Chapter 475: Dark Clouds Over Lu’an City

The blazing sun’s heat and light were gradually fading day by day. The hours of direct sunlight on the earth were shrinking, while the nights quietly lengthened. After the Harvest Festival ended, an unexpected rainfall finally broke the relentless summer heat. On these cool evenings, the westward-moving White Horn star served as a celestial reminder to scholars and farmers alike: summer was drawing to a close.

The Frost Moon was approaching. Though autumn had not officially arrived, in Ansu—a northern kingdom—most regions would turn cool within a week before the Frost Moon’s arrival, and even the southern lands were no exception.

In years past, this would mark the last “golden period” for townsfolk—the month of plenty when harvested grain was safely stored in cellars and granaries, food worries temporarily eased. Summer’s many diseases would wane with the cooling weather, annoying mosquitoes would gradually disappear, and though the cold of winter was still some time away, before the arrival of the Fog Moon, people could enjoy this final stretch of mild weather to gather more provisions, repair homes, and stockpile firewood.

In theory, this brief “Ansu autumn” was the last bustling, prosperous time of year for every town.

But in Lu’an City, prosperity had ended as soon as the month of plenty began.

Today marked the fifty-fourth day of the city’s lockdown, and the atmosphere inside continued to deteriorate.

The streets were nearly deserted. Doors and windows were tightly shut in every household. Occasionally, a hurried figure would flash past a street corner—either a patrolling soldier of the Holy Church or a cleric or minor official sent to gather news. Even at midday, the entire city felt as lifeless as if night had fallen, utterly devoid of vitality.

No one would associate such a stifling, oppressive, and dead city with the sacred grounds of the Holy Light Church in the southern lands.

Yet this grim mood was understandable. News of the southern lands’ change of hands and the revival of the Duchy of Cecil had spread throughout the region. Everyone knew a new ruler now sat upon this land. The problem was, this new lord’s relationship with the Holy Light Church was far from amicable. Over a month ago, in a shocking war, the Church had made a grave misstep: a crack force of Holy Church soldiers, led by the southern bishop, had marched onto the battlefield—on the side opposing Cecil.

The war began with great fanfare but ended so swiftly it was almost unbelievable. In that brief battle, the bishop was slain, the southern region’s most powerful Church knights were wiped out, and even all the high-ranking knights from the Holy Spirit Plains were lost.

Then Lu’an City was sealed off.

Not attacked—sealed off. This brought even greater pressure to bear on Lu’an.

Had the southern duke marched his troops directly to the city gates to demand justice or punishment, the clerics inside might have felt some relief—at least that would have been a clear stance. And with a clear stance, the response would be simpler.

Lu’an could offer sincere apologies, agree to compensation, cede some Church lands or religious privileges to appease the new lord’s wrath, and secure the right to continue living and preaching here. Even if the situation became irreparable and the duke insisted on resolving matters by force, the city’s defenders would not falter: the fanatical Church knights were ready to die as martyrs, and the clerics and priests feared neither sword nor flame. Those who preached in the wild southern lands were always the most stubborn and fearless servants of the Holy Light.

But the new duke chose the most difficult and unpredictable course: silent blockade.

He sent no troops inside Lu’an, only sealed every gate connecting the city to the outside world. Fully armed Cecil soldiers and their fortifications blocked every road like plugs in a barrel. Movement of people and flow of information were strictly forbidden. The duke claimed this was to maintain postwar order and investigate intelligence, but anyone with eyes could see he was effectively placing the entire southern Church under house arrest.

All Holy Light clerics preaching in the south were forced into the city, and all contact with the Holy Spirit Plains was completely cut off. Caravans, wandering adventurers, mercenaries—none were allowed near the area. At first, because the Cecil blockade lines were not yet fully closed, a few exiled knights slipped through secret paths into the city, allowing cathedral leaders to learn of outside developments. But soon, every gap was sealed. All channels of news were severed. The city was blindfolded, deafened—and silenced.

The residents grew anxious. The nominal city administrators sent by the Ansu royal family fled cleanly before the blockade was complete; half were rumored to have defected to Cecil.

In this atmosphere, this year’s Harvest Festival passed in silence—no celebrations were held, no grain was wasted. Clerics directed farmers to harvest the last crops in fields near the city walls, then carefully stored what might be the final food supplies in granaries. Strict curfews and rationing were imposed on civilians.

It seemed all had reached the worst possible state. Yet inside the grand Saint Lu’an Cathedral, steadfast faith still upheld the last remaining clergy.

Flamberon, temporarily appointed “Bishop of Lu’an,” concluded the morning prayers. He rose silently before the statue of the Holy Light God, allowing his attendant to smooth his still-pristine robes. His face was calm and composed.

The statue stood quietly in the prayer chamber, bathed in a clear, radiant glow—just as it had for the past century, without a hint of dimming. To Flamberon, this ever-shining statue symbolized the cathedral itself: no matter how dire the outside situation, no matter how rampant darkness and heresy became, the great Holy Light God would always protect this place. His light would never fade, meaning all external challenges were only temporary.

After dismissing his attendant, the tall, black-haired bishop left the prayer room. In the adjacent lounge, several robed clerics had already gathered.

On the round table lay delicate pastries and fragrant red tea—obviously already partially consumed.

Food was rationed in the city; civilians received only bare sustenance and mostly stayed home to conserve energy. But the cathedral clergy were exempt from these “rations.” As God’s messengers, they could not suffer hunger like commoners—that would dishonor the Holy Light and severely weaken their fighting strength.

Flamberon cast a quick, indifferent glance at the refreshments, then addressed the gathered clerics with a neutral expression: “What’s the situation in the city?”

One priest stood: “No chaos. The Holy Church soldiers and the exiled knights who joined us maintain patrols. Civilians mostly stay indoors.”

Flamberon nodded, turning to another: “Any news from the Cecilians?”

“No change. They still maintain the blockade but have taken no further action.”

“That arrogant, devil-worshipping ‘duke’…” a middle-aged cleric couldn’t help but vent angrily, “…his behavior is utterly incomprehensible! Does he think the entire Ansu consists of only Saint Lu’an Cathedral?”

“Perhaps the bishops from the Holy Spirit Plains and the capital will come to our aid,” Flamberon said, casting a glance at the irate cleric, “but for now, we remain at their mercy.” He shook his head slightly. “Gawain Cecil’s actions are no less than consorting with the devil—but he is a powerful devil.”

The first priest’s face showed worry. “Bishop, what do you think Gawain Cecil truly wants?”

Flamberon paused thoughtfully, then spoke deliberately: “He wants to drive us out completely. That much is clear.”

He added, “Neither attacking nor retreating, maintaining the blockade, waiting for Lu’an to collapse on its own—his goal is obvious: he hopes we will surrender voluntarily. He wants us, servants of the Lord, to leave the city ourselves, so he can take control smoothly, expel the faith of the Holy Light entirely, and avoid moral condemnation. It’s a classic, vicious trick—cunning and dishonorable. Just as we first suspected: beneath the shining image of a founding hero lies a tyrant, greedy and autocratic. His desire is absolute power, as revealed when he schemed to destroy all southern nobles.”

“We are servants of the Lord. How could we ever yield to such a man!” the hot-tempered cleric shouted. “His efforts are in vain—he doesn’t understand the power of true faith!”

“The overwhelming magical weapons have clouded his judgment,” Flamberon shook his head, “he thinks conquering Saint Lu’an Cathedral will be as easy as taking Rock Fortress.” His tone then grew serious. “But Gawain Cecil is still a shrewd man… He hasn’t directly attacked the cathedral, which shows he understands he is morally inferior.”

An elderly cleric who had remained silent nodded slightly, pride and restraint in his voice: “Indeed. He at least realizes one thing—directly attacking Saint Lu’an Cathedral would only make us martyrs, and he would lose the people’s support.”

“Exactly. His opposition to the Church only pushes him into injustice, especially now,” Flamberon said solemnly, scanning the room. His words were calm but resolute. “Our perseverance is our strongest counterattack. His blockade cannot last forever. His flimsy excuses will soon collapse. As long as we hold the cathedral, the faithful will question Gawain Cecil more and more, drowning out his voice…”

“We may suffer losses in this process. It may be longer and harder than we imagine. But I believe each of you here is prepared—even ready to become martyrs.

“The Holy Light God will witness our devotion and courage. We will prove by our actions that Gawain Cecil’s heresy and blasphemy are unjust. We will never retreat, never shame the Holy Light. Perhaps we will fall in the end—but when we do, it will be as saints. Gawain Cecil may eventually set foot here—but we swear, he will only do so as an executioner and a profaner!”

Flambeau’s voice rang out, deep and powerful, stirring the hearts of everyone present. They thought of Bishop Lemont, who had already given his life as a martyr; they thought of the dire crisis now facing the city of Rouen; and above all, they thought of the honor in dedicating themselves to the Lord. One by one, they rose to their feet, joining in with the temporary bishop’s resolute call:

“We swear it!” “We swear it!”

(End of chapter)