Chapter 492: The First Bell of Dawn

In the darkness.

Faint pinpricks of artificial light flickered along the shadowed streets and alleys.

The night wind, growing colder by the hour, weaved through the buildings, carrying with it the stench of rot from gutter corners as it swept through the town. Ancient structures stood silent and still beneath the cold, lifeless night sky. Starlight spilled down from the eternal heavens, casting a pale glow over rooftops, spires, and city walls, revealing their vague, blurred outlines in the gloom. Between those outlines, shadows flickered—figures darting briefly through the cracks of darkness.

These fleeting silhouettes moved with tense, resolute energy. Their footsteps were hurried, almost panicked, as they passed whispered messages from neighbor to friend, from kin to comrade: “Wait for the first bell at dawn.”

Beneath a wrapped headscarf, the cobbler Bloom walked the pitch-black street. The early morning wind seemed laced with malice, causing him to shiver slightly—though he wasn’t sure if it was fear, excitement, or simply the cold. Yet inside his chest, a fire burned fiercely. It was that fire that gave him the courage to step outside his door and onto the street at this hour.

The curfew once imposed by the church clergy had long since vanished. Soldiers and knights of the order patrolling the streets had disappeared without a trace. The outer districts had been lost for days now, and a dark tide, once hidden in the shadows, had been steadily rising. Now, at last, it was ready to sweep away all in its path.

New figures appeared on the darkened streets. Bloom hesitated briefly, then recognized a familiar shape—the mender. Their footsteps quickened as they drew near, faces barely visible in the gloom. They exchanged a low whisper: “Waiting for the bell?” “Waiting for the bell.”

A flickering torchlight emerged from a nearby corner. Both men turned toward it and saw a blacksmith known for his boldness approaching. Behind him came a woman carrying an oil lamp, a farmer brandishing a pitchfork, and an apprentice clutching a club.

The blacksmith handed his torch to Bloom. “No more hiding. Once you step outside, it’s already a death sentence.”

More and more people poured from their homes—craftsmen, farmers, apprentices—thin and gaunt, as if risen from the depths of hell. Yet in every pair of eyes burned a fierce flame. They gathered in the streets, and as the crowd swelled, more torches and lamps lit up the alleys and corners. Amid the flickering flames were countless eyes, still clouded with uncertainty but burning with unwavering resolve.

“Once the bell tolls, we move.”
“Remember, those with white cloth tied around their arms are friends.”
“What about the allies outside the city?”
“They’ve already arrived…”

No one could say who first spread the word, nor who was truly behind tonight’s uprising. But everyone knew—they had eaten their last scraps, gathered their final strength. They might not survive the night, but if the sun rose tomorrow, freedom would be theirs.

Bloom lifted his torch, eyes fixed on the western city wall. There, a faint glow flickered against the dark stone.

A soldier guarding the gate held an oil lamp, nervously watching the scene below. Beside him stood two equally tense comrades. Before them stretched the vast fields outside the city, a sea of dark figures dotted with countless flickering lights.

These people had come from villages near Luan, from the outskirts, even from neighboring territories. Their unrest grew louder by the hour. Behind this crowd, more were arriving along the gravel roads, torches stretching like a burning serpent, slowly encircling the centuries-old city of the church.

At the forefront stood those most striking—men clad in heavy white armor, shoulders bearing massive hammers, their bodies radiating a holy light.

They were the White Knights of Cecil.

At this moment, they did not represent the military might of Cecil, but the new order of the Holy Light.

“Open… open the gates?” the soldier asked the veteran beside him, voice trembling as he touched the white cloth tied around his arm. “Will they… will they kill us too?”

The veteran was gripped by fear as well, but he knew there was no turning back. Ever since the clergy sealed off the church district, the soldiers stranded outside the walls had been abandoned. Without the church’s backing, the few with sense had laid down their arms, becoming either accomplices to the chaos or allies to this righteous cause.

“Open the gates,” the veteran said firmly. “Let the Cecilans in. The city’s blockade ends here.”

The iron-clad winch began to turn, chains creaking as the heavy gates of Luan, closed for weeks, slowly swung open. The crowd outside watched as the gates parted, countless eyes fixed on the vanguard.

The White Knights, clad head to toe in steel, stepped forward first. Like beacons in the night, they inspired boundless courage. The massive crowd surged behind them, flooding into Luan.

The soldiers who opened the gates cowered in the shadows, watching silently as the armored knights led the throng through the city entrance. Among the crowd were nearly every kind of profession the soldiers had ever seen—farmers, blacksmiths, cobblers, stonemasons. Some wore tattered rags, others fine merchant’s clothes. Some carried only pitchforks and clubs; others bore longswords and spears. There were common folk and battle-hardened mercenaries alike.

The soldiers felt as if the entire southern realm had converged here.

…

Half an hour before the first rays of sunlight, the cobblestone streets trembled under a heavy, chaotic stampede. The ground seemed to shake beneath the pounding feet. From all directions, torches flared to life, revealing countless unfamiliar but friendly faces.

From the crowd emerged warriors clad in strange white armor, their bodies seemingly forged from light itself. They approached the anxious citizens of Luan, and from beneath helmets adorned with wings and inscribed with scripture came deep, reassuring voices:

“We are the White Knights under the Grant Patriarch. We have come to aid the children of the Holy Light.”

Just as the rumors had foretold days ago—the allies of the Holy Light had appeared in the darkness. The mighty White Knights led the faithful from all corners to rescue this holy city sinking into shadow.

The two groups quickly merged. Guided by local leaders, the vast assembly began moving toward the cathedral.

Though only a few dozen White Knights were present, their shining armor made them stand out like the sharp tip of an arrow, leading the way. Amid them, a shadowy figure slipped unnoticed toward their leader.

Amber stepped from the darkness, looking up at the broad-shouldered knight. “I didn’t expect so many to gather…”

The knight was none other than Light himself. Without his helmet, his scarred face was set in a determined expression. He glanced down at the petite half-elf. “They come from all over the Luan region and nearby Carol City. The gathering in the fields took days—this is your doing. Without you, the people would never have seen the rot within the Holy Light Church, nor risen in such righteous fury.”

“I’ll accept that compliment,” Amber said with a hint of pride, then added with curiosity, “But I didn’t expect you to come in person—as the new Grant Patriarch, shouldn’t you stay behind? The old duke… did he send you?”

“I made the decision myself,” Light replied calmly, pausing for two seconds before continuing with a gravity deeper than usual. “This is our mission.”

Amber blinked, listening as Light’s solemn voice echoed through the night:

“Cecil is rooted in the Dark Mountains, always facing the threat of the wasteland. Whenever Cecil is attacked by the abominations, the lord stands on the front lines. From him, I learned this—one decision by a leader can cost hundreds or thousands of lives. Sometimes those sacrifices are necessary; sometimes they are voluntary. But a leader can never accept those losses with peace of mind. He must stand with those who sacrifice, ready to bleed alongside them.

“This is a war of the Holy Light—for its transformation, for freedom of faith. Unarmed commoners challenge far stronger supernaturals. Blood will be shed. That blood is necessary. But as the leader of the new church, I cannot let them bleed alone.

“That is why I have come.”

Light hefted his mechanized war hammer, wrapped in the sacred oath’s bindings, and strode forward with unwavering steps. Amber stood still for a moment, then shook her head. “That guy really does attract some strange company…”

Ten minutes before dawn, the crowd gathered in the fan-shaped plaza before the church district.

Once the site of heresy trials and burning at the stake, the square was now packed with people. The scent of burning fat and oil hung thick in the air. More and more arrived from all directions, but the limited space could no longer hold them all. Those coming from farther away had to assemble in nearby streets.

As the crowd swelled, the noise grew louder. Outsiders began shouting angry slogans. Mercenaries brandished swords, cursing the cowardly clergy inside the church. Merchants waved canes, denouncing the injustice of the Holy Light Church. Some climbed onto raised platforms at the square’s edge, shaking fists and calling the priests villains, butchers, and flesh-eating demons.

This fierce anger startled the citizens of Luan, who could hardly understand why their distant allies harbored such fury toward the church’s clergy.

The fury was even greater than theirs.

The terrifying commotion in the square reached the church district. The clergy who had shut themselves behind the inner city walls, feigning deafness and silence for days, could no longer sit still. They scrambled up onto the walls and towers of the inner city, eager to see what was happening outside—only for their astonishment to turn into dread.

People.

The square was flooded with people.

A crowd so vast and fierce that even the clergy and knights, blessed with extraordinary powers, felt a chill of fear.

At the same moment, in a crucial node of the sacred ritual array within the small chapel district of the inner city, Seventry stood silently facing a robed cleric marked with tattoos on his head.

Looking at his fellow churchman, Seventry sighed deeply. “Step back, Orcott. There’s no other way now.”

But the black-robed disciplinarian remained unmoving before the ritual array. After a long pause, he finally broke the silence: “The knights and other disciplinarians will soon notice the anomaly in the chapel district…”

Seventry stepped forward, his voice trembling with urgency. “They might hold out here for a moment, but can they hold out forever?!”

Orcott met Seventry’s gaze calmly. “My mission is to guard the chapel district’s barrier—until death ends my duty.”

In that serene expression, Seventry suddenly read the truth beneath the words.

His brow furrowed, sorrow thick in his voice. “Orcott, I know… during that heresy trial, though you hid it well, your faith wavered. Don’t hold on any longer. I know who you are. You know what the church has done all these years, and how much worse it’s become in the past year…”

“I am a disciplinarian. Maintaining the church’s order is my everything. This is the oath I swore before the Holy Light,” the black-robed cleric interrupted calmly. “Do you remember the oath you swore before the Holy Light?”

Ten seconds of silence followed, then a resolute voice: “Of course I remember. Never forgotten.”

“Good,” the disciplinarian exhaled softly, a hint of relief in his expression. “Priest, do what you must.”

Seventry faltered, unsure. He stepped toward the black-robed cleric, but seemed to forget what he was meant to do.

“The bell is about to toll.”

Orcott’s words snapped him back to clarity.

He stared at the cleric in shock, hearing him speak quietly:

“I am a disciplinarian. I know all the secrets of these churches—that is my duty… Priest, do what you must. That fragile door won’t hold back the angry crowd. If the ritual array is still active when the bell tolls, many will die.”

Seventry felt his blood slowly congeal, a coldness spreading from his heart to his limbs. From afar came the faint first toll of the bell, and a devout voice’s final plea:

“Kill me… save the Holy Light.”

Warmth spread from his fingertips, thawing the blood that had begun to freeze. He saw the short dagger in his hand, its tip buried deep in the disciplinarian’s chest.

Orcott collapsed. Behind him, the ritual array node on the platform lay silent, its holy runes flickering faintly.

Seventry rushed toward the node. The black-robed disciplinarian slumped crookedly to the ground. As the low hum of the ritual array’s shutdown faded, the bell’s toll grew clearer and louder from afar. The gates of the church district crashed down with a thunderous roar.

He exhaled one last breath, whispering softly:

“Lord…”

(End of chapter)