Chapter 154: The True Church Angel

"Ah?" The priest blinked, his hand-stopping motion pausing for a moment, then he realized what those words meant and struggled violently to pull away.

But he failed—the grip on his wrist was as steady as cast iron, and in an instant it twisted his joint, forcing him to turn in pain, then a kick struck the back of his knee, sending him crashing to his knees on the ground.

Kraft gave him no more time to react; he seized the priest's other hand and pinned it behind his back, ensuring this easily deceived fool had no chance to pull any tricks. Before the first scream ended, the target was rendered motionless.

"Bring a rope!" Kraft pinned the priest down, adding a sharp elbow strike to keep him flat on the ground.

He really hadn't come to the wrong place—the local church was always the most sensitive to heresy, since it directly affected prestige and income. Conversely, if heresy definitely existed and no word reached them, then the church's functions must have failed somewhere.

Now he finally had a concrete understanding of "skilled deception." There he was, preaching openly on stage, and the entire crowd of laypeople hadn't noticed a single flaw.

Even pinned to the ground, the priest strained to lift his head in final defiance: "You cannot treat God's servant this way! I have done nothing against the law—not even the lord has the right to do this!"

"Fine, then tell us your ecclesiastical credentials. Which seminary did you graduate from? Who can vouch for your origins?" Martin drew his dagger and pressed it against the priest's throat; the protest instantly grew quieter. "Or tell me—who put you in this position?"

Faced with the blade's threat, he hesitated, glancing fearfully around, and whispered in a voice thick and slurry like paste: "No, they'll kill me—I don't want to end up like that."

The commotion had been too loud; some townsfolk who had just left turned back and stood far outside, peering from behind the flowerbeds to watch the spectacle.

Two retainers stayed outside the door to guard it, while the church's heavy doors were shut, sealing off outsiders and the noise. Martin grabbed the priest by the collar and yanked him upright, forcing him to meet the gaze of his own flushed, strangled face.

As he felt himself choking to death, Martin released him and tossed him onto a bench, the dagger once again pressed against his vulnerable neck, its cold metal so close he could clearly feel the warm pulse of his carotid artery—any slight shift could sever it.

"Priest, I believe you're not a fool. Whoever wants to kill you won't get here faster than we did."

His ragged, heaving breaths scraped his skin, warm fluid trickling into his collar, making the interrogated man feel as though a part of his life was draining away. He struggled to tilt his head slightly—the blade followed like a lover, never leaving his neck for an instant.

He was terrified, nearly weeping—transformed from preacher to prisoner in an instant, his rational mind gone, yet some deeper fear—or something else—still held him back, keeping his trembling lips sealed.

This reaction seemed etched into his soul, a conditioned reflex stronger than fear of ordinary death—what kind of death could be worse?

"Ah, no need for that, my friend. Since the priest is under threat, if we threaten him in return, aren't we no different from his enemies?"

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The priest saw the younger knight, more scholarly and refined, move the dagger from his neck and speak a few "fair words," but he hadn't forgotten—this very man had been the first to launch the violent attack.

"I have a compromise: you don't say a word." Kraft signaled Martin to calm down, pressed his hand on the priest's shoulder, and spoke slowly: "We'll spread word that you've agreed to cooperate with us in exchange for reduced punishment."

The man seemed to understand—his face darkened instantly.

"You do nothing. We do nothing. Then we release you—and see what happens."

"No, I—" These words struck sharper than any dagger; the priest screamed.

"Of course, if you believe those shadowy Circle Cultists truly trust your loyalty—and that you're truly indispensable to them—then fine." Kraft deliberately stressed "trust" and "loyalty," and as planned, saw sweat bead on the priest's forehead.

"But for now, I must be honest: you're the only one among them who hasn't shown up as a corpse. So think carefully."

Opposite the priest, he sat down and waited for an answer.

This candid exchange seemed more effective than mere threats of death; the bald priest lowered his head, thinking, his trembling shoulders betraying his inner torment—making one intensely curious what exactly it was.

But if persuasion succeeded, they'd soon find out.

"Word of this incident will spread quickly, Priest. If you're willing to reveal what you know sooner, we can better protect you instead of wasting time preparing here."

"But I don't even know how they did it!" The priest lifted his head, despair and terror blazing in his eyes. "You're right—they won't believe me. I'm dead anyway."

"If they're truly that powerful, they wouldn't be hiding in this backwater town that survives on logging and local produce." Kraft snorted, though inwardly he had no certainty—yet one rule never changed.

Any secretive, erratic "mysterious organization," no matter how grandly praised, is fundamentally that way because it cannot win in open confrontation—and thus remains underground.

"If you don't know how to start, begin simply. First—where is the original priest?"

"I don't know. I saw him walk into a room locked from the outside—and never saw him again." The fake priest gazed toward the church's interior, as if peering beyond the dusty double-winged ring relief to the source of his fear. "They say this proves their communion with the Lord—that the Lord sent an angel to take away the false believer."

Kraft and Martin exchanged a glance. A familiar, sudden disappearance.

"Then who are you?"

Someone with literacy and acting talent, qualified to serve as clergy—surely had received some formal training.

"I'm Hoel. I was originally the church's deacon, the priest's apprentice. After he vanished, no one questioned my succession—especially since he deserved to die." There seemed to be some personal grudge here, but entirely expected and reasonable: in the church's apprenticeship system, superiors held dominance, and the specifics depended entirely on personal virtue—conflict was normal.

Since they'd opened up, Kraft decided to press further: "How much do you know about 'them'?"

"Very little. They only threatened me to maintain the church and hand over offerings." Hoel, the fake priest, resigned himself completely, speaking with a "what's the point" attitude. "They also made me recite passages from the scriptures about the Lord's kingdom and the chosen ones—I don't even know what the point is."

"Word for word?"

"Word for word." Hoel nodded, fearing they wouldn't believe him, he added hastily: "I used to handle the copying. These are all classic stories—the original texts the priest used."

Kraft silently noted it. This so-called heresy grew increasingly absurd—it was practically a clone of the church, designed solely to confuse the original, with vague symbols and doctrines.

"What do they call themselves?"

"The True Church. I mean—they call themselves the True Church." The word slipped from his lips, making even him feel his tongue itch—there was no conceivable reason the two could be linked.

"Do you know where they are?"

Hoel instinctively shook his head, then suddenly remembered something: "They always send people to find me. But once—just once—I saw one of them with several burrs stuck to his pant leg. That plant only grows in Lin Zili."

"Alright, last question—for now." Kraft realized he hadn't caught a big fish, just a coerced peripheral ATM. "Kup, hand me that large bottle from the pack. Yes, the lead one—and the tongs too. I don't want to touch it myself."

He unscrewed the lead bottle, used the tongs to lift out the red-black mineral-embedded ornament. Most of the church lay in shadow after the doors closed, yet the core glowed with a pupil-like light.

"Do you recognize this?"

The fake priest answered with action: the instant the red light touched his eyes, he erupted in unprecedented, violent struggle—ignoring the ropes biting into his wrists, thrashing like a gutted fish, overturning the pews; even both retainers failed to pin him down immediately.

In that fleeting glance, Kraft saw the suppressed terror erupt uncontrollably—not fear of the pendant itself, but of the red light, and what it represented.

He screamed and scrambled backward, desperately trying to flee from it, as if not doing so would be overtaken by something.

Amid his shrill, desperate screams, one phrase stood out clearly.

"The angel—their angel has come!"