central region of the Holy Spirit Plains, and Light followed. A few years later, the abbot passed away, a new abbot took over, and Light became a priest, joining the clergy of the central diocese. More than a decade passed in the blink of an eye.

The next time Light saw Rockhold Fortress was two years ago. He had been kicked out of the church by the bishop of the central diocese and was traveling south along the banks of the Dorgon River. The boy who had once been a lowly helper had become a missionary priest, returning to this place in his clerical robes.

That visit was brief. Though the city held many memories, familiar faces had nearly all vanished. Even the once formidable and feared fortress commander had left years ago due to old injuries. So Light only stopped long enough to restock food and water before heading into the wild, untamed lands of the southern territories.

He hadn’t expected to return here so soon—just two years later.

At the checkpoint before entering the city, he saw two long lines of civilians: one queue moving into the city for inspection, the other exiting. Most were merchants driving large wagons, accompanied by armored mercenaries and adventurers wielding swords. Only a few ordinary townsfolk were mixed in. In this era, it was rare for commoners to obtain noble-issued travel permits. Aside from the large, steady stream of immigrants from the Cecil domain, few ordinary people undertook long journeys.

Light patiently waited in line. When it was finally his turn, he stopped at the desk where names were recorded and travel documents checked. Pulling out his papers, he greeted the soldier behind the desk with a calm, “May the Holy Light protect you.”

The soldier, dozing off, suddenly snapped awake as a large shadow loomed over him. Hearing the deep voice say “May the Holy Light protect you,” he looked up to see a man stronger than his own commander standing before him. The man wore a worn priest’s robe and produced two documents—one bearing the Holy Light Church’s seal, confirming his clerical status, and the other a noble’s travel permit.

The soldier instantly sobered, efficiently taking the papers and greeting him with a respectful, “Holy Light protect you, Father. You actually didn’t need to queue.”

Though the priest’s robe was a bit shabby, a priest was a priest—an Ascendant, a superior being, and a representative of the currently powerful Holy Light Church. He dared not be rude.

“We’re all in line,” Light smiled gently. “There are a lot of people. I don’t remember it ever being this crowded here.”

“Ah, that was last year. This year’s different,” the soldier shook his head. “A bunch of merchants have started trading potions between the Holy Spirit Plains and the southern lands. Plus, many bankrupt farmers, hearing some rumor or other, are trying to make a living down south. Lots of merchants carry travel permits signed by the Grant Duke, tasked with transporting these people. See those wagons with three bundles of straw hanging from them? Those are the ones headed to the Whitespring River docks…”

Light blinked, feeling a pang of realization: even here, the lord’s actions had such a profound impact.

As they spoke, the soldier finished inspecting Light’s clerical credentials and noticed the seal on the travel permit. His expression shifted oddly.

“Another one with the Duke Cecil’s seal…”

Light asked curiously, “Is there a problem?”

“Oh, no problem at all. That’s the Duke’s mark—can’t be an issue,” the soldier hurriedly replied, then awkwardly explained, “It’s just that half the permits we see these days bear Cecil’s emblem…”

“Settling new lands always requires people and supplies,” Light said calmly. “It’s just that no new settlements have appeared in years, so people have forgotten.”

“Doesn’t concern us,” the soldier muttered, handing back the documents. “You’re clear to enter, Father.”

Light pocketed the papers and turned toward the heavy gates, still etched in his memory—black steel reinforced with copper bands.

Passing through the deep gates and the fortress’s sturdy first and second walls, he entered Rockhold’s inner city.

As a massive fortress, Rockhold was more than a military installation. It was the key checkpoint between the southern lands and the Holy Spirit Plains, a hub for merchants and travelers to rest and gather. To support nearly ten thousand soldiers, knights, and mages stationed there, the fortress’s interior was a fully equipped, bustling city.

The city hadn’t changed much.

Walking its streets, hazy childhood memories sharpened against the familiar scenes. He spotted his favorite bakery from those delivery days—eight copper coins in his pocket was just enough to buy a cheap cake or sweet biscuit. He saw the greasy “Slaughter Square,” with its tall wooden rack at the edge, used to lash thieves and deserters. But since the southern lands had been peaceful for so long, serving in the fortress was a comfortable post, and the rack’s main use was for punishing thieves.

Almost every month, a thief would be tied up, hands bound, and whipped until raw. The fortress’s residents and many soldiers considered watching these punishments a favorite pastime. Light also remembered that on the second rest day of the Fire Month, the city held a festival celebrating its founding. The highlight was whipping the first thief caught that month for an hour.

If no thief was caught, a slave chosen by lottery would take their place.

Slave owners were eager to send their slaves for this punishment—it was a matter of pride. More importantly, the fortress commander compensated them financially. If a slave died during the whipping, the compensation was enough to buy two healthy new slaves. Some slave owners treated the Fire Month festival like a lottery and even bribed the soldiers who administered the lashes.

These memories surfaced unbidden, and Light frowned deeply.

He had once thought this barbaric, cruel—but never before had he felt it so full of sin.

Having seen so many serfs, slaves, and laborers in the Cecil domain work hard and earn their freedom, owning homes and property, even learning to read and write—becoming equal “Cecil citizens”—he found it hard to accept these so-called “refined entertainments of civilized society” in the central region.

And this city, unchanged for decades, even a century.

Not a single new building in sight.

Light shook his head and turned away from Slaughter Square, losing all desire to linger or rest in this city.

He replenished his supplies—dry rations, fresh water, and some long-lasting beer—and quickly left Rockhold Fortress. Passing through the northern gate, he officially stepped onto the Holy Spirit Plains.

He walked through the wilderness outside the city for a long time, traveling all day until, just before sunset, he spotted a small village.

Glancing at the fading light, Light decided to rest there. His funds were low, but villagers rarely refused shelter to a priest. He could even chop wood in exchange for a meal—much cheaper than staying in a city.

He entered the village, walking along the rutted, muddy road, flanked by low, dilapidated huts and wooden houses. After finding out where the village leader was, he headed in that direction.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted behind him, causing Light to stop.

Turning around, he saw pedestrians scattering on the muddy road. Two armored soldiers were dragging a man out of a nearby house by his arm and hair. A woman in a tattered dress ran out, crying and falling to her knees at the soldiers’ feet. Behind them stood a priest in clerical robes, wearing a white, gold-trimmed soft hat—the Holy Light priest clearly in charge.

Light immediately stepped forward.

“What’s going on?” he asked the robed priest, frowning. “What crime has this man committed?”

The woman on her knees, seeing another priest arrive, cried out louder, “Sir! We truly don’t worship any evil gods! That’s just an old ledger—”

The woman’s cries abruptly ceased as a divine decree—a silent holy spell—descended upon her. She could only gape in shock, clutching her throat desperately. The priest who had cast the spell, a cleric of the Holy Light, withdrew his hand and glanced at Leight with a hint of curiosity. After confirming that Leight was a fellow church member, he spoke: “Brother, this isn’t your concern—I suspect this family is involved with dark sorcery.”

The man being dragged across the ground by two soldiers muttered weakly, “There’s really nothing… nothing at all…”

Leight frowned, watching the scene unfold, and addressed the priest with as much patience as he could muster. “What evidence do you have?”

The priest held up an old, worn book. “We found this in his home. It’s proof of contact with profane knowledge.”

The man on the ground began to sob. “That’s just an old ledger… I was only trying to teach my wife to read a few words…”

Before he could finish, a soldier kicked him hard, silencing him with a spray of blood and spit. Pressing his boot against the man’s head, the soldier barked, “No spreading heresy! What use is literacy to common folk? How could a peasant’s home possibly contain books?”

The priest nodded grimly. “A peasant’s possession of books is a dangerous sign. Such books are likely planted by demons. Even if the text appears normal, blasphemous knowledge hides between the lines. Illiterate peasants don’t read the words—they hear the devil’s voice.” He traced the symbol of the Holy Light over his chest, his expression grave. “This is the warning issued by Bishop Megor.”

(End of chapter)