Chapter 109: Are You Here to Exorcise the Holy Maiden?

If someone had killed and carved bones in his jurisdiction, summoning skeletons, Faller didn’t believe it—especially when the accuser mentioned Old John, whom he had a faint memory of.

He was just an odd, stubborn, lonely, disabled old man.

Rumor had it he had a strange habit: collecting unnamed corpses by the roadside and taking them home to fertilize his fields.

Villagers, seeing little, imagined the worst—thinking he murdered and carved bones. But as a church priest, Faller knew the world had many customs and unusual professions.

For instance, in some countries, street cleaners also took on the job of wrapping up dead bodies from roadsides or homes and delivering them to graveyards or mass pits; such cleaners were called undertakers.

In other countries, executions favored beheading, giving rise to two professions: executioner and bone-sewer.

After the executioner cut off the head, the bone-sewer stitched it back on so the criminal could be buried whole; occasionally, the bone-sewer also doubled as a surgeon.

And so on…

So when Faller heard this report, he’d planned to brush it off—but his new partner, Saint Knight Oni, was only eighteen, young and eager to prove himself, and without a word he’d come rushing over. What could Faller do? He had to follow, just in case his partner caused trouble and needed covering up.

Old John’s courtyard had no gate; Oni barged right in and immediately saw neatly arranged elder branches. He leaned close, sniffed, and caught a faint stench of decay. He drew his longsword, plunged it into the ground, then pulled it out—the tip now reeked of corpse.

“Damn! So you’re burying corpses here to ritualize them, preparing to summon skeletons?” Saint Knight Oni snarled.

Faller scratched his nose awkwardly. Though burying corpses in a courtyard was strange, it wasn’t proof of ritualization—there wasn’t a trace of death aura in the yard.

Besides, even if someone did ritualize corpses, who’d use them to summon skeletons? What a waste. Skeletons were weak fighters. Better to boil the bones into soup and summon a hellhound—they loved gnawing bones and were strong fighters.

Angr pushed open the door with a creak and stepped out of the house.

Oni instantly raised his sword and pointed it: “Are you the one ritualizing corpses here? Evil heretic, I, Novice Saint Knight Oni, judge you in the name of Light. If you claim innocence, raise your hands—let the Holy Light decide.”

Oni recited his lines rigidly, then raised his sword high—its blade blazed with bright, holy radiance: “Holy light, purify the world’s shadows. Saint’s blade, exterminate all heretics. In the name of Light, judge!”

This was a specialized skill for judging heretics: if the target wasn’t a heretic, the judgment light passed through unimpeded; if the target was a heretic, the light exploded on them, inflicting double damage.

Faller sighed inwardly. Over the years, the Church’s young recruits had grown increasingly rigid—always eager to use Judgment Light to distinguish friend from foe. Human hearts were complex; how could one skill possibly sort them?

Even if someone wasn’t a heretic—what if they were a murderer, bandit, or thief with evil intent? What if they were an arrogant mage? Originally harmless, but one judgment cast, and they’d become enemies.

How many enemies had the Church drawn upon itself each year because of this arrogant rudeness? Yet none of the young ones could break the habit—perhaps they thought it didn’t matter. So what if they offended someone? Who’d dare defy the Holy Light Church?

They'd never met a real ruthless person—otherwise, these kids would get hurt.

Just as Faller’s mind flashed through these thoughts, Angr sidestepped and swept his foot out.

Oni thought his pose looked cool; Angr thought his movement was painfully slow—in the time it took him to speak, Angr could have cut him down several times.

But Negril had told him: don’t kill, don’t seriously injure—otherwise, the Holy Light Church would notice and come investigating. That would be trouble.

If a saint and a priest suddenly died in one place, it’d be ignored normally—but now, with everything going on, they’d immediately suspect Nicolai.

Oni’s foot was swept, he lost balance, lunged forward, and crashed headfirst into the wall—knocked unconscious.

Croak... croak... croak...

The scene grew awkward. Faller covered his face, unwilling to watch. One moment he charged in, full of righteous fury to judge someone, the next he’d smashed his head into a wall and passed out. How embarrassing. Was he trying to make the other feel guilty through his own unconsciousness, to justify his judgment?

But it did prove, indirectly, that this man was powerful. Faller grew cautious, raising his voice: “Friend, my apologies. I am Faller, priest of the nearby town. This is Novice Saint Knight Oni. Who are you? Where are you from?”

Angr tilted his head, staring at him blankly—he didn’t know how to answer. Should he say his name was Angr, that he came from the Abyss of Rest, and was a skeleton?

He ignored him entirely, grabbed the saint knight, cast a Cleansing Spell on his head, hoping he hadn’t cracked his skull or injured himself.

Faller’s eyes widened in shock. Holy light?

A casually cast holy light—similar to a Purification spell—had instantly erased the swelling on Oni’s head. Just this single act proved the man was a very high-ranking clergyman, far above Faller’s own level.

Good heavens, what had that idiot Oni done? He’d cast Judgment Light on a Church clergyman of far higher rank than them!

“Level One Priest Faller bows before my lord. May I ask your noble name?” Faller dropped to his knees, bowing respectfully.

Faller’s bow stunned not only the constables and men who’d followed him here to cause trouble, but also woke Negril.

“Oh right—you can use holy light. You can pretend to be a Church clergyman and leave safely. The Church won’t investigate someone who uses holy light. Let me think… what role in the Church suits you best?”

“Got it—Ascetic Monk. Those solitary, unkempt, grim, self-torturing ascetics. You’ll pose as an Ascetic Monk. And your timing here is perfect—you’re here to track down Nicolai’s killer.”

“Introduce yourself like this: ‘Angr, Monk of the Shadow of Light.’” Negril spoke swiftly inside Angr’s soul.

“Light… shadow… monk… Angr.” Angr delivered his introduction in broken fragments.

Negril clapped his hands inside Angr’s soul: “Brilliant! Ascetics are solitary, rarely speak, their language skills are rusty. Your halting speech fits perfectly. Hurry, praise me—my choice is perfect!”

Ascetic Monk? Faller was stunned. The legendary, famed Ascetic Monks? He’d never met one. How could such a great figure appear here? Was it…?

At that moment, Old John stepped out of the house, his steps light and brisk. Everyone outside stared, dumbfounded—wasn’t Old John a cripple?

If even Old John, a decades-long cripple, could be healed, this Ascetic Monk’s power was immense. No need to ask—this had to be about that matter.

Faller rose, crossed his hands over his shoulders, and bowed again: “Lord Angr, are you here to exorcise the Holy Maiden Shamarah?”