Chapter 64: The Truth of Holy Water

He widened his eyes, somewhat incredulous, "Crazy, you're crazy, will the Council let a Tarun become a Saintess? Then I don't think this war needs to be fought."

Su Mian rubbed the bridge of her eyebrows, pointed at the Parchment, "Look at this first; I suspect it's a Ship Ticket Pass."

After studying the Parchment closely, his gaze fixed on the Red Seal at the bottom, and Charlie's expression shifted from doubt to shock.

It's forged.

Su Mian raised her eyes knowingly and concluded, "Cecily is a Tarun, and she smuggled herself in."

"But… why would she do that?"

Su Mian lifted her hand and waved it before Charlie; Charlie snapped back to attention, seeing the girl's cold face, her eyes fixed on him.

"First, fulfill your promise."

She turned, looking toward the sea beyond the city walls; the wind lifted the veil on her face, revealing a petite chin, appearing cold and dignified.

"I want you to find Duke Hil, bring the Council Members among the players, and assemble at the Central Square at noon tomorrow."

Charlie stared at her steadily and nodded in approval.

The Morning Prayer bells had not yet faded, yet the Central Square was already packed to the brim with people.

Last night's news spread through the City-State Center like wildfire: the wanted Heresy Duke Hil would publicly "Demonstration of Divine Power" today.

People, filled with fear, anger, and a barely perceptible curiosity, surged from the affluent Alleyway and cool Archway toward the square.

On the Stone Platform at the square's center, Duke Hil's gaunt figure stood unusually conspicuous.

He wore an old yet tidy dark Robe, his graying hair trembling slightly in the damp wind.

In his hand he cradled a Wooden Box; inside lay a transparent Vial, the liquid clear as water, beside it a piece of Gray-Black Stone taken from a Mine.

Below the stage, the dense crowd stared at him with doubtful and even hateful eyes, murmurs swelling into a buzzing roar.

"Heresy!"

"The madman who should be on the pyre still dares to appear in the Holy City!"

"How could Holy Water be deceptive?"

Charlie stood at the side of the Stone Platform, hand on his sword hilt, brows knit.

Behind him were a dozen players with varied expressions, several dressed respectably and bearing the insignia of Noble Council Members, their faces rather grim, yet compelled by Charlie's "invitation" to attend.

Duke Hil inhaled deeply, his hoarse voice cutting clearly through the clamor.

"The blackening of the Holy Water you speak of is not Divine Punishment."

The insults grew louder.

He calmly opened the Wooden Box and took out the Vial.

"This is Silver Refining Water."

"It is made by repeatedly refining Moon Silver flakes with Saltpeter and Green Vitriol, a liquid Alchemy that alchemists often use to test ore veins."

Impatient hisses rose from the crowd.

"Silver turns black when it meets Sulfur."

Duke Hil lifted his head, his gaze steady.

"The Mine contains abundant Sulfur Gas; when Holy Water flows through this area, it also changes color. This mineral, abundant in the Anvil Fortress's ore layers and containing special components,"

"reacts with a certain component already present in Holy Water, causing the color shift; the Holy Water itself turns black because of it!"

"It has nothing to do with the Plague!"

After a brief hush, a more intense uproar erupted.

"Then how do you explain the dead?"

"Do you intend to overthrow the Church?"

"Heresy! Why don't you hide, you heretic!"

The curses rose and fell; someone tried to charge forward, was stopped by soldiers, and the situation began to spiral out of control.

"Nonsense—"

"Profane! Holy Water is Divine!"

Rotten vegetable leaves and stones began flying toward the Stone Platform.

Charlie barked sharply, ordering soldiers forward to maintain order, but the crowd's emotions had already been ignited.

The flame of doubt did not extinguish with the demonstration; instead, it burned hotter as it touched core belief.

Duke Hil dodged clumsily amid the barrage of debris, yet his eyes flashed with stubborn resolve.

"Quiet!" Charlie drew his sword half an inch from the scabbard, a flash of cold light, his shout bearing battlefield‑honed authority, temporarily suppressing the front‑row turmoil.

But the angry shouts from behind persisted: "Captain Charlie, are you also shielding this alien?"

"The Council will never permit such sorcery!"

At the peak of this boiling chaos, a clear, cold voice rose from above, like an icy spring cascading, strangely piercing all the clamor:

"Then let the Council Members see for themselves what they are truly protecting."

Everyone looked up.

On the Terrace connecting to the Bell Tower on the square's east side, a figure in white wearing a Silver Wire Veil silently appeared.

The wind lifted her waist‑long hair and the light fabric of her skirt; in the sunlight, she seemed a deity suddenly descended, like a classical fresco brought to life.

It was Su Mian.

She cradled a dust‑covered Oil Painting, its frame ancient.

She did not look at anyone below the stage, merely tilting the frame carefully so that the noon sun illuminated the picture clearly.

It was the panoramic view of the Anvil Fortress.

In the ample light, the twisted shadows at the Mine's dome that had once been mistaken for "dead infant Ghost Shadows" aligned precisely with the silhouettes of miners' shoulder‑level "Ghost Shadows" below.

"At the top of the Mine," Su Mian's voice was soft, yet, aided by her height, rang clearly.

It was artificially carved into a specific shape; when light comes from a particular angle— for example the oil lamp in a miner's hand, the projection through a crack in the rock at the top— it will fall precisely onto the miner's shoulder.

She lightly tapped several key raised spots on the canvas with her fingertips.

The so‑called "Dead Infant's Reflection" is merely a trick of light and shadow, a meticulously planned ploy to sow panic and conceal the true source of the Plague.

A vague silence fell over the square.

People strained to digest this perception‑shattering visual information; everyone knew that the outbreak of the Plague began at Anvil Fortress.

But now they were being told that Evil Spirit was merely a rumor and had nothing to do with the death of the Old Holy Lady.

Su Mian handed the Oil Painting to a nearby soldier to display, stepped forward, and her veiled gaze swept over every face below— each one shocked, confused, or angry.

Finally, she raised her hand and pointed to the perpetually shrouded, gray‑yellow polluted sky in the distance, and to the dust visible to the naked eye in the air.

"The real Plague is not in the Stone of the Mine, nor in the so‑called Ghost Shadow."

Her voice rose sharply, with cutting certainty, "Here."

In the air that Mofangdu Breathes every moment are the smoke and dust continuously emitted by the ever‑working mills, the Thick Fog from the wharf's waste incineration, and the lingering Fog and Haze.

"It erodes the lungs, causing coughing, fever, and eventual death; the tragedy of Anvil Fortress is merely someone exploiting fear to divert attention and conceal this slow slaughter."

The crowd erupted in a roar.

Like cold water poured into boiling oil, it exploded instantly.

Fear found a new, more concrete target: the long‑suppressed resentment toward the polluted environment and the dread of one's own illness, mingled with the anger of being deceived, erupted completely.