Those Who Wait for the End (5)
"Let us draw closer," Bishop Andre signaled with his hand.
The last person entered the brewery, and the heavy doors shut tight. The brewery sat in a relatively open field. The only cover nearby was a collapsed granary. Leaning against a fallen wall, the bishop watched the building.
Creeeeak.
It was the sound of the brewery's back door opening. Someone holding a book in their hand was entering. Likely a Doomsday Cultist and their preacher. And, in all probability, the 'Teacher' the woman had mentioned.
The back door closed slowly behind him, and the scattered gazes of the crowd converged as one upon the preacher.
"Thank you for gathering here again today, brothers and sisters."
Standing on the platform, the preacher scanned the brewery.
"Our brotherhood has grown since our last gathering. This is a most welcome sight. I am pleased to see you have been steadily spreading the teachings to your families and friends, just as I asked."
Thud.
The preacher placed the book he carried onto the pulpit.
"Now, for those who are here for the first time, let us begin our story from the very beginning."
Flutter.
The sound of pages turning echoed through the quiet space.
"The end is inevitable. It cannot be stopped, nor can it be denied."
The preacher's face was invisible. The cultists sat in neat rows on the floor of the brewery, plunged in pitch-black darkness without a single candle. Bishop Andre narrowed his eyes, but even with his keen senses, he could not make out the preacher's face. As if protected by the darkness itself, a thick shadow hung over the man's features.
"We are born of darkness, and to darkness we shall return. That, too, is an end. Everything has its conclusion, and we have no need to fear it. For in the end, we will all share the same fate. The end is by no means negative. It is not frightening. We must open our hearts and embrace the end, so that we may face the apocalypse at any moment."
The preacher's voice was grave and persuasive, carrying a commanding presence that dominated the room. He continued in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, as if speaking of absolute truths.
"We call this the natural order. And that end is approaching us in the form of what people call Calamities. The Calamities are not things to be feared. They are the apostles of the end, a destiny we must open our hearts to accept."
The preacher spread his arms wide, thrusting his chest forward as if opening himself completely.
It wasn't particularly profound logic. Yet his tone, his theatrical movements, and the herd mentality of the rapt audience hammered his words deep into the villagers' minds.
"But what of the world outside? Those who call themselves believers of the Light are denying our destiny. They babble on about how things will improve if only they pray. And what, pray tell, has those prayers ever improved? Have they brought back the dead? Or have they made your lost lands rise from the waters once more?"
With that, the preacher pointed sharply at one of the villagers. The singled-out villager shook his head.
"Nothing... at all."
"Exactly. In the end, all we received was an eviction notice and news that Evernode had escaped the Calamity. Why, then, must we be the only ones to suffer like this? Why were we the only ones left behind, stripped of our homelands and our families?"
Thud.
The preacher slammed his hand onto the pulpit. As his voice rose, a strange, ecstatic fervor crept into his tone.
"It is because we are the chosen! We have been chosen as apostles to deny that false God of Light and his Church, to return this world to where it truly belongs! To experience the end, and to expose the raw, naked truth of a world facing its demise!"
Should I kill him?
Bishop Andre's eyes flashed as he gripped the concealed weapons hidden beneath his cloak. He could kill him right now if he wanted to. He could slaughter the sympathizers in the front row along with him. Or he could capture him and inflict enough agony to make him beg for death.
The preacher's nonsense drifted past the bishop's ears.
"The world is in such chaos. Humanity is a filthy existence. Therefore, we must let go of our human filth. Anger, sorrow, irritation! We must discard everything that makes us unclean. We must open our hearts and embrace the end."
But acting immediately carried too many variables. Their true strength was unknown. He couldn't afford to make a reckless move. There was no telling how many worshippers of the Evil God were hiding among them.
"We shall be eternal alongside the end. Those who escaped the end will only face a far more horrific demise in due time. Our pain will vanish, and the world will come to know and suffer our pain together."
The sound of pages turning echoed once more.
"Now, let us wait. Under the pentagram, let us wait and pray."
The people clasped their hands. The preacher muttered a prayer. It took a sinister form that could hardly be called human language—less of a prayer, and more of an evil incantation.
Bishop Andre shook his head to dispel the sound that seemed to claw at his mind.
"What should we do?"
Bishop Andre shook his head at the inquisitor's question. A direct confrontation at night was too risky. Even if the preacher couldn't win, the surrounding darkness provided too many opportunities for escape.
"We must find the clue that leads to their roots. We cannot let a moment of anger ruin everything. We will organize the information we gathered today and begin a full-scale investigation with Isis tomorrow."
The crowd began to disperse. The sky cleared slightly, letting down a sliver of moonlight. The villagers left the brewery with dreamlike expressions. The preacher had already vanished, melting into the shadows.
"Before their hostility toward the Holy Church grows any deeper."
We must hunt them down and kill them.
I couldn't sleep. I sat up, making the old church bed creak. Georg was fast asleep. I picked up the Holy Sword leaning against the bedside and stood up.
"[What is the matter?]"
"Just... can't sleep."
I strapped the Holy Sword to my side and opened the bedroom door. As I walked down the hallway and stepped into the nave, the air felt heavy and stale. One side of the church door was broken. The wind drifted in and out through the gap. It felt as though even the wind here could not find freedom, even in the dead of night.
With no moonlight, the night was pitch-black.
"[You have been struggling to sleep lately. How is your body holding up?]"
"I'm fine. Perfectly healthy. It's not like I used to sleep much anyway."
Staying up for a single night wouldn't hurt.
I reached the end of the nave and blinked in surprise. Isis was sitting quietly on the very last pew. Staring blankly at the relief of the crucifix, Isis turned her head to look at me.
"Elroy," Isis called my name softly.
I stared at her for a moment before slowly walking over to her pew. I sat down on the bench across the aisle from her. Isis turned her head to follow my movements.
"I couldn't sleep."
"...I see."
The wooden pew was cold. Resting the Holy Sword on my lap, I looked up at the ceiling. The church ceiling was high, shrouded in darkness like the night sky itself.
"I couldn't sleep either."
I looked at Isis. She was gazing at me with a desperate expression. But I couldn't give her the words she wanted to hear. Because I wasn't the real Elroy.
"About the villagers," I said, changing the subject. "I think the Doomsday Cult has taken deep root among them. Though there are still some who haven't been influenced..."
I said, recalling the man from the village.
"Be careful."
Those weren't the words she wanted. Isis reached out toward me in despair, but then pulled her hand back, resting it on her lap as she buried her face in her hands.
I didn't leave her side. But I didn't offer any words of comfort either. Comfort wasn't what she needed right now. In the end, comfort would only gouge at her guilt.
"...Yes," Isis replied after a long silence, answering my warning.
Come to think of it, the weather in Vaktins had always been dreadful.
Isis pulled her cloak tighter against the damp morning air. Today, she and Aryen were scheduled to conduct a full-scale investigation of the village alongside Bishop Andre.
"The villagers still remember you, Isis. They may still hold feelings of gratitude toward you," the bishop said, looking down at her.
Isis clenched her fists and nodded. She hadn't fully steeled her heart, but she had to do what she could.
"We may need to hurry. We must catch the tail of this Doomsday Cult before we are forced to round up every single person in this village."
The size of the settlement had shrunk since Isis's last visit. She could remember the faces of almost everyone she had healed. But whether by fortune or misfortune, not many of those who had passed through her hands remained. Only occasionally did someone recognize the Saintess, bowing their head before quickly slipping away.
The stench was worse than before. Yet, her ears were spared the agony of her previous visit. Not a single sound of weeping or wailing could be heard.
"They've already fallen deep," Aryen muttered.
This abnormal peace was more terrifying than absolute chaos. The scenery remained unchanged, but daily life went on with only the people's expressions altered.
"How can we..."
Just then, someone hurried toward Isis. Bishop Andre recognized her and narrowed his eyes. It was the woman who had guided them during their last visit.
"Saintess."
Isis's eyes widened as she faced her. She remembered this woman. She was the mother who had brought her child—the boy suffering from phantom pain after losing his arm—to see her.
"...My lady. Have you been well?"
The woman smiled and nodded at Isis's greeting.
"Yes. I cannot tell you how happy I am to see the Saintess who healed my leg again. What brings you here? And with the governor, no less..." The woman turned her gaze toward Bishop Andre.
The bishop shrugged and spoke. "She heard that the villagers had found peace and wished to visit again."
"Ah, I see," the woman nodded, letting out a hollow exclamation. "Yes. My child is doing well now, too. It would be wonderful if the Saintess could see how much better he is."
Her child... is completely healed? Isis looked bewildered.
Beside her, Aryen's face contorted into a grim scowl. Phantom pain from an amputated limb was not something even a Saintess's divine magic could truly cure. They had only been able to pour out magic to temporarily dull the pain.
"Ah, I've been wanting to repay the Saintess anyway. Why don't we go to my house? You can say hello to my boy."
Isis turned to Bishop Andre, who nodded as if they had no choice but to go.
"Of course. Saintess?"
"...Yes. I would be glad to."
She had a bad feeling. Isis couldn't shake the mounting dread that she shouldn't look at the woman's child. Yet, despite her ominous premonition, her feet were already following the woman deep into the alleys of the settlement.
The stench grew stronger the deeper they ventured into the alleyways. The woman led the way without looking back even once. She stopped in front of a shanty. There was no nameplate—in fact, there wasn't even a door.
The woman gestured for them to wait a moment. Isis, the bishop, and Aryen let out low groans as they stared at the shack, which looked barely large enough to fit four people.
"Dear, the Saintess is here. Come out and greet her," the woman's voice called out to the child.
Isis's heart began to race with tension.
Thud, thud.
There were two sets of footsteps approaching. It was strange. The woman was speaking repeatedly, yet not once did they hear the child reply.
Just as they exchanged uneasy glances at the incongruity, the woman stepped to the doorway with her child.
"See, Saintess? He's completely healed, isn't he?"
Isis's racing heart plummeted to the very bottom of her chest.
She remembered the face of the boy who had wept, begging to be saved. And she remembered his severed right arm.
"..."
The boy was no longer in pain. He didn't open his mouth. No, he was in no condition to open his mouth. Isis forgot how to breathe as she stared at his transformed state.
An arm. In the place where the boy's severed right arm should have been, 'something' had attached itself to replace it.
From that 'something,' very slowly, a substance resembling black flesh was growing, eating away at the right side of the boy's body. It covered half his face, sealing his mouth shut.
"He looks a bit strange right now, but they said he'll return completely to normal in no time! Like a chrysalis before it becomes a butterfly. Isn't it wonderful?"
Completely oblivious to the group's reaction, the woman chirped excitedly.
"This is all thanks to the 'Teacher.'"
The eyes that stared back at Isis were as empty as the night sky from the evening before.