A Hospital in Another World?-Chapter 876: The Holy Light on the Pyre

Gene Madeline quietly closed the door. He pressed his ear against the door crack, holding his breath to listen. After a long time without hearing any sound from inside, he finally sighed in relief:

“Thank goodness…”

He instinctively drew a circle on his chest, followed by seven dots outside the circle, symbolizing the divine power of the Radiant Lord.

As for the current doctrine which required nine dots instead...

Apologies, for a low-ranking acolyte like him, habits formed over ten years were hard to change.

Gene tiptoed quietly to the back door of the church, opened it a crack. Before the people outside could speak, he had already raised his index finger to his lips and shushed loudly:

“The Bishop is asleep. Don't make a sound, follow me!”

A group of soaked farmers tiptoed in, holding their breath. Gene led them to a side room, settled them inside, and handed them some rough cloth towels:

“You'll stay here for the night. The Bishop was busy all day and just fell asleep, don't wake him!”

“Don’t wake whom?”

A kind voice with a hint of laughter asked from behind. Gene turned around in shock, while all the farmers stood up and saluted unevenly:

“Bishop.”

“Bishop.”

“Bishop Miria.”

Bishop Miria was an elderly man in his sixties or seventies, with white hair and beard, a gaunt face, and a white robe washed almost transparent. He held a candlestick in his left hand, raised his right hand gently to stop the farmers from saluting:

“Sit down, sit down, my children. It’s a cold night, and you’ve come through the rain, you’ve all worked hard. —Gene, go heat up a bowl of oatmeal for everyone to warm up.”

“Bishop—”

“Go!”

Gene silently bowed his head, walked out of the room quickly without a word. Bishop Miria looked around and said gently:

“The Lord says, you should listen to the suffering of the lambs and reach out a helping hand to them. —Children, what happened that made you come to see me in such a hurry?”

The crowd fell silent. The farmers looked at each other but didn't speak. After a long time, an old farmer with the most wrinkles on his face finally spoke tremblingly:

“Bishop, we came to ask you... to ask you...”

“To ask you to save our grain!”

A young man blurted out. He clenched his fists tightly, his strong arms bulging with muscles:

“The Kingdom’s army took it, the Inquisition took it, and after the Inquisition took it, the knights nearby took it again. If we don’t give it, we’re accused of being disloyal to the Radiant Lord, and if we’re disloyal to the Radiant Lord, we’re sent to the pyre!”

“The granary is empty, the chickens, ducks, pigs, and sheep in the pens are gone, even the seeds hanging from the beams have been taken! Last year's disaster left us with nothing, and now they’re taking even the seeds for this year!”

With a thud, another farmer fell to his knees. He extended his rough, cracked hands, palms up, showing the red and black frostbite sores to the Bishop:

“Bishop, does the Radiant Lord’s will really mean we should starve to death?!”

“Do not doubt the Lord's mercy,” Bishop Miria exclaimed in surprise, instinctively drawing a circle on his chest, followed by seven dots, then paused and added two more:

“The Lord says: Those who sincerely believe in me, I will grant eternal blessings. I will take them into my kingdom, where there is no hunger, no cold, no pain, and rivers flow with milk and honey…”

The farmers prayed along with him. In the prayers, a soft white light flowed, gently shimmering on the Bishop’s robe, the candlestick, and the beads on his wrist.

The farmers participating in the prayer were also enveloped in a faint white light. For a moment, their pain receded, their wounds healed, and they felt a bit more strength.

“Thank you for the Radiant Lord's grace.”

“Thank you for the Radiant Lord's grace…”

The farmers’ expressions relaxed and softened. As the long prayer ended, Gene came in with a tray, carrying a large pot and several earthen bowls:

“Come, drink a bowl, drink a bowl.” He reluctantly picked up a copper ladle and scooped the oatmeal into the earthen bowls. The porridge was thin, with just a few grains floating in each scoop.

Even such thin porridge, the farmers held carefully, sipping it slowly. They rotated the bowls to make the grains float, avoiding having to lick the bowls in front of the Bishop.

“Why so little?”

Bishop Miria frowned. Gene silently lowered his head, stubbornly pressing his lips into a straight line. The Bishop scrutinized him and sighed:

“Never mind, bring the bread from the cupboard.”

“Bishop! That’s your food for tomorrow…”

“It’s rare for everyone to come here, we can’t let them go hungry. Go.”

Bishop Miria said softly. This exchange made the farmers realize what was happening and they immediately protested:

“No need, no need!” 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

“We’re not hungry!”

“Look, I’m already full!” The young man who complained earlier puffed out his belly and patted it twice. The Bishop looked down and sighed silently:

What else could be in that belly but a sack of water?

He instinctively traced the holy symbol again, not noticing that he only marked seven points this time. He raised his eyes and looked at the farmers in the room:

“How much grain do you need to store?”

The farmers’ expressions relaxed. The elderly farmer who had spoken first stepped forward and bowed:

“Bishop, we dare not be greedy. Each family just needs to store two bags of grain! Two bags! As long as we have seeds for next year, we can survive by gathering acorns, digging roots, and peeling bark…”

Bishop Miria was silent, long silent. After a long pause, he nodded heavily with a determined look.

Dozens of bags of seeds were carried into the church. Bishop Miria personally led the way, guiding them to the cellar, to a corner in the deepest part. He knelt and prayed a few words, his palm glowing faintly white, and pushed with his hand:

“Here it is. Put everything inside.”

The farmers thanked him profusely as they left. Bishop Miria saw them off to the back door, watching them disappear into the dark, rainy night, frowning and sighing:

“How did it come to this… how can it be this way… Merciful Radiant Lord, I beg your light to shine upon all things, have mercy on your people, save your people…”

He was deeply worried and prayed before the holy statue all night. The holy statue and altar glowed softly, the light lasting throughout the night.

“This church still has holy power.”

“Yes, the reserve of holy power is quite substantial.”

In the rainy night, two mages landed silently on the wall. One cast a Detection Spell, while the other opened an instrument, skillfully measuring and recording:

“Peripheral holy power response… Red, 57…”

“Central building holy power response… Orange, 32…”

“Holy statue, altar holy power response… Why hasn’t this old man left yet?”

The mages came and went without alerting anyone. The area remained calm for seven or eight days, then a swarm of iron-hoofed cavalry shattered the church’s tranquility.

“By order of the General, this parish must gather eight thousand pounds of grain, to be delivered to the camp in three days!” The messenger didn’t dismount, arrogantly tossing down a letter:

“Any delay, shortage, or substitution will be treated as deliberate sabotage of military operations and disloyalty to the Radiant Lord!”

He spurred his horse to leave. From inside, a loud crash sounded as Bishop Miria rushed out, holding his robe:

“Wait! —Eight thousand pounds is impossible! This parish only has a thousand people and has already been taxed three times! Three times!”

“That’s the General’s order!” The messenger raised his whip, pointing to the letter on the ground:

“The Inquisition also signed it! Remember, three days, only three days!”

Bishop Miria stood at the door, trembling as he picked up the letter, reading it over and over. Finally, he pressed the letter tightly to his chest and looked up to the sky:

“Merciful Lord…”

He ran and pleaded for three days. On the third day, the elderly Bishop, along with the villagers, dragged five wooden carts to the camp.

“Why so little?”

The clerk in charge of counting frowned at a glance. These wooden carts could hold at most five hundred pounds each, six hundred if overloaded. Five carts, two thousand five hundred pounds, barely three thousand—

The order was for eight thousand pounds! Delivering less than half, what did this mean?!

He wanted to scold them, but seeing the Bishop with his white hair and beard, thin clothing, and trembling in the cold wind, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He paused and whispered:

“Hurry back and gather the rest quickly. I’ll note part of it for you, won’t report it, but get the rest here by tonight! Don’t get me in trouble!”

“This is all we have.” Bishop Miria smiled bitterly. He spread his hands, patting down from top to bottom:

“Candlesticks, dishes, beads, furniture, everything that could be pawned has been pawned. We only gathered this much grain—our parish truly has no more grain…”

“What’s going on?!”

There was a clatter of

hooves and a loud voice behind him. Bishop Miria turned quickly to salute:

“Archbishop…”

“What’s their quota?” The Archbishop extended his hand. The clerk hurriedly handed over the letter, and the Archbishop’s face darkened as he read it:

“This is military grain! Do you want the Radiant Lord’s soldiers to go hungry in battle? —Not enough? Why could others gather theirs, but you couldn’t? Men, search!”

At his command, black-clad riders sped off like the wind. Bishop Miria was taken aside and ordered not to move. Within half a day, a rider returned, reporting to the Archbishop:

“We found the grain! In the church cellar, dozens of bags! Hidden with a divine array, we wouldn’t have found it if Brother Adam hadn’t been meticulous!”

The Archbishop turned to look at Bishop Miria, who immediately became anxious!

“You can’t take this! These are seeds! They entrusted me with these seeds! With seeds, they won’t starve next year, the people will have hope!”

“So, the soldiers should starve?”

The Archbishop retorted sharply. Before Bishop Miria could respond, he waved his hand, sending another team to fetch the seeds.

“You can’t do this! You can’t!” Bishop Miria tried to stop one after another, but he was alone and weak, unable to stop anyone. In desperation, he knelt down and prayed loudly:

“Lord, your light shines everywhere, your wisdom knows all… Please have mercy on your people, save your people…”

A burst of white light erupted from him, filling the entire tent. The light was tangible, blocking the entrance and all the knights trying to rush out. The Archbishop was furious:

“How dare you! Do you defy the Lord's will?”

“This is not the Lord’s will!” Bishop Miria raised his head high:

“The Church’s authority comes from the Lord, we shepherd His lambs in His stead! We should listen to their suffering, comfort their sorrow, not rob them of their grain and watch them starve!”

As he spoke, the holy light condensed, faintly forming the shape of a holy symbol and a holy sword. The Archbishop’s face darkened:

“Miria, in light of your years of service, I’ll give you one more chance. Clear the way and await punishment—otherwise, do you think the Inquisition won’t execute you?”

“Impossible!” The elderly Bishop raised his head high, his white hair and beard flowing without wind:

“For sixty years, I’ve shepherded the Lord's lambs under His command and the Church’s orders. Today, unless I die, you’ll have to step over my corpse to harm the people of my parish! Even in death, I return to the Lord's kingdom, waiting for you all in hell!”

“Very well, you’re rebelling.” The Archbishop nodded solemnly:

“—Men! Bishop Miria defies the Church’s will, strip him of his holy orders, burn him at the stake!”

He pointed, and a fierce white light struck Bishop Miria, making him cough blood and fly backwards. Knights swarmed him, tying him up and dragging him to the pyre.

Thick smoke rose, and flames roared. Amid the raging fire, pure white holy light shone endlessly.

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