Old Faith (2)
“......It’s more bland than I thought.”
Following Isaac’s orders, Randolf and Carlson only used violence against those who posed a direct threat. They didn’t even need to draw their swords. Most of the heretics who professed faith in the Goddess of Fire were vagrants who had scraped by in the sewers or slums. Once Randolf seized one and beat him into a pulp, the rest scattered in terror.
“The goddess will curse you if you turn away from her! The curse will......!”
No one paid any heed to the old woman’s desperate warning.
“Anyone who wants to die, come at me. I’ll send you off before you even feel the pain.”
As Randolf drew his sword and unleashed his aura, the crowd, overcome by his killing intent, fled the catacombs without a care if the old woman was trampled underfoot.
“I wondered what kind of fanatics had ensnared Nears. Just blind beggars after all.”
Randolf let out a hollow chuckle as he watched the heretics flee like the ebbing tide.
“Someone must’ve cooked up this religion on purpose. Can you stand?”
Carlson handed the fallen old woman her staff. Her face was a bloody mess, and she merely clutched it while staring blankly into space.
“There’s really nothing here, huh? Except for the meat lumps they treat as sacrifices.”
After thoroughly searching the room where the heretics had conducted their ritual, Bill reported back.
“Check the other rooms too.”
Isaac glanced around the chamber, its floor stained with dried blood. It was the largest stone room in the catacombs. Crusted bloodstains mottled the surfaces everywhere, swarmed by flies and maggots. Being relatively warmer underground than aboveground, it was an ideal breeding ground for insects. Beetles, cockroaches, ants—countless bugs had made their homes in every nook.
“At least it’s paradise for the bugs.”
Randolf clicked his tongue at the sight of the feasting insects. He wanted nothing more than to escape this nightmare right now, but they hadn’t yet found what they came for.
“What do we do with these two?”
Randolf nodded toward the pulpified vagrant and the old woman as he asked Isaac.
“Take them with us once the search is done.”
“Got it.”
Isaac and the other three combed through every corner of the catacombs. They sought just one thing: evidence linking it to the Old Faith.
It started around this time.
The heretic group that would later gnaw at the Goethe family under the name ‘Dark Cult.’ The Old Faith’s growing influence in Goethe stemmed from them. Their bizarre murders and incomprehensible rituals spread fear among Bernsi’s citizens. The biggest beneficiary was the Old Faith. They summoned inquisitors to root out the Dark Cult’s zealots, held public burnings in the plazas, and declared a holy war. As part of their charitable works, they provided food and education to the domain’s people, gradually winning hearts away from the lord himself. It was only natural for folk to favor the bishop dispensing mercy before their eyes over a distant lord hunkered down in his fortress, guarding the territory.
From then on, the bishop began making outrageous demands of the count: double the monthly tithes, supply laborers for church expansion amid an ongoing defense war, deploy serfs for ecclesiastical corvée. The results were food shortages and failed fortress defenses.
Nears’s black magic obsession and the Dark Cult share many traits. Both invoke souls and flaunt cannibalism.
Randolf and Pfeil had merely extorted Nears’s group for cash—they had no idea where the money came from. Slave trading, they claimed, but selling just one or two a month couldn’t supply two companies of soldiers.
That’s where Isaac’s deductions began. Nears was running some other operation unknown to Randolf or Pfeil. And the silver coins the knights extorted were minted by the royal family themselves, with high silver content. Not just once or twice—every time, the same coins, per Randolf’s testimony. Where could Nears source such quality currency in bulk? The questions piled up. Isaac pieced together the scattered intel like a puzzle. A way for Nears to regularly obtain royal-minted good coin. Only one possibility fit the clues: ties between Nears, the Dark Cult, and the Old Faith.
“Nothing.”
“We’ve searched with our eyes peeled—zilch. You sure you’re on the right track?”
Randolf and Bill reported in. Carlson shook his head, empty-handed as well.
“Is that so.”
Isaac considered the chance his reasoning was off. Where had he gone wrong? As he retraced his thoughts—
“Enough, let’s go. Where’s your home?”
“Honey, where are we? Don’t hit me, please.”
“......?”
As Kyle tried to lift the seated old woman, she muttered something nonsensical.
“Wh-what’s happening? Please, don’t kill me, please.”
Seeing the dismembered corpses, half-rotted bodies, and skeletons, she curled up, trembling. This was a far cry from the frenzied woman shrieking invocations to her goddess. Yellow urine leaked from between her legs.
“The old hag’s senile?”
Bill tsked in disbelief.
“Please, spare me. Deacon, save me. My husband beats me to death. Save me. Oh, apostle of the goddess. Deliver us. Save us.”
The old woman begged piteously for her life in a frail voice, her memories flickering in and out.
“Grandma, where’s your home?”
Isaac asked.
“......Ha.”
“Crazy.”
“My god.”
Bernsi’s southern slums, not far from the red-light district—a ramshackle house where the creaky wooden floors screamed with every step. In its attic, Isaac’s group found a chest. Inside were stacks of royal-minted coins and silver ingots. Thousands of coins by rough count, dozens of ingots. Enough to buy a knightly title and have change left over.
“Where the hell did this much money come from......?”
Randolf, who held a sub-baronetcy himself, felt the sum more acutely than Bill or Carlson. It could buy two or three estates like his own. While the three gaped in shock, Isaac’s lips curled in satisfaction.
They couldn’t test the silver content here. But the coins bore the crisp royal insignia—a lion’s mane textured down to the finest strand. No counterfeiter could match that craftsmanship.
Isaac’s theory had proven true. Goethe now had cause to sever ties with the Old Faith.
“Sister, sister? Are you there?”
Then, a young man’s voice rose from downstairs. Randolf and Carlson exchanged sharp glances. Isaac peered through a crack in the attic floorboards. Snake-like eyes, patchy goatee. A familiar face.
“Ah, apostle.”
The old woman, lying on her sickbed, gazed blankly at the goateed visitor. He wore Old Faith priestly robes.
“How did it go? Did you meet the goddess?”
“I did.”
The old woman smiled serenely. The goatee took her hand.
“Then, was the ritual a success?”
“Ah... that is......”
Her smile faded. Suddenly, her eyes widened.
“Demons! Demons! They desecrated the altar and slaughtered the faithful. Apostle, grant us another miracle......!”
“Demons, you say? Tell me more, sister.”
The goatee’s face hardened. He shook her hand, urging details, but her eyes shifted abruptly.
“Deacon, deacon—my husband’s beating me to death. Save me.”
“......Damn it.”
The goatee released her hand. No point in a senile woman with fractured memories. He muttered through gritted teeth.
“What kind of bastards......”
Creeeak— A noise from the ceiling. The ancient floorboards parted with a groan. Too heavy for rats or cats. Someone was in the attic.
The goatee quietly gathered mana at his fingertips. Per Old Faith doctrine, magic was the sole privilege of clergy. All else was heresy. Of course, political realities left countless impurities in the kingdom. But they would be purged, one by one. A holy endeavor.
His eyes flicked to the old woman. Senile and useless now. If secrets leaked from here, it was over. The attic’s riches were a pity, but the Old Faith was wealthy. They’d spare no support if needed.
Whoosh— Flames ignited around his gathered mana. His chosen method: purify this place with holy fire.
But the flames he’d kindled failed to spread anywhere.
A cold, sharp edge pressed against his throat.
“They say demons hide in the light.”
Carlson, blade to the goatee’s neck from behind, spoke.
“Wh-who are you?”
“Move wrong, and your head flies.”
The goatee dispersed his mana and raised both hands.
“Sp-spare me. If you kill me, the Papal Court won’t stand idly by.”
His eyes darted frantically. Then, before him—
Creak, creak. A boy descended the attic ladder.
“Now I remember. Hello, Deacon Silvio. Been well?”
“......”
Deacon Silvio’s eyes widened at the boy.
“First time seeing you since old Elder Johansen’s deathbed prayer, I think.”
Isaac smiled as he said it.
Deacon Silvio had done his best, in his own way. He’d prayed endlessly not to kneel before heretics’ might. But soon he sighed in defeat. How frail the flesh, how treacherous the heart. He beseeched his god to shield him from the heretics’ violence. God offered no reply until his patience snapped—and it broke far sooner than he’d imagined. He began cursing a god who wouldn’t save him. Then cursing the bishop who’d orchestrated it all.
Deacon Silvio’s entire spiritual unraveling took just three punches from Carlson.
Carlson rarely resorted to violence. He didn’t even shout.
“You think anyone’ll thank you for this?”
“Keep your mouth shut, and your bosses’ll be thrilled. Clean tail-docking.”
“I’ll tell you what happens till you open up. Learned plenty from your inquisitors. You know best: nails and toenails yanked one by one, then teeth. Toes snapped next, bone by bone. Then rip your asshole and let rats gnaw it.”
Carlson’s voice was calm, steady—chilling. The process sounded vividly real, like he’d witnessed it. What terrified Silvio most was Carlson’s utter conviction. Murderous glint in his eyes.
“Why do I know so well? Huh? I’d chew up every Old Faith bastard and still not be sated. Folks outside might show a shred of mercy waiting for your testimony. Me? Not a sliver. I wanna see how far your precious faith holds.”
Demon. That’s what Carlson looked like to Silvio. Each perfectly timed punch amid peaking terror hurt dozens of times worse. After three, he felt like his body was minced mush. He’d glimpsed his own depths.
“Sp-spare me. I-I’ll tell everything. Please, no more......”
Deacon Silvio whimpered.
When Isaac arrived at the underground dungeon, the goateed deacon was extremely cooperative.
“What’d you do to get him like that?”
“Just smacked him a few times, and he cracked.”
Carlson shrugged at Isaac’s question.
“Guess his faith’s a bit lacking.”