Chapter 496: Sunshine Bathes the City of Louen

The rising sun cast its golden light over this centuries-old city of faith.

The massive sun climbed above the horizon, its vast fiery disk filling nearly half the sky, radiating a hazy, cloud-like corona. The sun’s corona, etched with woodgrain-like patterns, loomed solemnly like a deeply wrinkled face, gazing down upon this land scarred by blood and fire. Louen’s ancient streets, the towering spires of its churches, the weathered city walls and watchtowers, and the stone-paved roads stained by flame and blood—all were bathed in the boundless warmth of morning light. A soft golden hue spread across the city, evoking an image that stirred memories of a vision four centuries past, painted by Saint Dumont in his final moments:

I saw a great city, vast beyond measure, with light pouring forth from between its stones, as if the entire city were forged from pure radiance.

Yet that vision, like the saint himself, faded with time. For the people of Louen now, the dying words of a saint long gone were little more than a whisper from the past. Their minds were fixed on the present, gathered in the square before the grand cathedral, faces turned toward the rising sun, voices raised in triumphant cheers—not just for victory, but for survival.

“We won!”
“Blessed be the Holy Light, we won!”
“Long live Cecil!”

The cheers echoed through the square and beyond, reverberating across the entire cathedral district. Volunteer mercenaries and adventurers raised their swords and shields high, striking them together with fierce joy. Farmers and craftsmen waved pitchforks and hammers in the air, laughing alongside everyone else. Merchants and nobles from the Carol region, as if shedding their social ranks, tossed canes, hats, and handkerchiefs skyward, embracing every person nearby with fervent warmth. An unprecedented exhilaration surged through the crowd—though no one could quite put it into words, its meaning was clear: the “lower class” of this world had, at last, successfully risen against the “upper class.”

In a corner of the cathedral square, under the watchful guard—and protection—of a dozen White Knights and a large group of volunteer mercenaries, a small cluster of battered, bloodied, and near-death priests and clerics huddled together, trembling in fear as they witnessed the scene before them.

They were the last surviving clergy of Louen’s grand cathedral, deliberately spared for the “public trials” to come. Most of their brethren had perished in the fighting—many executed on the spot by the White Knights, others hunted down and slain by adventurer squads, and a few beaten to death by enraged townsfolk wielding stones, clubs, and hoes once their strength gave out.

This handful of survivors watched helplessly, their hearts gripped by terror at the raw power unleashed by the angry masses. The sticks and stones might lack the force of a spell, but the meaning behind them was far more terrifying.

Atop a tall spire overlooking the square, several young reporters from the Cecil Press and their mentor recorded the scene through their magical network terminals. Watching the crowd bathed in sunlight and the ancient city gleaming in the morning glow, one young man sighed in awe, “It’s truly a miracle.”

Another shook his head. “Yet surely some will call this a massacre.”

“It is indeed an act of violence,” said their mentor, the robed scholar Gawain Orlando, the Southlands’ most renowned historian. Calm and measured, he had spent decades studying history and law, and he saw the moment clearly. As a traditional scholar, he felt it his duty to impart this understanding to his most trusted apprentices.

“Every major upheaval—every shift in order and social structure—has been accompanied by violence, without exception, throughout history. The difference is that past upheavals were conflicts among equals: one lord attacking another, one royal family member challenging another. No matter the scale, these struggles rarely altered society’s order beyond a few laws or claims to titles. They were power transfers, cleverly disguised. But what we see here is different: a violent revolution from the bottom up. Though our lord may have pushed it forward, the change was driven and completed by the masses themselves. And its result is far more profound: the outright destruction of an old order.”

“The collapse of the old order leaves a void that must be filled by a new one,” one apprentice said. “You told us that last time, Master.”

“Exactly. But that is now the concern of our lord and the new Grant Archbishop,” Gawain Orlando replied with a faint smile. “Our task is simply to record this moment.”

Seeing his apprentices fall into thoughtful silence before returning to their work, Gawain nodded slightly. He pulled out his notebook, paused briefly, then wrote:

Ansu Year 736, Frost Moon 30, Day of Remembrance. Tens of thousands from the northern Southlands stormed the Holy Light Cathedral. The faith in the God of the Holy Light has been overturned. The authority of ‘God’ now lies fallen upon the earth…

He hesitated, then crossed out “faith in the God of the Holy Light” and replaced it with “the rules of faith.”

…

In Saint Suniel City, within the Great Hall of the Holy Light Cathedral, bishops reported to Pope Saint Ivan III on news from the eastern plains.

Since the Holy Church’s sacred army broke protocol to join the Ansu civil war on the side of the kingdom’s forces, the previously skewed balance of war had shifted back to a delicate equilibrium.

The eastern legion, having swept through Solinfort and a dozen other fortresses, had finally been halted at the Giant Wood Pass before entering the central Holy Spirit Plains. Bolstered by renewed morale and formidable battlefield resilience, the kingdom’s soldiers, supported by the Holy Light, formed a human wall that broke the eastern legion’s streak of victories. After thousands of casualties, Count Solin successfully repelled the eastern forces and pushed the front line thirty miles east—restoring a “safe distance” from the heart of the plains and settling into a stalemate.

But the harvest season had passed—the kingdom missed the last chance to reclaim the eastern grain fields. The crops growing on Solinfort’s fertile lands had fallen into rebel hands.

Refed and reenergized, the eastern legion had once again secured a foothold on the Holy Spirit Plains.

The stalemate left the leaders in Silverfort at a loss, and no doubt frustrated the eastern rebel commanders. Yet for the Holy Church’s leaders, newly involved in the war, this deadlock was a welcome respite.

“Your Holiness, the sacred army’s efforts on the front lines are evident. The people near Giant Wood Pass are increasingly embracing the Holy Light, with many new baptisms daily—including converts from heretical faiths and kingdom soldiers,” a bishop reported joyfully. “Count Solin sent official commendations thanking our clergy for holding the line.”

“A temporary stalemate allows people to understand the significance of clergy and church knights on the battlefield,” Pope Ivan III’s deep, slow voice echoed through the Great Hall. “But we must be wary—prolonged stalemate breeds doubt in the Lord’s power. And we must remain vigilant: heretics are using this opportunity to grow stronger…”

“Yes, Your Holiness. Many heretics have entered the eastern regions, and recently enemy clerics wielding the powers of the War God and Blood God have appeared on the front lines. They may emulate the sacred army and form an eastern clergy corps…”

Pope Ivan III fell silent, as if listening to a distant, faint whisper from the divine realm. After half a minute, he broke the silence:

“The Lord does not mind. Those heretics have not found the true path. Their gathering is but a rabble. We must continue spreading the Lord’s gospel and intercept any heretics attempting to flee eastward…”

The meeting in the Great Hall proceeded with solemn gravity. Under the guidance of the aged but wise pope, all matters were arranged with care and propriety. At last, the session concluded.

Veronica Morn, the “Living Saint,” remained by Pope Ivan’s side after the bishops had departed.

In the long silence, the pope seemed half-asleep, slumped in his grand ornate chair. The radiant holy light shone upon him, casting a long shadow behind his seat. Though the light came from directly above, the shadow stretched out thin and twisted, branching like a strange tree. At its tips hung shifting illusions—hands, eyes, faces, gaping mouths—that flickered and changed.

Veronica glanced sideways at the shadow behind the pope’s chair, her face unreadable.

According to sacred law, no one may stand behind the pope’s chair except the Living Saint or the archbishops. No one else may glimpse what lies there, for it is believed to be the place where “God” stands unseen. The Holy Light scriptures say: The God of the Holy Light stands behind the pope, watching His people and kingdom through the pope’s eyes.

At one moment, Pope Ivan seemed to fall into a deep sleep, enveloped in a peaceful calm, faint sacred music drifting through the air. But just seconds later, the frail pope suddenly lifted his head.

“The Lord’s radiance dims…”

Veronica bent slightly and asked, “The south?”

“…Yes, the south. I see the Lord’s light faltering over that land. Blood and fire spread across the earth, and the sounds of war echo…” The pope’s eyes opened, but his voice still held a dreamlike quality. “This has never happened before… not even in the east…”

For the first time, a flicker of shock crossed Veronica’s usually serene and composed face.

Prince Edmond of the East had already begun officially expelling Holy Light clergy, ordering the eradication of the faith. Followers of the God of the Holy Light could only pray in secret. The faith’s decline there was unprecedented. Yet in the south… something even more terrifying and thorough was unfolding—a collapse of faith deeper than that in the east.

What was happening behind the towering walls of the Rock Fortress? Could it be that the resurrected founding duke had slaughtered all the followers of the God of the Holy Light?

Soon, Veronica composed herself, smoothing away the shock in her eyes. In a calm, serene voice, she said, “I am willing to go south and witness the changes there with my own eyes.”

“You may not be granted entry into the heart of the southern lands,” Saint Ivan III said gravely, the seemingly frail old man’s eyes shining with a powerful holy radiance, “but as long as you get close enough, you should be able to sense what is influencing the Lord’s light. Find it. Investigate it. If Duke Gawain Cecil has truly committed some horrific act of faith’s annihilation, then prioritize your own safety and return so we can discuss our next move. But if some profane force has entered this world… then it must be destroyed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Veronica bowed slightly. “For the glory of the Lord.”

“Go and prepare… Just in time, Silverkeep is also sending envoys south,” the old pope’s voice deepened, as if slipping into another dream. “That land to the south… we have neglected it for far too long…”

(End of chapter)