Chapter 23: Why Must I Die Like This?
"Why! Why did it end up like this! All because I didn't pay taxes? Or because I lived in the slums?!"
At the young man's cry, a sinister figure stepped forward. He was a heretic inquisitor, representing the Holy Church.
He jabbed the tip of his spear into the young man's abdomen.
"Hah! Where do you get off lying like that! Aren't you a demon spreading the Worm Pest?"
"N-No! I'm not!"
"Behold, everyone! Now we execute this demon! And with its death, the plague ravaging this city will vanish!"
"Ooooooh!"
As the heretic inquisitor spread his arms wide and began his speech, the crowd gathered in the square erupted in cheers.
The young man shuddered at the sight of those citizens. They all looked thrilled. Every one of them stared at him with bloodshot eyes and twisted grins, their faces like those possessed by devils.
It was the gaze of absolute faith twisted into madness. Looking at them, the young man suddenly recalled how, not long ago, he himself had cheered in this very square when a total stranger was executed as a "demon." He had been no different from the people before him now.
"N-No! This... this isn't right! Constellation Azelan! Please! Please... deliver me from this nightmare!"
The young man screamed desperately. Even to the end, he clung to his god, but no saving hand reached out.
"Prepare the pyre!"
Oil was poured over the logs and straw.
"I'm not a demon! I-I'm...!"
"The Constellation will pass judgment. If the flames don't touch your body, then you'll prove you're no demon!"
The heretic inquisitor smirked wickedly. It was blatant mockery. He reveled in humiliating the young man, savoring his screams, despair, terror, and defeat—laughing all the while.
The inquisitor licked his lips in anticipation of the young man's agonized cries as the flames consumed him.
"Now, execute the burn—"
"You devil—!"
"......"
The cheering crowd fell silent in an instant. The heretic inquisitor whipped his head around to glare at the young man, his narrowed eyes burning with fury.
The inquisitor approached the young man.
"Hah! You dare slander me? Me, the proxy of Constellation Azelan?"
"Th-There's no such thing as Constellations! What kind of god is this! I believed my whole life! Even after my parents abandoned me and I begged on the streets, I worshipped! I never did anything evil—why do I have to die like this?!"
"That's why you should have believed in Constellation Azelan, the god of creation and father of all Constellations."
"Believing is what got me here! I believed in Constellation Azelan! I prayed to him every day! Some of you here know me!"
The young man pleaded pitifully.
"You all know! Even if I lived like trash, my faith was deep! Plenty of you saw me praying in front of the church every day!"
The crowd began to murmur at his words, exchanging uneasy glances as they mulled over what he'd said.
Sensing the growing unrest, the heretic inquisitor slammed his spear into the ground.
Thud!
"Anyone who heeds the words of a demon is a heretic!"
"......"
Silence fell once more. In this place, the heretic inquisitor was absolute authority—the proxy of the gods, bearing the Holy Emperor's command. No one dared defy him. To cross him meant blasphemy, turning the entire continent against you.
The Holy Church was the true "ruler" of the continent.
The inquisitor gazed smugly at the weak humans submitting to his words.
"Hah! The Constellations exist. And yet you deny them!"
"If they existed, I'd still be alive! But...!"
Tears streamed down the young man's cheeks.
"What is this?! There are no Constellations... no gods! You bastards!"
"...No, the gods do exist."
"They don't!"
"No, they do. You're looking at one right now."
"...What?"
The heretic inquisitor curled his lips into a grin. Then he leaned in close and whispered into the young man's ear.
"His Imperial Majesty the Holy Emperor is both god and Constellation. And I, standing here before you, am a god as well!"
"......!"
The young man stared blankly at the inquisitor. For a lowly human to claim divinity—this man was the true blasphemer.
"And you... you are a heretic and a demon meeting your end at the hands of a god! Consider it an honor!"
"You son of a—"
The inquisitor snatched up a torch, his mouth splitting into a grotesque grin.
"May the glory of Constellation Azelan shine upon us...!"
He tossed the torch onto the pile of kindling beneath the young man.
Whoosh!
The young man burst into flames, and the onlookers cheered. They rejoiced that the demon responsible for the plague tormenting them was dead. They were becoming as monstrous as the devils they feared.
From afar, a slave trader watched the scene and chuckled.
"Haha! This is entertaining! Another demon bites the dust! Does this mean all the trash around here is cleared out?"
His companion asked, "But was it really a demon?"
"Who cares? As long as it's a good show! As long as we pay up, we won't die. Hell, we could worship demons right in front of them if we greased the right palms!"
The pot-bellied slave trader guzzled his booze.
"Besides, we're not subhumans or anything!"
He glanced at the prison cart he'd modified, chuckling slyly. Inside were humans. Some wept, their bodies torn to rags and bleeding. Others, physically intact, stared blankly at the sky, their minds shattered. Their eyes held no hope. They were all branded heretics, tortured, and sold into slavery.
The man leered unpleasantly at the most striking slave girl among them. She had a slender frame and bronze skin. Unusually beautiful for her age, with snow-white silver hair and eyes nearly crimson. Everything about her stood out, but her ears drew the eye most—long and pointed, marking her as inhuman. A subhuman.
A dark elf. Worshippers of darkness, descendants of demons!
The slave trader had struck gold recently, picking up this near-dead dark elf from the forest.
"Haha! Wonder what the heretic inquisitor would say if he saw this one? Execute her as a demon?"
"Nah, he'd probably ask to borrow her for a day."
"Haha! Can't do that. Can't hand over premium merchandise like this!"
The men cackled, trading vile jokes.
Salat, the imprisoned dark elf, glanced at the traders before turning her eyes to the burning youth. He was already dead. She stared at him with icy, emotionless detachment. With a faint sigh, she shifted her gaze to peek at the crowd.
"The demon is dead!"
"The plague will end!"
"Azelan faith! May Constellation Azelan's blessings be upon us!"
As the crowd roared, the heretic inquisitor pulled a small vial from his robes.
"This is medicine that cures the plague! Crafted personally by His Imperial Majesty Holy Emperor Palis of the Holy Church! May his grace descend upon us!"
"Ooooooh!"
"One vial for one gold! This holy water is your lifeline, the key to saving your lives! You wouldn't let a bit of coin stand between you and death by demonic curse, would you? What's more important—money or faith?"
"Faith!"
"Ooh! Holy Emperor!"
"I'll buy one!"
The crowd surged toward the inquisitor, only held back by soldiers with shields.
"Distribute one vial per payment!"
The inquisitor bellowed like a saint, and the crowd cheered. Drunk on the fervor, they emptied their pockets for the vials he offered.
Salat watched them, hugging her knees and burying her face. A flicker of hatred burned in her eyes.
"Idiots."
Idiots. The word fit perfectly. No, it was almost too kind.
So thought Salat. Fifty years ago, Salat Hanes, daughter of Demon King Kalib Hanes—who once plunged the continent into terror—had passed that verdict on humanity.
***
The more chaotic the era, the more stories humans invent. As those stories spread, they become "rumors." To the despairing, they are beacons of hope, lifelines, sources of entertainment.
Thus, baseless tales swell and echo across the continent.
In this age of plague, four rumors reigned supreme.
First: The fall of Ronia's royal house. King Elron von Ronia of Ronia Kingdom had fallen to "dementia." Some said it stemmed from the trauma of losing 100,000 troops to the frozen wastes ten years prior. Others claimed he faked it to dodge blame. Outsiders might laugh it off, but Ronia's people did not. With the absolute ruler secluded, the power-hungry began vying for dominance, sowing chaos.
The royal house fractured in the race for the throne. Second Prince Erone Ronia turned his sword on First Prince Ash Ronia, igniting full civil war. The kingdom split into West Ronia and East Ronia, birthing countless sacrifices.
Rumors swirled that Ash, ruling East Ronia, summoned demons to drive the king mad. West Ronia gained massive aid from the continent's overlords, the Holy Church. East Ronia was slowly eroded, cornered. In desperation, Ash summoned demons again to spread the plague, it was said.
Thus, the rumor spread: Slay the first prince, and this plague era ends.
Second: The Angel of Death. Born from the Demon King's grief over humanity's fall, a reaper sowing plague across the lands. She appeared as a stunning woman; with a gesture, villages or cities alike drowned in pestilence.
Yet contradictory tales persisted: The Angel of Death repelled plagues.
Whatever the truth, the Holy Church branded her the Demon King's shadow and pursued her—but none had captured her yet.
Third: The universal potion. A hopeful recent rumor. Brewed by a legendary sage, it cured any disease or wound short of death—even this plague.
Fourth: The birth of a newborn empire. At Britannia's northern edge, in the frozen wastes called the Icy Lands, an empire had risen. Vast wealth and mighty military might, they said. A knight order of Divine Gift wielders—powers granted only to Constellation-chosen—numbered nearly a hundred, impossibly. Their civilization was advanced: dwarf-forged crafts lined streets, magical homes warmed by exotic flora and fauna despite the cold. No class divides; even slaves freed as citizens. Above all, their ruler was no human, but an absolute being—a Constellation.
Yet this was the least credible rumor. The Icy Lands were harsh, teeming only with thick-skinned beasts or Nod tribes. Listeners scoffed: An empire in the wastes? Wealth and armies? A hundred Divine Gift users? Advanced civ? A Constellation? Nonsense. No nation there, no trade, no riches. Divine Gift users continent-wide numbered 10,000 official, maybe 50,000 unofficial. Even the Holy Church barely topped 300. No way they'd cluster in worthless ice.
They dismissed it all. The first as idle chatter, the second bar talk, the last two as jokes.
......
......
.....
..
But believers in the fourth rumor grew. The hunted, abandoned, enslaved, heretics—all flocked north to the Icy Lands' end, chasing hope.
They knew it was folly, gathering for a fleeting dream before miserable ends.
But...
They did not die.
Upon entering the Icy Lands, mysterious forces seized them, forcing them to kneel before someone.
And they beheld.
"...D-Demon?"
It was the first impression of the "Constellation" seen by humans fleeing the continent.