The Wickedness That Defiles Purity (2)
The gods had become remnants of a distant, uncertain past, their very existence shrouded in doubt. Faith had turned into a commodity bought and sold, and the mortals' debauchery had spiraled far beyond all bounds. Whenever Lenoir confronted this reality, he often fell into contemplation. What would his long-lost siblings make of the world now? They had all once been revered as demigods, beings more devout than any other, forged from the essence of the divine.
On the day the mythic age ended, one had despaired and entered eternal slumber. Another had vanished, dreaming of endless vengeance. Yet another had retreated into some unknown abyss, turning away from the world. For such souls, the answers were lost forever. All that remained was to sift through their lingering traces and infer fragments of the ancient past.
This was but an extension of such tales.
"Hailerr. You might have taken some grim delight in this, I wager."
Lenoir had arrived at the temple of Orin. It was still midday, and the faithful streamed in and out in great numbers, outnumbered only by the priests. These were the very people the gods had once cherished. And yet, they had become this.
On the day all demigods were forsaken, Hailerr—the noble son of strife—had raged louder than any, unleashing his hatred upon the world. He had sworn to plunge them into an abyss of endless despair, howling like a madman. Lenoir had never forgotten him, or rather, his folly.
"You need not have lifted a finger. Even without some orchestrated doom, they march steadfastly toward ruin. Designed for it, one might say."
Speaking to himself felt no awkwardness, nor futility. If only someone might overhear and deem him strange—Lenoir would gladly escort that soul from the temple, for remembering purity untainted.
But none did. As he strode the long corridor inward, no ear caught his words.
"When I behold them, doubt stirs within me—a blasphemy near to irreverence now. Why did our Parent craft beings capable only of self-destruction, then love them? My narrow vision yields no answer."
There must have been reason enough for divine love, enough to rend their own hearts. Yet even after centuries, Lenoir found none. The more he sought to understand mortals, the deeper his contempt for their base natures grew.
Hailerr might have reveled in this sight. Perhaps even now, somewhere, he savored it as a detached observer. Lenoir knew nothing of his end; their last encounter, a fleeting brush some two centuries past, offered no clues.
Strictly speaking, the Orin Church's troubles were none of his affair. But if they obstructed the goddess cult's founding—and dared defile Sara—that changed everything.
Lenoir reached the church's heart. The stench of apostasy, wafting from afar, peaked here. The chamber evoked a king's throne room. Its occupants, by ill chance, discussed the goddess cult.
"No further word on this goddess cult business?"
"Only that Pterin meddled... that's all we know."
"That vulgar merchant scum dares stir the pot. Hiding behind 'cult founding' nonsense—pathetic."
"What shall we do, Your Holiness?"
From that title, Lenoir gleaned the throne's occupant ruled the church. The pope spat his displeasure.
"The winds blow ill. Hilton's branch head returned raving mad, and our district's overrun by those dregs."
"I beg your forgiveness, Your Holiness."
"What would Orin make of this, I wonder."
To Lenoir, it was utter blasphemy. The old man comported himself as a god.
The church's standing should hinge on devotion to the Master's words.
He was no true proxy, only a fool who fancied himself master.
"Handle it quietly. I'll petition the king on Pterin."
"You mean...?"
"Enlighten those deluded by the goddess cult's vain whispers."
Lenoir could bear no more.
"How dare you utter the word 'Immaculate'?"
"What—who are you! Since when...!"
"I granted you no leave to speak."
Thud!
"Mmph...!"
As the middle-aged priest spoke, Lenoir's divinity silenced him. He clawed at throat and mouth in panic, but unpermitted words would not emerge. Nearby priests fared no better, flailing wordlessly, rooted in place.
The pope rose swiftly from his throne despite his frailty—clearly plotting some counter. Lenoir spoke.
"Wretched old fiend. I asked why you dared invoke the Immaculate. Know you not that only answers are permitted you?"
Crunch!
"Urgh...! What sorcery...!"
The pope's motions halted. His eyes trembled aimlessly. Lenoir restrained him—tedious, but no need for Authority yet. Even false god's followers boasted power befitting a leader; the man glared defiance through shudders.
"You... you're the one behind the goddess cult...!"
"That was not the question."
"Foooool!!!"
Rumble...!!!
The pope's roar set the air quivering murderously. Holy knights from the depths swarmed in. Lenoir watched impassively as their numbers swelled near a hundred—crimson-trimmed white-armored elites, crests emblazoned on breastplates. The capital's guard alone numbered thus.
Lenoir sighed shortly.
"Why clutch the sword meant for God's will to your breast alone?"
Hoards for self-preservation? True holy knights existed to scour threats from the lowly, never lingering in one place. Even Immaculate Fate's order had kept but twenty aides at the temple—trainees excluded—from a thousand. And this petty heresy in the provinces dared more?
Contempt twisted the pope's face, thick as mire. He sneered.
"Orin foresaw scum like you threatening us."
Lenoir replied.
"Blasphemy. Think you your god's sanctity so frail, swayed by a lone assassin? If true, he merits not the name."
"Sophist fool! Strike him down!"
Shing—!
Holy knights charged, blades drawn. The scene turned frantic in an instant—at least, had Lenoir not stood there.
"Enough."
Whiiiine—!
A golden halo bloomed behind Lenoir.
"Wretched old fiend. You who sit in blasphemy's seat."
Thrum. A brief vibration.
"I have yet to hear why your tongue reviled the Immaculate."
Screeech!
Space itself began to warp.
At the mansion where Sara and Lenoir resided, Sara—fresh from snacks—and Rnier sat facing each other. Greetings passed briskly. Sara viewed gold-bestowing Rnier most favorably; Rnier, beholding Sara's peerless beauty, felt worries melt away.
"So you'll be my teacher from now on, miss! Please take care of me—I'll study super hard!"
"Try calling me 'master' instead of miss? Ah, casual speech okay? Feels weird going formal suddenly. Just when we're alone."
"Of course! With such a big-hearted miss... er, master, Sara can handle all the informal talk you want!"
"Secret from the lord?"
"Duh! Obviously!"
Her sparkling eyes evoked a pup eyeing treats. Rnier knew education demanded apt rewards and punishments. No need to take the hard road.
Clink!
A gold coin rolled across the table to Sara. She squealed, clutching it tight. Rnier savored the vibrant reaction.
"Study hard, and there might be more rewards?"
"What do we study first, master?"
Melting dreamily, Sara prompted Rnier's sly smile.
"Likely humanities mainly. I mentioned to Astirnus—etiquette and mindset stem from depth of learning, after all."
"Humanities what?"
"Ah, starting from basics. Hmm..."
Rumor held she'd grown in the slums—knowledge sparse, literacy first. Explaining proved tricky; Rnier recalled Lenoir's left-behind tome, Dirge for the Dead Gods, nearby. She fetched it for Sara.
"Studying means reading books like this and grasping their meaning."
"Joo-geun... si-neul wi-han... jang-su-gok?"
"Dirge for the Dead Gods."
"..."
"Start with the title's meaning. Tough words?"
"Hehe..."
Sara scratched her head, grinning sheepishly. Rnier's vision darkened briefly, but she hid it.
Sara asked, "What's this book about?"
"An ancient novel. Hmm..."
Then Rnier grasped why her own teachers all said the same introducing it.
"Legend says it was penned by one of the gods' trueborn children from ages past."
"Ooh...?"
No hook like that: dead gods, divine offspring, dirge. Each keyword screamed intrigue. Study thrives on interest, and this child seemed hooked.
Or so Rnier thought—till Sara burst out.
"I know this! Demigod! It's a demigod, right?"
"Pardon?"
"The lord told me! Long ago, gods made people directly!"
Ah, that how he'd taught classics? Sara bobbed her head, pleased; then queried.
"But what's a demigod do exactly? The lord always dodges: 'Too vast a concept to explain simply.'"
Her Lenoir impression was adorable. Separately, his evasion was masterful. Rnier pondered. Explaining a dubious god-child?
Recalling an old jest:
"Ah, right."
She'd heard such tales once.
"The first to invent magic."
"Huh?"
"That's the story. Legend, of course."
Sara's eyes widened huge.