Chapter 484: Proof of Existence (72)
Chapter 484: Proof of Existence (72)
The duel between the Saint and the Sword Duke.
On that day, had not a portion of the mountain range the Holy Kingdom so prided itself on crumbled away?
Survival was impossible.
It was a natural conclusion. No matter how much one tried to restore their flesh, if the body was erased without a trace, resurrection was out of the question.
It was a strike that could pulverize a mountain.
There was no way a mere human body could withstand it.
Everyone knew this fact. And yet, for some reason, the man remained.
He stood his ground, leaning on his sword.
His chest rose and fell as his breathing stabilized. He closed his eyes, and finally, leveled his sword’s point forward.
The screams echoing from all directions died down.
They were terrified and wanted to flee.
Yet, strangely, every single person in the crowd of tens of thousands was fixated on the man.
The storm was approaching.
*
The Saintess watched the confrontation between the two men with trembling eyes.
When Ian had been resurrected from the brink of death and stood by her side, she had intended to stop him through her tears.
She wanted to tell him to stop, that it was useless.
Her end was already decided. No matter how desperately Ian struggled, it would only increase his agony. How could she bear to watch the man she loved suffer death hundreds of times over?
Furthermore, Ian was already at his limit.
Not his body, but his mind. No matter how resilient a human was, there were limits.
He must want to cry.
He must have wanted to quit long ago, to give up.
She couldn't understand why he remained so stubborn, so she asked him through her sobs.
Why are you going this far for me?
Inwardly, she wanted to ask him again.
How much more must I love you to be satisfied?
How much deeper must I fall for you? My heart already feels like it will burst just by looking at you.
There were many times she had hidden her hands behind her back, fidgeting with her fingers because she was embarrassed by the sound of her pounding heart. It was her first love, but the Saintess could confidently declare that she adored him with all her soul.
How could she possibly like him more than this?
As if mocking her thoughts, the man had completely seized her spirit. Because of that, the Saintess suffered from the feeling that she was truly going mad.
Ian was going to die.
It was a tragedy she didn't even want to imagine. But the momentum the Saint was gathering was, even at a glance, extraordinary.
She couldn't expect him to survive a direct hit from that strike.
Should she beg and plead?
She dismissed the thought. She had already tried countless times, but the Saint was a man of iron. He would not bend his will for a personal plea.
Then, how?
What could she possibly do to save Ian?
Driven to the absolute brink, the Saintess’s jaw trembled, her teeth clattering together. She wanted to bite her nails in anxiety, but her hands were still bound.
Think, think.
Every time she repeated those words, her mind accelerated to its limit. Countless images flashed before her eyes.
Then, a calm voice suddenly brushed past her ear.
“Prove it yourself.”
Prove what? the Saintess wanted to ask back.
“Prove who you are… The path is always there. It is simply that no one has ever walked it, so it is not called a ‘path.’ Begging and pleading will not create a path where none exists.”
The path is already there?
Where on earth was it? Would it kill him to just point it out?
I want to save Ian.
Please, please tell me the answer.
She didn't care if she died a thousand or ten thousand times.
If only she could save the man she loved!
“Then, I must show obedience.”
Another voice raced through her white-hot mind.
Obedience?
Was this hopeless fight his destiny? Did ‘obedience’ mean shedding endless blood and sacrificing his life in vain for her?
“That makes no sense…!”
Screams, struggles, outcries.
She didn't have the luxury to vent any of them. The tangled threads of her jumbled thoughts suddenly swept through a single memory.
One day, she had spoken to the man she loved.
“First, the ‘Doctrinal Trial.’ You can assume most people receive this trial.”
Yes, that was it.
Ian had not forgotten her words.
“Second, the ‘Honor Trial’! It’s a trial held in memory of the Great Sage Arius, who led the charge and slaughtered Omeros’s army during the ancient God-Demon War.”
The Saintess bit her lip hard. The blood that flowed out carried a metallic scent, but she didn't care.
She felt like strangling her past self for talking so boastfully.
If only she hadn't told him about the trials, Ian wouldn't have stepped forward so recklessly.
She would have just died quietly, and that would have been the end of it!
She was resentful and full of regret. In that moment, another sentence flashed through her mind.
“And the final trial is…”
Snap. As if a power switch had been flipped, the Saintess’s mind went blank.
All the stories intertwined. Memories and recollections, advice and warnings blended together to reveal a single path.
Like a firework exploding.
Having finally found the answer, the Saintess cried out in haste.
“…Stop!”
It was a voice squeezed out from her very limits. The two men were already on the verge of collision.
She didn't know if her feeble cry would reach them, but she gave it everything she had.
The Saintess squeezed her lungs and screamed.
“I told you all… to stop!”
It was a high-pitched, piercing shriek.
For a fleeting moment, the Saint’s eyes flickered toward her. The same went for the tens of thousands in the crowd and the Judges standing atop the high cliffs.
But it was only a momentary distraction.
They had no intention of investing much interest in this powerless, pitiful sinner. After all, the ones who decided the fate of those standing here were the two men facing each other.
The Saintess found that utterly unacceptable.
This is my trial.
It’s my destiny, and the sin I must bear.
Nothing else matters!
Suppressing the urge to scream those thoughts, the Saintess raised her voice to its absolute limit.
“…The ‘Purification Trial’!”
It was a sudden shout.
But the effect of those words was more powerful than anything else. Immediately, the surroundings fell into a profound silence.
Even the Saint flinched, his momentum subsiding.
A ‘Purification Trial.’
It was a regulation that had been discarded so long ago that few even remembered the tradition. Most only knew of its existence vaguely.
Because no one ever requested it.
At the top of the sheer cliff, the Pope’s brow furrowed slightly.
“…What did you say?”
“As a sinner standing before the Mountain Court… I exercise my rightful authority to request a ‘Purification Trial’!”
Silence fell once more.
The crowd began to whisper, glancing at one another. They seemed to be sharing what little knowledge they had of the ‘Purification Trial.’
But there was no need for that.
The nature of the Purification Trial was simpler than any other.
The sinner is placed upon a pyre; if they survive the fire, they are innocent.
If they burn to death, they are guilty.
It was a method of asking God, not man, for the verdict.
The ‘Doctrinal Trial’ and the ‘Honor Trial’ were merely trials by human hands.
However, the ‘Purification Trial’ was the only one where guilt or innocence was decided by God. For that reason, it was the most respected form of trial and held the highest priority among the three religious trials.
Naturally, it took precedence over the ‘Honor Trial.’
Of course, this ‘Purification Trial’ had a fatal flaw.
“…Sinner, surely you know? To this day, no one who has requested a ‘Purification Trial’ has survived! The will of the Lord is like the sun; it shines everywhere, but it does not tolerate even a speck of sin.”
“Even so, I wish to ask!”
Gritting her teeth, the Saintess staggered to her feet.
Her pale pink eyes were burning with intensity.
“If not, are you saying that one forsaken by the Lord cannot even ask for His will?!”
The Pope let out a low groan and glanced at the Saint.
The Saint, who had been so agitated, had now regained a look of indifference and was withdrawing his power. On the other hand, the man on the opposite side was kneeling on the spot, coughing up blood.
Upon hearing the Saintess’s words, the man’s face crumbled in despair. Though he couldn't find the strength to shout, he was speaking with his eyes with all his heart.
Don’t do it.
But the Saintess only gave him a faint smile and a brief glance.
No one has ever survived?
If she could die alone, it was exactly what she wanted.
The Saintess moistened her parched lips with saliva.
“…Very well, sinner of tragic fate. As a creature who cannot dare to fathom the Lord’s intent, it is the natural right of all believers to ask for His will. However, before we prepare the holy rite, who are you that seeks to ask for the Lord’s will?”
“The Nameless One!”
Thump! As the Pope struck the ground, the Mountain Court vibrated and echoed once more.
With a face full of feigned dignity, the Pope reenacted the solemn tradition.
“Fine, Nameless One! Then, what is it you wish to ask the Lord?”
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me! (Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani!)”
Thump! The earth shook once more.
At the end of all the questions and answers.
Silence descended along with the moonlight. Tens of thousands of pairs of eyes silently watched the Pope’s mouth.
And just after someone gulped down their dry saliva.
“…In accordance with the ancient laws of the Mountain Court, I hereby declare the opening of the ‘Purification Trial’!”
The first Purification Trial in centuries had begun.
So that a forsaken lamb might ask for the will of the Lord.