Chapter 443: The Making of a Hero

"Thump thump thump....."

Hearing the heavy knocking at the door, the family huddled together in tears froze all at once.

The woman, already disheveled, wore an expression of despair; the children, still bearing marks of abuse, trembled silently; the quiet man clenched his teeth, fists tightly balled, his nails nearly piercing his palms from the force.

How many times has this happened today? It's too much.

But then, the woman's voice from outside silenced the family once more.

The woman, moments ago filled with despair, turned to look at the man; the man, just now furious, began to tremble in his legs.

In this hellish place, it's never just women who aren't safe—men, especially handsome ones, fare no better.

Who says a supernatural villain must be male? And even if they are male, do they only target women? Just like the woman who dropped a copper coin and walked away moments ago.

"Husband, what do we do?"

The woman had forgotten her despair; she gripped her husband's hand, utterly at a loss.

"It's fine, maybe they're just here for protection money."

The man squeezed her hand and forced out a smile.

"But we've had no money for ages—this is already the fourth time this month they've come for protection fees. The last White Dragon Gang collected fees up to forty years from now."

The woman couldn't smile. Her eyes grew heavier with despair.

In this city of sin, it's not just ordinary people like us who aren't safe—the gang thugs who normally rule with brutality are barely better off. New gangs form every day; old ones vanish.

But for people at the bottom, this rapid turnover of gangs is no blessing: you've just scraped together your last coins to pay the Black Wolf Gang, thinking you can breathe easy for a while—only for the Black Wolf Gang to be wiped out the next day, and then the White Dragon Gang shows up demanding fees again.

After several gangs collapsed, the protection fees this family now owes theoretically stretch nearly forty years into the future. But it's useless anyway—by now, the White Dragon Gang should be nearing its end. This time, it's probably the new ruling gang coming to collect.

Hearing this, the man fell silent. He looked down at his wrist—covered in dense needle puncture marks.

"Then I'll go to the Blood Cathedral again."

The cathedral's masters have long bought blood, priced by quality. His blood is good—he survived countless protection fee demands this way, barely keeping his family intact. Otherwise, they'd have taken his wife or one of his children each time.

"No, the cathedral masters said you've already exceeded your quota this month. Let me—"

The woman grew anxious, about to plead with him—but the door creaked open.

Both man and woman turned—and saw their ten-year-old daughter standing at the threshold, the door now open in her hands.

"Sister, can you spare my family? I'll go with you."

The thin, malnourished girl, clad in a tattered linen robe, looked up and spoke plainly.

The man and woman: "......"

Dorothy: "......"

The house witch, just moments ago hammering the door with the Book of Genesis, hadn't expected this. But after a stunned pause, she smiled.

Though Dorothy wore a veil, this ordinary cloth could not conceal the divine beauty of her face—everyone present clearly sensed the nun's smile, and were instantly captivated by it.

"Sister, you're so beautiful."

The little girl, unable to hide her thoughts, spoke bluntly.

Dorothy: "......"

The house witch fell silent for a moment. Other witches would have been delighted by such praise—but for her, it stirred complicated feelings.

She still preferred being called cool, strong, or formidable.

But what's the point of arguing with a child? Especially one so sensible. She reached out, stroked the girl's head, and rubbed her rough, tangled hair.

"Little sister, your tongue is sweet. Don't say that again next time. But since you chose to open the door, it proves fate connects us. Here—take this divine token. May you forever keep the heart that wishes to protect your family, and the courage you showed today in opening this door."

The house witch reached into her pocket, pulled out a pendant shaped like a tiny hammer, and hung it around the child's neck.

Inside the house, the man and woman watched the strange nun at the door with tense eyes. Their concern for their daughter even shielded them from the nun's divine allure—they dared not move, afraid any misstep might anger the witch and harm their child.

Only their four-year-old son, near the door, seemed to want to run out and play with his sister—but before he could move, both parents seized him and clamped a hand over his mouth.

Dorothy watched the family's reaction without anger. Her smile widened. She lifted her nun's skirt in a graceful curtsey, then turned and walked away.

The family was stunned. Only when the strange nun, hammer in hand, had vanished far down the street did they dare approach. The mother rushed forward and slapped the daughter—who was still staring after the nun—then pulled her into a tight embrace, tears streaming uncontrollably.

That reckless child—she'd almost thought she'd lost her forever.

The man stayed calm, staring at the delicate silver hammer pendant hanging from his daughter's neck, his expression shifting constantly.

He wanted to remove it—it was a gift from a mysterious, strange nun.

In this city of sin, nothing is more feared than faith. After all, what legitimate faith exists here? The only possible object of worship is the demon of the Abyss.

How many who associate with demons ever meet a good end?

The man remembered the nun's words when she smashed the door.

"It's free—why not believe a little?"

Ha. Such a textbook cultist's declaration. There's no such thing as a free gift. The cheapest things are always the most expensive.

But after agonizing over it, the man ultimately did not remove the pendant. He wasn't sure if it carried a curse that would activate the moment it was taken off—after all, a neighbor who loved collecting random trinkets had died just recently that way.

The man sighed, then looked up at the sky, already nearing dusk.

Another day of torment barely survived—but how much longer must this hell go on?

"Dorothy, weren't you supposed to be spreading faith? Why'd you leave so soon?"

Dineisha frowned at her sister, confused.

She'd watched the whole scene but couldn't understand what Dorothy had done. She'd done nothing—just given the girl a pendant and walked away. Was this even preaching? What exactly had she preached?

"Didn't I already preach?"

Dorothy turned to her older sister and smiled in reply.

Dorothy's mood was unexpectedly good—her faith propagation had gone far smoother than expected.

"Huh..."

Dineisha was even more baffled. She hadn't even blinked—had she missed something crucial?

"Yes, I preached. Didn't you see? That little girl was brave, wasn't she?"

Dorothy replied with a smile.

"I can't deny that."

Looking at her cryptic sister, the shepherdess clenched her fists—but thinking of the girl, she too smiled.

That was indeed a wonderful child. So young, yet already understood how to protect her family—and not just understood, but had the courage to act.

Hmmmm...

Dineisha suddenly understood Dorothy's meaning. Was this what she called preaching?

"Haha, I see you've figured it out. True faith needs no preaching, no explanation or propaganda. It's already within everyone—within reach, right beside them."

The house witch chuckled lightly, then skipped nimbly over a few filthy puddles on the broken road. She spun gracefully, walking backward now, facing her thoughtful sister.

"You and Adam both say heroes are lonely, that one must lose everything to gain the courage to become one."

"But I disagree. That child right there is already a tiny hero in my eyes. Dineisha, didn't Adam seem incredibly heroic when he leapt from the flames to save you?"

"To me, a hero isn't someone who saves the world. Anyone with the courage to protect their family is a hero—at least in their family's eyes."

"'Humans can overcome heaven' sounds unrealistic to you—but what if we say it this way: when countless heroes, united by the same goal, stand together, they can overcome heaven. Doesn't that sound more convincing?"

Dorothy spoke, then turned again, resuming her normal stride, stepping carefully around more jagged stones.

"Those who've lost everything are fearless—but that, to me, isn't true courage. It's cowardice. Their so-called courage is just self-abandonment, a form of self-destruction."

"True courage comes from the resolve to protect something. Courage stems from attachment, from bonds. It's precisely because one has something to protect that they find the courage to stand firm, to refuse to retreat even half a step."

"The hymn of humanity is the hymn of courage. The greatness of humanity is the greatness of courage."

"Dineisha, in your eyes, these people are just a herd of sheep. But in mine, they're all seeds of heroes."

"With a little polishing, these seeds will quickly take shape. They only lack a chance, an opportunity. And now, I will place that chance, that opportunity, directly into their hands."

"Cultivate yourself, harmonize your family, govern the state, pacify the world. When countless tiny heroes, all sharing the same goal, gather together, they may not be invincible—but they can certainly be called a force capable of miracles."

As she spoke, the house witch reached into her pocket again and pulled out another pendant—identical to the one she'd given the girl.

She pinched the tiny hammer between her fingers, applied slight pressure—and shattered its outer shell, revealing a small capsule-like container inside, holding a single drop of liquid, glowing like a ruby.

Dorothy is now a potion witch. This is the ultimate potion she brewed after reading every book in the library over the past month.

She named this blood-red, shimmering potion "Hero's Blood."

But more than its formal name, Dorothy preferred its other name.

"Degraded Witch's Blood."

Or "Monkey Burn Wine Blood."

"Hey, don't blame me—it's the world's malice. The witch world is brutally unfair to boys. Who knows why this potion works dozens of times better on girls? It makes no sense. We're all human—when will boys ever stand up?"

After finishing a practiced fist form, the house witch's magic flickered briefly, restoring the pendant to its original form. Then, hammer in hand, she marched to knock on another door.

"Thump thump thump...."

The heavy knocking echoed through the slums.

Dineisha fell silent.

She wanted to loudly refute her sister's twisted logic—but when she opened her mouth, she realized she had no argument.

After all, when she'd nearly burned on the pyre, the priest who suddenly leapt to save her—and Dorothy—had shone like heroes in her eyes.

Though books say only those who complete legendary feats like saving the world can be called heroes, one lives only because one has a world. To save a life is, in some way, to save that person's entire world.

So what's wrong with calling someone who saves a life a hero?

As for courage...

Dineisha looked at her sister, shouting nonsense like "80.80" while smashing doors.

She didn't know much—but if anyone tried to harm Dorothy, they'd have to walk over her corpse first.

She had that resolve. But was even this much resolve truly courage?

... Miss Shepherdess was thinking...