Chapter 832: We Are All the Price (2/4)

Chapter 832: We Are All the Price (2/4)

“The munitions stacked in the port warehouses, the military trains stranded on the railway lines, and those provisions and supplies rotting in storage that never reached the front lines…”

“Did you truly believe… all of that was meant for Arayan?”

…

What the eyes see may not be real, nor what the ears hear.

Yet the Eagle still never imagined the truth could be so absurd.

Why were munitions meant for the front lines piled up in port warehouses, especially when the port was under its greatest storage strain?

Why was such vital cargo left unguarded, so that the rebels found it at once and turned it against those very guards?

And most crucially… why, when the upheaval struck, was not a single one of those who truly deserved to die present?

When the final piece of the puzzle fell into place, every doubt that had tormented him was linked together by the interlocking clues…

It was indeed a chance upheaval.

But chance was not its entirety…

After nightfall.

The old nun lit a candle and led the group down to the church’s basement.

This was Father Melchior’s wine cellar and study, often occupied, so the ventilation was passable.

The Silver Moon Sect did not forbid alcohol; indeed, they held wine in high esteem, often using it in rituals.

According to the old nun, he would often immerse himself in the scent of grapes, writing at his desk, compiling the tales of Bohr, and drafting the *Silver Gospel Gazette*.

When the upheaval occurred, the children hid in this cramped basement.

The wooden stairs leading down were crudely built, creaking underfoot—a warning for those below.

Yarman had hoped to find his wife here, but the basement was empty.

Yet upon arriving, the old nun, holding her silver candlestick, seemed to relax, her tense shoulders easing.

“…At the time, you were overwhelmed by grief. I feared that if you knew she was alive, you would recklessly search for her, or tell General MacLennan and his men.”

Yarman asked instinctively.

“Shouldn’t I have?”

The Stirring Stick whistled.

“Depends. In Dawn City, we’d recommend calling the authorities—saving people pays well. But in a hellhole like Westport, even if you called… you’d just be dragged back to the compound, right?”

“West… Westport?”

Seeing Yarman’s blank look, the Battle-Hardened Wolf coughed and stammered.

“He, uh, switched channels… That’s a story from another dimension. Nothing to do with here.”

“…?”

The Eagle coughed, cutting off his friends’ banter.

“Alright, think of your manuals… Ahem, let’s get to business. Since you’ve brought us here, you must trust us now, correct?”

“Indeed,” the old nun nodded slowly. “Forgive me for not being forthright from the start, and now begging for your help. This concerns two hundred lives—I had to weigh every choice carefully.”

The Catheter Dog chuckled.

“No worries, quests are always like this, I get it—”

“Shut up.”

The Eagle clamped a hand over his mouth, signaling the old nun to ignore him and continue.

The old nun paused, then nodded gently.

“…So I waited for Mr. Yarman to calm down while observing you all. Now I am certain—if even you are not trustworthy… then no one in this world can help us.”

Facing the gazes fixed upon her, she slowly began to speak of that night’s events, which no one in the settlement dared mention…

…

The story returned to that night when the fuse was lit.

A crowd waited anxiously in the church, when a devilish voice drifted in from outside.

“Ruby? Tsk… what a lovely name.”

As the words fell, the church door burst open with a bang.

The congregation stirred, casting terrified glances toward the entrance.

Mothers clutched their children; husbands stood before their wives.

Seeing those loathsome faces, Anwar’s expression twisted with hatred and contempt. With over twenty armed soldiers behind him, he stepped into the place where he had once prayed devoutly.

“Anwar!”

Recognizing the face, Isher glared at him, voice trembling with rage. “Do you know what you’re doing?!”

“What am I doing? And you? Do you know what you’re doing?!”

Anwar shot back, his voice a furious roar.

“You brought people who shouldn’t be alive here! Two hundred Vlandians! You—you’ve defiled the Silver Moon Goddess’s church with blood!”

“Blood cannot defile a church, but a filthy soul can!” Melchior stepped forward, eyes fixed on the man who had once prayed to him. “You should not be here. If you commit this sin today, no one can forgive you.”

At the sight of Melchior, Anwar’s pupils trembled. He instinctively wanted to avoid that piercing gaze, but the gun in his hand gave him courage, and he glared back.

“…Mr. Melchior, I respect you. I’m grateful you always told us stories and taught us to read… That’s why I advise you: stay out of this! You’re not from the Alliance—you’re just a citizen of the Hump Kingdom!”

“I speak to you not as a member of the Alliance, nor as a citizen of the Hump Kingdom, but as a human being,” Melchior said, unyielding, his words measured. “Go back. Pretend you were never here. This is your only chance for absolution. One step forward, and you fall into the abyss.”

Anwar fell silent.

Every eye in the church was on him. Everyone held their breath, waiting for his decision.

He took a deep breath, and finally uttered words colder than moonlight.

“…This is Yanush’s order. Do you think I want to do this? I don’t. Not at all. But I have no choice.”

Before Isher or Melchior could speak, he glanced at Margaret, who held her child tightly, then at the terrified Sahadu steward and the young rebel named Parwen. He continued.

“All Vlandians must die. That is Lord Yanush’s command, and my superior Abusayef’s order. If I go back empty-handed, I can’t answer to them.”

Then he turned to Isher, his expression complex.

“Wake up. Bohr doesn’t exist… You think you can save some people, but you only make things worse.”

Finally, he looked at Melchior—the pastor who had always led them in prayer and read them the newspaper.

“Mr. Melchior, I am grateful to you. You showed me that another possibility exists in this world… a faith beyond a thousand tribes and a thousand gods, a nation beyond the Empire.”

“I sincerely long for it to descend upon this salted land, to change the fate of me and my people… But you and I both know that revolution never comes without bloodshed. When the mud and sand rush down, bones will be broken.”

“Besides, even in your stories, the white snow of Boulder City was not without corpses beneath it. That night, too many were buried in the past. Not everyone saw the next morning’s sun.”

Melchior was speechless, staring at him, as if he had never expected such insight from this man.

And besides that shock, the pastor's eyes held no small measure of regret—

It was a pity that his words carried little weight, unable to stem the surging mud and sand, forced to drift downstream with the current.

Or else, like Escher, be utterly buried beneath the sediment.

Anwo silently turned his gaze to the mother who shielded her child behind her.

“Margaret, is it?”

Without retreating, Margaret straightened her chest and met his eyes.

“Yes.”

Anwo nodded and continued.

“Those standing beside me today are all followers of the Silver Moon Goddess. I personally selected them to come with me, for I did not wish to desecrate the temple of the Silver Moon Goddess.”

“I can ensure that you and your child die with dignity, not like those outside who suffer humiliation before death. Execution by firing squad or hanging—choose one for yourself and your child.”

Ruby's eyes brimmed with tears, almost unable to hold them back.

But at that moment, Margaret suddenly placed her palm on Ruby's head, stroking it gently as her father used to do, then took her small hand.

For some reason,

she suddenly felt less afraid.

“Anwo, that is your name, is it not?” Margaret looked at him, her voice neither servile nor arrogant.

Anwo replied curtly.

“Indeed, madam. If you hate me, you may curse me all you wish after you descend; I will go to hell to atone for my sins.”

Margaret shook her head and continued, looking at him.

“I do not hate you. I myself am not innocent. Even if I did not personally oppress you, my husband and others certainly did, and silence is also a grievous sin.”

“No, madam...”

The maidservant beside her suddenly fell to her knees, looking at Anwo standing at the door and pleading.

“Madam is innocent. She has always been kind to me and others... I lost my family when I was very young, and she took me in when I was sold to the colony, caring for me like family. Perhaps others did do terrible things to you, but please believe me, she is different from them—”

“Enough, Ulanda, please say no more,” Margaret interrupted her gently, then turned to Anwo at the door. “She is a survivor of the Great Desert, not a Vellant, not so different from you. Can you spare her life?”

Anwo did not object, merely shrugged.

“Then I'll trouble Mr. Melchior to dress her as a nun.”

He too did not wish to kill the innocent, though he utterly despised slaves who knelt begging for their masters' lives.

Melchior sighed and traced a moon on his chest. The kneeling maidservant shook her head pleadingly.

“No... I can die, but please let madam and Ruby—”

“Enough, Ulanda, must I tell you to shut up?” Margaret suddenly raised her voice, cutting off her incessant chatter.

Anwo watched the quarrel in the church impassively, until the woman named Margaret looked back at him.