Sacrifices and Repentance
A gloomy forest untouched by the breath of civilization. A band of figures in blood-dark robes drove a cart along the path.
So heavily laden was the cart that even over the unpaved forest trail it made no clattering sound at all.
In time the group reached the edge of the woods.
…The edge of the woods?
The words made no sense.
The place they had arrived was still choked with dense undergrowth that stretched endlessly onward.
And yet the spot they had reached deserved to be called the forest's end without reservation.
A boundary of darkness had appeared.
Even if the leaves blotted out the sun, the hour was still broad daylight. Not a cloud in the sky — a bright and brilliant day.
Yet not one among them questioned the phenomenon that defied all reason. The power they had gained by dedicating themselves in the name of their god pointed them into the dark. Who would dare commit the sacrilege of opposing the divine will?
Without a flicker of hesitation the group guided the cart forward and stepped into the darkness, swallowed whole.
"…O God."
The man at the head of the procession soon discovered a relief within the gloom, and his face lit with rapture.
A dungeon entrance.
No — that place was no dungeon entrance.
It was the entrance to a temple.
A place to offer living sacrifices with the pure heart of a shepherd, to summon their god upon a land steeped in chaos — a house in which to invite the Apostles who would deliver the sacred voice.
"Brother."
The one who led the group, the one who would preside over the offering of the sacrifice —
Bishop Nikolai turned to look behind him.
"How many sacrifices are to be offered?"
"…Nine."
A powerfully built young man lifted the cloth covering the cart.
"Mmph!! Mmmph!!"
There, bound tight and laid out side by side, were people frozen in terror.
Ropes braided from hair and hide. Dark bruises. Yet not a single limb among the sacrifices was missing or ruined.
First-rate offerings, ideal for presentation to their god.
"Randolph of Geochang. Truly worthy of the Archbishop's interest. To prepare sacrifices in such fine condition."
"……You flatter me."
The young man, Randolph, bowed his head and replaced the cover.
The sturdy brother who had converted three years prior possessed black hair and black eyes rarely seen in this southern conflict zone.
Word had it he unleashed strength that put the other brothers to shame and disposed of those eyesores, the heretics of the Holy Kingdom — a reputation so loud within the order itself that even Nikolai, who had entered the god's embrace earlier, found himself nursing jealousy.
Impious thoughts.
Nikolai shook his head hard, trying to cast off the foul notion. To harbor envy toward a brother in the very palace of God — the divine was testing him still, even after he had become a bishop.
"Let us go in."
Nikolai turned his back and entered the temple.
Indeed, this place was no dungeon. It was a temple.
As they descended deep underground, Nikolai and every member of the order felt a gentle warmth well up through their bodies. The authority of their god.
"Oh… ohhh!"
Nikolai felt a hot pressure rise behind his eyes. He had sent sacrifices to the god's side countless times, yet this swelling of the heart never grew familiar.
Everyone present shed tears.
The brothers of the order wept from rapture.
The sacrifices wept as terror ate their hearts hollow.
But there was exactly one person who did not weep at all.
Whoosh—
After walking a while longer, a wind stirred and a wide chamber opened before them.
Black flames lined the walls, and between them stood an altar of stone.
"Place the sacrifices upon the altar."
Nikolai drew a handkerchief from his robes and wiped his tears.
Then he produced an obsidian dagger from within his garments.
Nikolai could part a man's flesh and draw out the entrails with his bare hands, yet he deliberately chose a tool. Before God he could not commit the barbarous sacrilege of forgoing implements.
Kuoohhh!
As if resonating with that very resolve, the obsidian dagger flashed and began to devour the sacrifices' terror.
A murky aura was sucked into the blade, and at last every sacrifice lay upon the altar.
Now he need only open their chests with this darkness-wreathed knife…
…I nearly forgot.
Nikolai caught himself. Drawing so near to God had left him giddy, and he had almost skipped the intervening rites.
Still gripping the dagger, Nikolai dropped to his knees on the stone floor.
"One prostration."
"One prostration!"
"Two prostrations."
"Two prostrations!"
Nikolai, Randolph, and the rest of the brothers began slamming their heads against the floor. Thud— thud— thudthudthudthudthud! When the count reached seven they finally raised their heads and fixed their gazes forward.
Nikolai's pulse quickened. His breath grew ragged. Hurry, hurry! He wanted to part the sacrifices' flesh and tear out their hearts.
"O God! Unto You we offer these sacrifi—"
But Nikolai could not finish the words.
What is that.
Suspecting a hallucination, Nikolai narrowed his eyes.
"Thanks for the warm welcome."
A sacrifice that by all rights should have been lying neatly in place was looking down at Nikolai from atop the altar.
What the hell is that.
Black eyes, black hair — Nikolai knew that face. Moments ago the man had been one of the naked sacrifices bound in the cart.
But the sacrifice was neither bound nor naked now. The offering that had slipped its restraints wore the very attire Nikolai loathed above all else.
The priestly vestments of a heretic.
Blood vessels burst in Nikolai's eyes.
"YOU BASTAAAARD!!!"
Roaring with rage, Nikolai poured darkness into the dagger.
He had to cut down this blasphemous intruder at once.
How the man had broken the curse-bindings did not matter. A dog of the Holy Kingdom, daring — daring to cry the name of a god who never answered —!
To interrupt a sacred rite. I'll flay you alive and make your death as agonizing as possible.
Clatter—
Murderous intent did not boil in Nikolai alone. The brothers behind him seethed as well, drawing darkness-wreathed weapons from their robes.
"What are you standing around for? Daylight's burning."
But the sacrifice paid no mind to their fury. The sacrifice — Shiron — smirked at the cultists and spat on the floor.
Nikolai's blood reversed course in his veins. To defile a temple that must be kept pure at all costs — tadatadak! The brothers charged in a line straight at the man who needed killing. Straight at Shiron.
…They're really going for it. As if rushing me one at a time isn't bad enough.
One, two, three-four-five. And one ringleader.
Shiron assessed the enemy's strength and drew the Holy Sword from his chest. Kiiiiing— As the Holy Sword slid free it began to radiate light that annihilated demonic power.
He took a half-step back and thrust the Holy Sword at the foremost foe.
Nothing special about the technique — but blinded by the glare, the first enemy could not evade Shiron's blade.
Crunch— The Holy Sword shattered the enemy's skull. He twisted the sword's path. Explosive power surged through his arm. The head could not withstand the force and tore clean away.
Thud!
The severed head smashed into the second man's skull. The two heads collided and burst at the same instant.
Two down.
But it was not over. However thoroughly the light from the Holy Sword destroyed demonic power, the remaining enemies were beginning to adapt. Staggering, then locking ranks again — they charged once more.
By then, however, Shiron was already a good distance away.
He set a hand to his shoulder and drew a spear. What emerged was Ornoth, the Spear of Fire. It lacked the Holy Sword's power to annihilate the demonic, but it was a useful piece of kit all the same.
Hup!
Using the elastic force of his entire body, he hurled the spear. Whoosh! Roaring flames streaked toward the enemy. The Spear of Fire punched through one foe. And it did not stop there. Having pierced its first target, the spear lost none of its force and burned through the man behind him as well.
Two left. One of them the ringleader of the pack.
"Ghk!"
But even without Shiron lifting a finger, the enemies dwindled to one. Nikolai must have offered his own comrade as a sacrifice to the obsidian dagger.
"Brother… may you find a better place."
Nikolai drew the dagger free, tears streaming. The grief was genuine, unmixed with hypocrisy.
"Lunatic."
Shiron spat the word and sprinted toward the enemy. Mid-run he drew a dagger of his own and threw it. The obsidian that had fed on a sacrifice extended darkness of its own accord. Clang— Even without any particular swordsmanship from Nikolai, the darkness answered.
"Tch…"
Shiron checked his charge and stopped. Not from fear — the darkness reacted faster than he had imagined.
"Kahaha! Behold the authority of God!"
"Son of a bitch."
Shiron broke into a cold sweat. He had faced bishops wielding authority a few times in the past, but back then the Blessing of Wrath had been active. Without it, this opponent was a little tricky. Which was not to say he had no options at all.
"Hoo…"
He would create the conditions for the Blessing of Wrath to trigger. Shiron pulled a handkerchief from his coat and clenched it between his teeth. He gripped the Holy Sword's hilt as hard as his jaw was clamped.
Tadatadak!
Shiron charged Nikolai head-on, stubborn and straight. His footwork was nothing special and his physical ability was not transcendent, so the oncoming darkness began easily tearing open his skin.
Hurts like hell.
But the pain made him angry. He wanted to kill that bastard right now. The blood in his chest boiled and churned; the soaring blood pressure left him slightly dizzy.
Pak, pang! Kwang!
With every step his leaps grew stronger. The ground cratered. From upper left to lower right, light carved a clean diagonal line.
"Ah…"
A line of light was drawn across Nikolai's body, darkness and all. Softly, softly — crimson blood welled up along the path the light had traced, and with a soft thud an arm fell away, followed by Nikolai's upper body toppling to the floor.
"Gyaaaaaaagh!"
The searing heat arrived late, and Nikolai screamed. In his eyes he could still see his lower half standing there stupidly.
And beside it, a blood-soaked young man.
"Ugh. Shut up."
Shiron muttered irritably and walked toward Nikolai. Darkness surged from the hand that still clutched the dagger, but the Holy Sword's light drove it back.
The light was so blinding that Nikolai tried to close his eyes. But before he could shut them fully, countless cutting strokes carved themselves before him.
Light banished the darkness, and at last the dark subsided. Nikolai was thoroughly, completely dead.
"Bastard…"
Shiron swore and flared the Holy Sword's light to its fullest. Fwoooosh— The filth clinging to the blade was wrapped in sacred flame and burned away without leaving so much as a pinch of ash.
Then he drove the sword back into his chest.
The reason for sheathing the Holy Sword again was nothing elaborate. Partly to keep anyone from knowing of its existence — but more than that, the work ahead did not require it.
Shiron looked at the cultists' corpses crumbling into ash. Amid the remains, something glittered in the light of the burning spear and caught his eye.
He dropped to one knee in a hurry. Sifting through the heap of ash, he closed his fingers around a shard of black glass.
◈ A shard left behind by a heretical deity
◈ One of the materials gathered over five years of thankless work
"…Heh heh."
Shiron's shoulders began to shake with laughter.
The Fragment of the Wicked God — one of the material items he had spent the past five years collecting through every kind of miserable nonsense.
"Finally…"
Shiron felt a crooked smile pull at the corners of his mouth. This was no act, no performance — an expression of joy rising straight from the heart.
"I can go home."
"…Sir."
"I can go home."
"My lord."
"…Hoo."
"M-my lord."
"What."
Shiron scowled and whipped his head around. There stood a large man who could not meet his eyes, his face rigid with fear.
"What is it, Randolph."
"I… I… may I leave now?"
Randolph of Geochang. A man a full head taller than Shiron was now wearing the most abject expression imaginable before a youth at least ten years his junior.
"I… I did everything just as my lord instructed."
"Mm…"
"M-my lord said so yourself. That if I guided them to the temple, you would let me go. Didn't you? And under my lord's teaching I have sincerely repented as well."
"Is that so. Didn't you just shed tears in front of the altar?"
"If I hadn't cried they would have suspected me too— AAAAAAGH!!"
Randolph screamed and began bawling like a little girl. In the blink of an eye two of his fingers had been broken.
"A-aagh!"
"Talking back? You already know the only words you're supposed to say."
"I-I'm sorry. I was wrong!"
Randolph dropped hard to his knees and clutched the hem of Shiron's trousers. The motion had not passed through his brain. His spine had folded him to the floor on pure reflex. His body knew that irritating this madman's temper would bring still worse pain.
He thought of the brothers dying moments ago without even a chance to resist, and felt a flicker of envy.
"I changed my mind."
Shiron looked down at Randolph clinging to his pant leg and broke into a broad smile.
"We're going to the Hall of Penance."
"…What?"
"We're going to the Holy Empire so you can repent properly."
"Th-that's not what you said. I'll die. They'll burn me at the stake."
"Relax. That's all old news. Lately the Holy Empire has been actively encouraging the conversion of heretics. But first."
Crack—
Shiron's fist slammed into Randolph's head.
Thwack! Crack!
Randolph could not grasp what was happening to him.
Why… why was he hitting him? Hadn't he said he was sending him to the Hall of Penance? Wasn't it over?
Howling, Randolph worked his lips.
"Wh-what are you doing?"
"What does it look like. Wiping your memory. You colluded with me, remember?"
Shiron kept striking Randolph's head until the man lost consciousness.