Chapter 487 — The Heresy Tribunal

It was an unusual sort of silence—under normal circumstances, when commoners gathered quietly, no matter how docile or reverent they were, they could not help but stir and murmur in low buzzing discussion. But now...

Too quiet, too silent—silent and quiet as though dead.

The wooden platform at the center of the plaza had already been erected, and the ashes from the last burning had long since been cleared away, yet the plaza still seemed haunted by a lingering smell of scorching—since the founding of Mingyuan City, how many people had been burned to death here? How many had been burned here for defying the church, for discussing the bishop, for secretly keeping scriptures?

The acrid stench given off as those burned bodies slowly charred seemed already to have soaked into the crevices of every paving stone, and today that smell seemed to be seeping out little by little...

The side door of the cathedral district opened, and the first to emerge was a company of fully armed church soldiers. Behind the soldiers came a group of clerics clad in coarse gray robes, barefoot, with no crowns upon their heads.

This was the mark of "penance."

These were the clergymen who had previously secretly harbored flyers or privately discussed the bishop; they walked behind the church soldiers with black-robed discipline monks flanking the column to keep order. Heads bowed, they walked to the inner edge of the plaza and halted at the spot closest to the commoners.

A few commoners stole a quick glance at these clerics who seemed to be undergoing punishment, and the latter in turn looked at the commoners in the plaza with equal curiosity.

Curiosity and surprise showed plainly on every face.

Then the great gate of the cathedral district opened as well, and the bishop of the Frostbalance Cathedral, Faran Belang, appeared in the plaza with his college of clerics.

Brilliant holy light surged about them, their white robes still clean and bright, their steps steady, their energy abundant—even now, when grain rations had been cut again and again and the commoners of the outer city had been reduced to a state of semistarvation, their faces remained ruddy, their skin plump and healthy.

Surrounded by his college of clerics, Faran Belang came to the high platform, then frowned slightly.

The atmosphere here made him deeply uncomfortable.

The plaza, far too deathly still... was packed with numb, foolish lowborn, yet those who in former days would only bow their heads and tremble were now all staring at him with a strange look in their eyes.

It was neither awe nor insolence. Faran Belang could not put a name to it; he only felt that those were the eyes of dead people—and yet also the eyes of those looking upon the dead.

Probably because of hunger...

Faran Belang pressed down the displeasure in his heart and, with great forbearance, forgave the offense in those people's eyes. He knew that today's heresy tribunal was a ritual of the utmost importance, and that until it was done, he must endure.

A clatter of armor came from the side of the plaza, and another company of church soldiers escorted a dozen or so ragged people onto the wooden platform and bound them to the posts that had long been prepared.

Faran Belang composed himself, then turned to face the plaza. He stirred the holy light so that his voice would carry everywhere: "Children of the God of Holy Light—I know the suffering you have endured these days, and in truth, it grieves me deeply..."

"...It was the demons who lured and corrupted your kin and kindred, who planted thoughts of doubt and division in people's minds..."

The square fell dead silent. No one cheered, no one objected—not even a stir of unrest.

Such a cold, deathly stillness was unlike anything Fran?Béland had ever encountered. For a moment he looked faintly embarrassed, and then a little irritated.

But his sermon had already begun, and he had to see it through.

So he forced down his displeasure and stirred the Holy Light all the more vigorously, letting the majestic, sacred radiance around him build into a vast and imposing display—and that manufactured momentum finally roused a little commotion in the square, just enough for him to carry on with his sermon: "...Today, I will expose the demons' tricks here, and drag into the light the shadows they have hidden in people's hearts!

"Those already bewitched by demons will, without question, be exposed and then purified, while those not bewitched will naturally receive fair judgment and be released—I promise everyone here that this trial is just, and that it is valid!

"By the God of Holy Light I swear, the Lord's radiance and justice shall surely prevail!"

Fran?Béland raised his scepter high. On ordinary occasions, after shouting such stirring slogans, he would pause a moment, waiting for the thunderous cheers of the crowd to rise around him. But now he already sensed such cheers would hardly come, so he briskly skipped the unnecessary flourishes of the ritual and directly roused all the magic in his body, communing in his heart with the voice of the God of Holy Light as he unleashed a wide-range divine art.

Accompanied by a faint, resonant echo of holy sound, a hazy ring of pure white light spread outward from Fran?Béland as its center.

At the sight of such supernatural power, the common folk in the square finally stirred a little. And on the wooden platform at the front of the crowd, those bound to the pillars went wide-eyed, watching with fear and tension as the halo swept over them with what seemed an unstoppable force—

Wherever the halo passed, faint curtains of light rose from the bodies of the bound. Then the curtains began to shudder violently, twisting into countless shadow-like cracks that drifted about them and above their heads, impossibly conspicuous.

Fran?Béland surveyed the scene with satisfaction: just as he had expected, those gripped by fear and self-doubt could not possibly pass the heresy trial.

The halo continued to spread beyond the platform, gradually taking on the look of something about to dissipate.

Seeing the halo draw near, the crowd at the square's inner edge all showed tense expressions. Some quietly edged back half a step, yet dared not move too obviously for fear the priests on the platform would notice; others had plainly stood too far forward—they fell within the halo's range.

To Fran?Béland's astonishment, within that great divine-word art's halo which was about to fade, several bright and steady lights had kindled.

Could there truly be people of such devotion among the common folk?

He had only meant to use the aftershock of the divine art to overawe those commoners, never expecting to see a response from the Holy Light.

The interim bishop stared in utter surprise at the direction from which those few lights had come—but the very next second, he had no attention left to spare for what "those devout believers" actually looked like.

He discovered that the great divine-word art, which ought to have faded away naturally after spreading to its limit, seemed to have been strengthened out of thin air. The halo, which had already grown dim before the crowd, had suddenly turned uncommonly bright!!

The divine art, which by rights should have been confined around the "judgment platform," seemed to resonate with some sacred artifact. It was infused anew with energy, and then began spreading across the entire square with incomparable ferocity.

Fran?Béland stared at it all in shock, and in his heart he suddenly realized—oh no, this is the end.

:. .