Chapter 375: Gathering in the Shadows
The church—the very church he had built with his own hands.
When Light set out on his journey, he never imagined he would return here so soon. Nor did he expect that upon his return, he would lose the favor of the Holy Light and become an ordinary man.
Losing his extraordinary powers, losing his status as a transcendent—this, to Light, was not the worst blow. Power was merely a tool; before he obtained it, he had lived twenty years as a commoner. He had never been overly attached to his transcendent identity. But losing his affinity with the Holy Light left him deeply disheartened.
He stood quietly before the simple church for a long time, gazing up at the small tower and spire silhouetted against the blazing sun, like a sharp sword piercing the sky—like the first holy light that, according to legend, had once cut through the darkness in ancient times to guide humanity. Finally, he sighed softly and stepped forward to open the church door.
The lord’s words echoed deeply in his mind. Light knew those words were reasonable and worthy of reflection. Yet he also understood where his true problem lay—he had never doubted his resolve or actions in following the path of the Holy Light. That had never wavered.
What truly shook him was seeing those who had almost completely forsaken the Holy Light still wielding those sacred powers.
The Lord of the Holy Light… could He really not see all this?
That rebellious thought surfaced again in Light’s mind. The moment it did, his spirit trembled; a faint, elusive sting prickled his brain, and a distant, vague, chaotic whisper echoed in his ears. The whisper seemed to contain infinite truth and compassion, but Light could neither make out its meaning nor grasp it—instead, he distinctly felt the whisper drifting further and further away.
The brief sting and daze passed quickly. Light felt the holy power within him weaken a little more.
“Dare I doubt the Lord…” the tall priest muttered softly, stepping slowly into the church’s prayer hall. He sat down in the front row, glanced up at the statue ahead—the blurred visage of the Lord of the Holy Light standing on the pulpit, bathed in a hazy glow from the sunlight streaming through the skylight—and then bowed his head in silent prayer.
Halfway through his prayer, Light opened his eyes. Sensing someone approaching, he stood and turned to look.
A broad-shouldered, stout middle-aged woman in coarse cloth hesitated as she came forward. She was one of the regular worshippers. Seeing Light finish praying, she stopped tiptoeing and strode up boldly, greeting him in a loud, cheerful voice: “I saw the door open—Pastor, when did you get back?”
“Just a little while ago,” Light replied gently, looking at the woman who often came to pray, “Do you need any help?”
“Oh, no, I just heard you were back and came to see you—everyone’s been missing you,” the woman laughed. “Now that you’re back, will the weekly service still be held as usual? I need to tell everyone.”
Leading the congregation to feel the Holy Light was part of holding the service. Light couldn’t help but frown, apologetic: “I… I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well lately. I probably won’t be able to lead the service…”
The woman didn’t mind at all, waving her hand carelessly. “Oh, that’s fine. I’ll just tell everyone the service is canceled.”
Then, with a curious glance and a hint of concern, she asked, “Pastor, did you catch a cold outside? I heard the snow north of Rock Fortress hasn’t melted yet. Did you get chilled out there?”
A simple farmer woman, she probably couldn’t understand the concept of shaken faith or turning away from the Holy Light. She only guessed Light’s condition based on her own understanding. Hearing her concern, Light fell silent for a moment.
After a pause, the sole pastor of the territory shook his head slightly. “I’m fine. I think I can still lead the service—please tell everyone the weekly service will go on as usual.”
“Really?” The woman sized him up. “Pastor, don’t push yourself. You’re strong, but even the strongest can’t fight off illness.”
“Thank you for your concern,” Light smiled, as if setting down a burden. “It’s just a minor issue. No need to worry.”
For ordinary folk, faith in the Holy Light was never so complicated or lofty. When they prayed in the church, they never sought transcendent power. What they wanted was simply peace of mind—a moment of calm amid their busy lives.
No matter what the clergy believed the power of faith meant, to these common people, its greatest role was as a spiritual refuge.
Perhaps Light, as a pastor, had lost the ability to feel the Holy Light or wield divine magic. But at least, he still had the power to grant these people a few hours of peace.
In the grand reception hall of Count Hosman’s estate—adorned with lavish gold and silver decorations, thick velvet carpets, and brightly lit by magic crystal lamps—Count Karlof Hosman sat in his favorite high-backed chair. Listening to his most trusted intelligence advisor relay information, his face twisted into a complex expression—a mixture of disdain and deep confusion.
The count set down a ruby ornament he had been toying with and said with a strange smile, “He revoked all noble privileges within his domain—even those of the Cecil family themselves—and then set up a ‘Bureau of Administration,’ putting a bunch of lowborn people in charge?”
“Yes, that’s what our spies embedded in the ‘Twenty-Five Production Construction Brigade’ have reported. We never really knew how the Cecil domain was run, but thanks to these excellent spies, we’ve uncovered some truths,” said the lean, sullen man with black hair and a hooked nose beside the count. “Apparently, even the recently annexed Kant region has established a secondary bureau. This bureau wields significant power—taxation, land development, all controlled by ‘clerks’ and ‘department officials’ within the bureau.”
Count Hosman frowned. “Is this just a front? Are these so-called officials actually Cecil family members in disguise?”
“Apparently not,” Grein shook his head. “Our spies say many of the bureau’s real power holders—heads of agriculture, mining, commerce—are outsiders, though loyal to the Cecils. Their authority is genuine. Even the knights in the domain must answer to these department heads…”
“That resurrected ancient hero seems… a bit off in his thinking,” the count said with a half-smile. “Not only did he strip his vassals of their privileges, but he also forced the noble knights and ladies of Kant to swear fealty to his brutal new regime?”
“Yes. Forced oaths, forced loyalty, nearly all noble privileges revoked. Even tax collection and land management were handed over to the so-called secondary bureau,” Grein’s expression grew serious. “According to our spies, the Kant knights were forced to accept these injustices. They tried to resist—there was fighting on the eastern border of the Cecil domain. The brave, noble knights drew their swords to defend their honored traditions. The sounds of battle even reached the city. But in the end, they were crushed by force…”
“Unthinkable,” the count exclaimed dramatically. “Is this the true face of that resurrected ancient hero? He’s destroying the very foundations that uphold this glorious kingdom… In the lands downstream of the Whitewater River, tradition and order are on the verge of collapse!”
“He’s tearing down what he once built with his own hands, that’s certain,” Grein said gravely. “He tramples noble honor, using violence and manipulation to force those of noble blood to submit. Yet most people don’t know his true nature—especially in the eastern and northern southern territories, where locals still see Gawain Cecil as a radiant pioneer hero.”
“Everyone’s heard the tales of his pioneering exploits, but those were seven hundred years ago. Who knows how much they’ve been twisted and exaggerated? Now that he’s truly returned, it’s time we see the truth,” Count Hosman placed the ruby on the table, his tone serious and earnest. “Mr. Grein, my advisor, we must act—we cannot let this destruction of tradition and law continue.”
Grein looked deeply at the seasoned noble before him. The count’s words were heartfelt, almost moving. But as head of intelligence, skilled at reading people, Grein knew the truth: the new mining machinery had been breaking down repeatedly, alchemists and apothecaries were fleeing the domain, and the ore market was tightly controlled by Viscount Leslie of Tansan Town. These visible losses were making the count increasingly restless.
Though the count had amassed great wealth from stolen magic network technology, nobles’ greed was insatiable. As long as there was a coin within sight that wasn’t theirs, they would never stop reaching for it. Now, Count Hosman saw mountains of gold—and a weakness in the ancient duke’s rule to exploit. His mind was hardly calm.
But as the trusted intelligence advisor of the Hosman family, Grein would not expose his master’s true thoughts. Instead, he offered a measured reminder: “My lord count, please allow me to remind you—after all, he is a founding hero, and still a duke, even if only in title.”
“Yes, a duke, a founding hero. But once he starts undermining the kingdom’s foundational order, his titles and glory will fade,” Karlof Hosman laughed. “This country belongs to all noble bloodlines. The southern territories have dozens of real landed nobles. Mr. Grein, what do you think these nobles will do once they learn of Gawain Cecil’s destruction of tradition and law?”
(End of chapter)