You Said a Thousand (1)
Meanwhile, in a forsaken temple on the border of the Skadi Empire in the far north of the continent.
Inside a chamber packed with blasphemous sigils and defaced statues, seven figures in crimson robes sat in silence.
"You've all heard the news by now."
One of those seated around the round table at the center of the room, an old man by the look of him, was the first to speak. Slowly leaning forward, he pointed at the map laid out in the middle of the table.
"The pilgrimage party, the Saintess included, has finally reached the Crossline Kingdom."
Every head turned, eyes following the old man's finger. Just beneath the words Crossline Kingdom on the map, the sigil of the Holy Church had been drawn.
"The moment they cross this line, they'll be in the north. Right where we are."
He slid his finger toward a corner of the northern Skadi Empire.
"By our best count, they number close to three thousand."
"Th-three thousand?"
A wave of restless murmuring filled the chamber.
"That's— that's impossible. No one has ever moved that fast. Leading three thousand people across half the continent in only two weeks..."
"And the Holy Knights are rumored to be among them, in force."
"With the Saintess at their head, the numbers could swell even further before they arrive."
Anxiety and fear began to seep into the conversation, little by little. Someone raised their voice to ask the question on everyone's mind.
"What do you suppose they want?"
The old man turned to look at the man beside him.
"What else? To finish us off for good, this time once and all."
There was no need to ask why. The Holy Church was marching north in such overwhelming numbers for one reason and one reason only.
The Evil God Cult. The eternal antithesis of the Holy Church, the ones who served chaos. Practitioners of human sacrifice and curses, they had long since been branded as something the world itself needed to erase.
The crimson of their robes—so stark a contrast to sky-blue and gold—glistened grotesquely in the candlelight.
"Insufferable wretches. They should just stay rotting down in the south, serving their false god..."
"With the Saintess herself joining them, it seems they truly mean business this time."
At that moment, a gaunt, skeletal man rose from his seat.
"This is no time for talk. It isn't too late even now—we must assassinate the Saintess!"
"Assassinate her?"
"They've all gathered because of that woman, the symbol of the Holy Church. Kill her, and the pilgrimage falls apart."
Several around the table nodded in agreement.
"Hakthas. Do you have a method?"
At the elder's question, Hakthas bared his yellowed teeth in a grin.
"Give me a few people. I'll bind suicide curses into them, plant them inside the pilgrimage, and set them off."
"But the pilgrimage won't accept strangers without scrutiny."
"Children work even better. The moment those fools lay eyes on a child, they stop dead and grovel to protect them."
He spread four fingers.
"Four eight-year-olds would be enough to blow this entire room to pieces. All the more if you pack their bellies with rusted nails and iron shot."
With a wheezing giggle, he fondled a hand horribly warped by curses and witchcraft. The forearm jutting from his sleeve was carved with every manner of profane incantation.
Hakthas, the Torture Master. A longtime officer of the Evil God Cult, infamous for his exquisitely cruel methods. The tale of how, during the last war, he had bound suicide curses into prisoners of war, deliberately let them escape, and triggered the curses the instant they made contact with the Holy Church was still told and retold to this day.
"Street orphans are thicker than rats. Quite a reliable plan, I'd say."
"Hmm, it's not a bad plan, I'll grant..."
The elders and officers of the Evil God Cult turned to one another, murmuring among themselves.
"Alternatively, we could sacrifice maidens to spread a plague. If we craft a pestilence that strikes only the innocent—making them vomit blood and die—"
The instant Hakthas opened his mouth to pour out still more cruelty, a sharp voice cut across the chamber.
"Kill the Saintess now, and you'll be doing exactly what those people want."
Every gaze swung to the old man's left. A slender woman stood there, one hand still raised. Her face was hidden beneath her hood.
"What do you mean by that?" the elder asked.
"Killing the Saintess will not stop them. The Holy Church will seize on her death itself as justification to hunt us down."
As a martyr, you see, she added, clicking her tongue.
"And then they'll howl for vengeance and come at us harder than ever—until they've scrubbed us from the face of the earth."
Silence fell over the room once more at her words. She was right. Nothing forges internal unity like an attack from without. And if the Church's living symbol were struck down by heretics, blind rage would be the only possible response.
Martyrdom. No word in existence whipped fanatics into a frenzy quite like it. And no force on earth could hold back the fury that followed it.
Even the man who had proposed the assassination found no rebuttal and sank back into his seat.
"Damn it all. Then have you a better idea?" the elder growled, brow furrowed.
The woman held her silence for a moment. Then she gave an answer no one expected.
"We abduct the Saintess."
"A-abduct her? You mean bring her here?"
The crowd recoiled at a plan harder than assassination by far, each throwing out objections. But the woman went on without so much as a blink.
"Our goal was never to kill the Saintess. That harlot can be replaced any day of the week. What we must truly aim for..."
Slowly, she raised her hand and drew back her hood. Hair black as silk cascaded down like a waterfall.
"...is the fall of the Holy Church."
Before the softly glowing candles, her blood-red eyes glittered.
"Those who believe in a false god must be shown the truth."
The voice of Hatenzilla, Saintess of the Evil God Cult, echoed through the corrupted temple.
"And that begins by dragging Erzena Selaphe—the harlot of a false god—down into the very gutter."
A cruel smile curled her lips.
"Defile the Saintess. Defile her, and defile her again, until she's lower than the swine in the streets—then parade her before the whole world. What do you suppose people will think then?"
"When a beautiful, noble woman is stripped naked and cast into the dirt, will they still call her a Saintess?"
"And the moment the pilgrimage reaches us, if we summon a demon with their symbol as the offering..."
After that, holiness itself would no longer exist in this world.
The fall of a Saintess. Dragging down the woman beloved of God. Nothing could humiliate the Holy Church and display the power of their own cult so completely.
Corrupt the very voice of God, and at the last, offer it up as a sacrifice. At that blasphemous vision, the others swallowed without realizing it. It was too perfect—and too outlandish—a plan.
"But—but isn't it too late to be drawing up a plan like this?"
The elder barely gathered his wits enough to object.
"The pilgrimage has already reached the Crossline Kingdom. Their arrival in the north is only a matter of time."
"Oh, elder."
Hatenzilla let out a bewitching laugh.
"I've already sent the perfect person. Someone who can approach the Saintess more closely than anyone, without raising a shred of suspicion."
"And who would that be?"
"A mercenary, bought at considerable expense. Someone who can be absolutely anything we need her to be."
With those words, she returned to her seat.
"From the moment she is granted entry to the Crossline Kingdom, she will begin to move."
With a knowing smile, she pulled her hood back up over her head.
"Soon... we shall hear good news."
Precisely two days later, in the afternoon, the visitors arrived—just as the Hearing Officer had predicted.
"Three thousand one hundred and twenty-nine."
That was the figure the pilgrimage's delegates gave, and I doubted my own ears.
"...Would you repeat that, please?"
"Ah, my apologies. That was yesterday's count. Including those who joined before dawn this morning, we stand at three thousand three hundred and seventy-four. Please accept this roster. Every single name is recorded—there will be no trouble."
THUD.
A pile of paperwork taller than I was materialized directly in front of me with a bone-rattling sound. The Taste Officer nearly vanished beneath it.
"And this is the manifest and records for the cargo. I brought them separately, in case they prove useful."
THUD.
A second mountain rose. This one stood as tall as the Smell Officer.
"Then we shall return presently for the formal proceedings. Thank you for your labor."
With that, the delegates vanished like the wind, leaving behind two mountains of paper and the number 3374 seared into every mind in the room.
The entire meeting had lasted less than five minutes. The reverberations would last far longer.
"..."
"..."
A long silence settled over the Immigration Office. No one opened their mouth. Not me, not the Five Senses Officers, not the attendants.
Instead, I slowly turned my head and stared out at the plain beyond the border. Blue was the sky, green the fields, and swarming across it like an army of ants—people.
Had the plain before our border ever been this full? Banners emblazoned with rose crests stood out vividly in the distance. Dozens of Holy Church flags snapped briskly in the wind.
I let this tragedy sink in for a long moment. Then I spoke, quietly.
"...We're screwed."