Chapter 154: The True Church Angel

"Ah?" The priest blinked, his hand tugging haltingly before he realized what the words meant—and he strained backward, trying to break free.

But he failed; the grip on his wrist was as solid as cast iron, swiftly twisting his joint, forcing him to cry out and turn—then a kick to the back of his knee sent him crashing to his knees on the floor.

Kraft gave him no more time to react: he seized the priest's other hand and pinned it behind his back, ensuring this easily manipulated fool had no chance to scheme. Before the first scream ended, the target was completely immobilized.

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

He hadn't come to the wrong place—local churches were always most sensitive to heresy, for it directly threatened their prestige and income. Conversely, if heresy definitely existed and no word reached them, the church's functions must have failed somewhere.

Now he finally understood firsthand what "skilled at disguise" meant. The man preached openly on stage, and the entire crowd of laypeople failed to notice a single flaw.

Even pinned to the floor, the priest struggled to lift his head, fighting to the last: "You cannot treat God's servant this way! I've done nothing against the law—not even the lord has the right to do this!"

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

Faced with the blade's threat, he hesitated, glancing fearfully around, whispering in a voice thick as sludge from Jianghu: "No—they'll kill me. I don't want to become like that."

The commotion had been too loud; some townsfolk who had just left turned back, standing far outside behind the flowerbeds, watching curiously.

Two retainers stayed outside the door to guard it; the church's great doors were shut, sealing off outsiders and noise. Martin grabbed the priest by the collar, hauling him up from the floor, forcing their eyes to meet—the priest's face flushed and swollen from the chokehold.

Just as he felt he might suffocate, Martin released him, letting him slump 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, ready to burst free with the slightest shift.

"Priest, I believe you're no fool. Whoever wants you dead won't move faster than we have."

His ragged breathing 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 strained to tilt his head slightly—the blade followed like a lover, never leaving his neck.

He was on the verge of tears; from preacher to prisoner in an instant, his rational mind shattered—but some deeper fear, or some other reason, still held him back, his trembling lips refusing to utter a single word.

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. If the priest is under threat, then threatening him in return makes us no different from his tormentors."

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

"I have a compromise: you don't say anything." Kraft signaled Martin to calm down, pressing his hand on the priest's shoulder and speaking 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 important enough to them—then fine." Kraft deliberately emphasized "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 to wait 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 inner torment—making it impossible not to wonder what could possibly frighten him so.

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 a backwater town that survives on logging and local produce." Kraft let out a scoff—though inwardly, he had no certainty either. But one rule never changed.

Any secretive, erratic "mysterious organization," no matter how grandly touted, exists underground only because it cannot win in open confrontation.

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

"I don't know. I watched him walk into a room locked from the inside—and never saw him again." The false priest gazed toward the church's interior, as if peering past the dusty double-ring emblem carved into the wall, toward 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 vanishing act.

"Then who are you?"

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

"I'm Hoer. I was already a deacon here, the priest's apprentice. When 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 absolute power, and relationships depended entirely on personal virtue—disputes were normal.

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

"Very little. They only threatened me to maintain the church and hand over offerings." With a resigned, "what's the point" attitude, the false priest Hoer gave up entirely. "They also made me recite passages from the scriptures about the Lord's kingdom and the chosen ones—I have no idea what meaning they hold."

"Word for word?"

"Word for word." Hoer nodded, hurriedly adding, "I used to handle the copying. These are all classic stories—the original texts the priest used."

Kraft silently noted it. The so-called heresy grew increasingly absurd—like a perfect 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 a strange itch in his mouth; there was no logical connection between the two.

"Do you know where they are?"

Hoer 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 legs. That plant only grows in the woods."

"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 ornament embedded with a red-black mineral. Most of the church lay in shadow after the doors closed—but the core glowed like a pupil's eye.

"Do you recognize this?"

The false priest answered with action: the instant the red light touched his eyes, he erupted in violent, unprecedented struggle—ignoring the ropes biting into his wrists, thrashing like a gutted fish, overturning the pews; even two retainers couldn't pin him down immediately.

In that fleeting glance, Kraft saw the suppressed terror erupt uncontrollably—not toward the pendant itself, but toward the red light, and the meaning it represented, with extreme dread.

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

Amid his shrieking, one phrase stood out clearly.

"The angel—their angel has come!"