What is a Gospel?
A gospel is a book containing the words of ancient saints. At least, that's the formal definition. Gospels that are packed cover-to-cover with truly profound wisdom are exceedingly rare. Such books are hard to understand in the first place. Even if it starts with "Saint Marcus said~," who the hell is Marcus? No one's getting immersed without context. So they include where he was born, who his parents were, and what feats he accomplished. Only then do the faithful think, "Saint Marcus must be an incredible figure~" and lend an ear to his teachings.
That's why the guidelines for writing gospels were like this: First, include the saint's words that must be recorded. These essentials are rarely omitted or distorted—doing so would cast doubt on the gospel's purity. Once you've filled in the mandatory parts, you can freely embellish the rest to wrap up the book. And this "freely" covered a vast range, since there were no specific qualifications required to write a gospel.
For example, with the scriptures themselves, you absolutely cannot distort or alter the content. The scriptures are perfect and flawless as they are; changing even a single letter profanes their sanctity. But gospels are different. The first gospels were written to spread the words of the Thirteen Saints far and wide. A monk recorded a saint's sayings, lent the book to a friend, who copied it into a new volume and returned the original. That one got lent out again, copied again... Inevitably, the core content stayed intact, but the details shifted.
"Hey, did you see the part where Saint Marcus punishes the centurion?"
"Huh? Centurion? In my copy, it was a barbarian he was punishing."
"Jeez... This is all over the place."
"Eh, who cares about the details! The point is, Marcus punished someone~ Let's have a drink~"
And so, popular bits became canon, while the unpopular ones were relegated to apocrypha.
"...? Who the hell said that crap?"
"Golden Finger Takarion mentioned it?"
"Bullshit! There's no such thing in the official canon!"
"Shut up! What does canon know!"
"???"
In that sense, Takarion was one hell of a guy. A lawless rogue who seized readers' hearts with his divinely inspired penmanship and wielded firepower strong enough to threaten official status with his ironclad fanbase! Takarion was a notorious Saint Marcus stan, naturally portraying him as a demonic superhuman who mocked even the gods. His gospel, penned with freakish skill, left countless monks genuinely awestruck.
But where there's light, there's shadow. While the monks were off washing their smallclothes by the stream... some nameless author published a new gospel. A cozy, slice-of-life healing tale chronicling Saint Garhan's daily routines. The monks devoured the new gospel and soon burst into laughter.
The moment the gospel hit the shelves, mocking letters came flying in like arrows. The author, Count Lumini, could only float question marks over his head. Why the hell was Saint Garhan getting this treatment???
Count Lumini was a devout follower of the Heavenly Faith. His hobby? Reading gospels. One day, after devouring them daily, he got the itch to write and publish his own. He believed Saint Garhan embodied the purest, most transparent life of faith, so he penned a gospel of his feats. Yet Garhan's image plummeted straight to rock bottom.
The culprit? Takarion, that bastard. To hype up Saint Marcus, he'd turned Saint Garhan into a moronic troll!
Lumini felt wronged. To clear the misunderstanding, he frantically wrote sequels packed with Garhan's real accomplishments. But they drew shockingly little interest. Simple reason: Lumini's writing was boring as hell... A true gospel stuffed only with profound words and virtuous deeds! The wholesome aura radiating from every page turned believers away.
For every copy of Lumini's book sold, Takarion's flew off the shelves by the dozens.
"..."
Watching Takarion's books sell like hotcakes, Lumini's heart shattered. Ahh, so envious. I want to be a bestselling gospel author too. Takarion... it was you, the one walking ahead of me. Just seeing you crumbles my world. And it's crumbling right now...!
Lumini's serpent-like envy kept him up at night, growing by the day. The more he thought, the more he hated Takarion. His gospels are total nonsense! Full of absurd crap. So why do people love that junk?!
Lumini's faith was unshakable. He was certain Takarion— who brutally trampled his favorite saint— would face divine retribution. But Takarion not only dodged punishment; he was skyrocketing to superstar author status by the day.
This wasn't right. Takarion deserved punishment. But heaven wouldn't deliver it. So who would punish him?!
"...Me? Am I the only one?"
That was Lumini's conclusion. In heaven's stead, he would rain heavenly judgment on this heretic Takarion! As an imperial count with wealth and leisure to drown a man effortlessly, Lumini deployed money and men to plot Takarion's assassination. First, poisoning disguised as an accident. If that failed, a barbarian ambush.
The count's ambitious first plan had been crushed by the mage Ian... but the barbarian ambush scheme remained fully intact.
"So, to confirm: I just need to take out this Golden Finger Takarion guy, right?"
Lumini nodded at the bearish man before him. "Bearish" wasn't a metaphor— he was literally draped in bearskin.
"Berserker Bjorn."
Berserker, or berserk. Meaning "bearskin wearer." At fourteen, Bjorn felled a massive brown bear with a hand axe alone and made clothes from its pelt. Since then, he'd built a fearsome reputation as an undefeated warrior. His raid into the distant empire wasn't mere chance.
"You got it. Use any method— just make Takarion disappear."
"Sweet. Hope he's a healthy one. As a saint of your sky god, he won't be some weakling, right?"
Bjorn grinned, his black teeth flashing.
"He's really that potent, huh?"
Lumini shot Bjorn a glare of disdain. Potent my ass. What miracle worker is Takarion? To northern barbarians, the Heavenly Faith's saints seemed like mighty ability users— mortals performing godly miracles!
"Among those I know, he's the sneakiest mind-bender. His words ooze poison, his script reeks of corruption..."
"Ooh! Super potent!"
Lumini was just trash-talking Takarion's killer prose. But Bjorn took it as his supernatural power(?). Whoa! The sky god's saint can mesmerize people! Scary potent!
"Alright, I'll drag that bastard back home!"
"..."
The count tilted his head. Why's he obsessed with 'potent'? And dragging him home?
"Do whatever with Takarion— your call. But do you really need to take him alive?"
Slave labor? Takarion was heaven's enemy anyway; he'd be useless.
But Bjorn's next words made Lumini shudder.
"Ah, gonna use him as medicine."
"...Medicine?"
"Yeah. Potent guy like that? Gotta have killer effects."
Even a layman like Lumini knew one thing: turning something into medicine usually meant it didn't stay in one piece...!
Heaven help us!
The count's mind reeled at northern savagery. They worshipped some freakish Ice God, and rumors said it forbade cannibalism.
...Should I call it off now?
His faith squirmed. If he wanted, he could drag these cruel heretics to the gallows en masse. What horrific end awaited Takarion in their hands?!
Hmm.
But on second thought, he just wanted the job done. Takarion was pitiable, sure, but that scum had polluted countless believers' eyes with his blasphemous gospels. He's got sins aplenty. Let him die horribly!
"I'll keep the Swann River clear for now. Head there when it's done."
"Love the decisiveness, Chief!"
Lumini shook hands with the barbarian Bjorn. This was a few days before Takarion's arrival at Drbosi Castle.
Near midnight. In some nameless merchant's home.
With the crisis over, Ian sprawled out haphazardly to rest. The place was a wreck, but he lacked even the energy to lift a finger.
"Ian Gong. Are you alright?"
The monks fussed over Ian's health with utmost sincerity. He'd voluntarily eaten the "poison herb" (tomato) to save them all. It wouldn't be odd if something ached suddenly.
"I'm fine. It wasn't poison anyway."
"Pardon? But that man said it was poison!"
Some naive monks staunchly believed Ian had truly ingested poison.
"I said it wasn't."
"Don't lie! I've heard rumors those red fruits are deadly!"
No matter how Ian explained, they wouldn't hear it.
"You'll definitely feel sick later! Definitely!"
"..."
Curse me why don't you. To some monks, proving their hunch right mattered more than Ian's health.
"Boo-hoo... For our sake... ruining your body..."
"..."
That way, Ian's "sacrifice" shone brighter.
Whatever. Ian bluffed.
"I felt a bit ill, but heaven's protection made me whole again."
"Ooh! A miracle!"
"It's a miracle!"
"Everyone! Let's sing his greatness!"
Hook-line-sinker-Heavenly Faith. In the end, they just wanted to praise the divine. The Almighty watched over Ian~
"I'm beat, so let's crash here tonight and head out at dawn."
"Is that safe? If the barbarians attack..."
"None around here, at least. They didn't prep in advance, so no night raid tonight."
Night assaults weren't for amateurs. You needed thorough recon and as many torches as possible for light. Ian scanned with Umbrakinesis. The mystery of darkness loathed light, making torchbearers easy to spot.
But there were none. No barbarian ambush.
"Escaping takes stamina too. Sleep early, move at dawn."
"Yes... Ian-nim, was it?"
Sister Mionia bowed her head.
"Thank you so much for everything today."
Ian nodded halfheartedly. Even thanks were exhausting. But one thing nagged him.
"Who fixed your habit, by the way?"
Habits were clergy garb; layfolk hesitated to touch them, fearing divine wrath.
"...Ah."
Mionia blushed. She knew her outfit was immodest.
"I... did it myself."
"Oh, DIY? Nice handiwork."
Mionia had braced for harsh rebuke— as a pious soul, she'd expected a lecture on clerical decorum. Praise for her sewing? Baffling.
"Hmm..."
Regardless, Ian's mind wandered oddly. That skill? She could go pro as a designer.
He pictured Lucy in a modified habit for a moment. My, how indecent... But I like it.
Ian seriously mulled recruiting Mionia as a designer.