Academic gathering with a lich-Chapter 254 - 237 Holy City and Saints
What awakened him was the resonant morning bell from the high tower, its solemn sound rippling through dreams like waves, bathing every awoken soul in tranquility. Lyle opened his eyes. There was no need for oil lamps or candles in the inn’s room since they were unnecessary.
"How marvelous," Lyle mused, looking at the perpetually shining Holy Cross atop the cathedral outside the window, which made Lokarot devoid of night. But its light was different from any he had known in his previous life, lacking the intensity of the sun and the dimness of moonlight, as if it were a seamless light source tailored for every human being. Even amidst such light, Lyle’s sleep remained undisturbed. The light, just like the air, had merged into the life of Lokarot.
Meals in Lokarot were very simple. Displayed on Lyle’s plate was nothing but a pure white and undecorated piece of unleavened bread, accompanied by a clay jar of milk. The smiling waitress caught the look of surprise on Lyle’s face.
"Sir, during the Holy Light Ceremony, we don’t serve meat in the early period. But don’t worry, when the Crusaders arrive in the city, we will provide delicacies for the returning heroes. At that time, you can share those meals with us at no cost." When she spoke of the Crusaders, the girl’s eyes, still at the age of infatuation, glowed like polished pearls, perhaps filled with limitless daydreams about those Paladins. Realizing her gaffe, she gave Lyle an apologetic smile. "The Crusaders’ troops will arrive within the next few days, so your patience won’t be tested for long. Besides, our unleavened bread is quite delicious, too."
Lyle wasn’t particularly demanding about food; what piqued his curiosity more was the Crusaders’ troops the girl mentioned. "The Crusaders’ army will come to this Holy City?"
"Yes, that’s the very essence of the Holy Light Ceremony, a festival to give thanks to our saviors, the city of Lokarot which was saved, the Crusaders, the Guardian Legion."
As Lyle tasted the unleavened bread on his plate, he listened to the passionate story told by the waitress. Before the descent of the Holy Light, Lokarot had suffered a terrible calamity that halved the city’s population in a matter of days, nearly turning it into desolation. The powerless residents sought help from the church and ultimately, the city was saved by the Guardian Legion and became the Holy City. When Lyle inquired about the details of that dreadful calamity, the waitress looked both lost and embarrassed.
"Sir, I was not a direct witness to that disaster; I moved to Lokarot afterward. If you wish to learn about Lokarot’s history, you need to seek out those who wear masks. But I advise against it, for they have been punished for their past sins, and they are tainted with ill omens."
People wearing masks? A new term. Lyle didn’t press further, seeing impatience and disgust on the waitress’s face, as if her initial enthusiasm was just a facade.
He finished the milk in the clay jar in one gulp, finding it uniquely flavorful and smoothly soothing his throat, dried from the arid unleavened bread. It was like pure holy water, cleansing his innermost paranoid thoughts. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖
The Holy City wasn’t necessarily holy.
Mercy was just their facade. Walking on the streets, Lyle became more convinced of this view. The harmonious streets, the smiles on everyone’s faces, even the minor conflicts resolved with laughter—it was as if everyone was a Saint, the paradise-like view seemed eerily peaceful to Lyle. The smiles on their faces were like masks, entirely obliterating people’s chaotic natures; they were all suppressing themselves, and the goodness wasn’t heartfelt. They seemed like children trying to behave in front of their parents, with holiness being merely a disguise.
A false Holy City.
Lyle gazed at the distant radiance of the cross. Was its light, after all, merely ordinary?
Where there was light, there were shadows.
Amidst the proud and upright figures, Lyle noticed an unusual shadow. Clad in tattered clothes, the man knelt beside the street; his exposed skin through the tears in his garment was withered and old, as the sparse white hairs on his head indicated he was an elder whose life had not been kind. At that moment, he was kneeling on the ground, applying resin to a special step outside a house. Without any tools, just his fingers, brittle as kindling, patiently spreading the resin, as if sculpting a piece of art. He wore a white mask, fully concentrated, oblivious to the surrounding gazes.
He was a blemish. Every straightforward glance conveyed this notion to Lyle. Those who showed modesty and politeness to each other turned fierce and indifferent at the sight of this man. Despite his kneeling, humble posture, despite his attempt to stick close to the corner of the wall to avoid obstructing the shiny figures "accidentally" passing by him.
Finally, he finished his task and with a trembling body, he gently knocked on the house door. A man came out from behind the door, looking down at the elderly figure kneeling before him, at his outstretched white palm.
He was given three misshapen unleavened bread, wrapped in a piece of cloth—his own garment.
"Thank you." The response was a loud door slam.
Stooped, the masked elder clutched his reward and walked into the alleyways of the street, where the light couldn’t reach.
This city had its hierarchy, the masked and the unmasked people, differentiated by their ranks.
With indignation and compassion, Lyle followed the old man’s steps into the alley.
He walked slowly, often pausing to rest in place, for he was very old. Just when Lyle thought he might get lost due to dementia, he arrived at his home.
It was a ruin that could barely be considered a house, casting its humble shadow among the finely built, resplendent white towers. In this place, which should have been deserted due to the poor conditions, there was a lively sense of community. Children played amongst the rubble, the adults were brewing some odorous resin, an aroma they had grown accustomed to.
Lyle saw the reason they wore masks.
Scars, ghastly, disfiguring scars that were on everyone, on the children’s faces, on the chests of men, on the thin arms of the old. They were severe burns, tormenting their skin beyond human likeness, and it was hard to imagine the ordeals they had suffered.
Yet, they showed not a trace of sorrow. Although masked, their laughter was not hindered, women chatted beside pots filled with resin, men stirred the murky substances with effort in large vats. The elderly called the children to their sides, handing out unleavened bread from their embrace. They laughed joyously, the hideous scars on their faces resembling centipedes.
In poverty, could the nature of humanity be tempered? Lyle looked at their cruel visages blooming with smiles and thought of the people walking in the city, on the streets. Ultimately, he did not approach them with the trivial questions of his fleeting curiosity. He might sympathize with them, but they did not need pity; their resilient and optimistic spirit was nobler than ours. Lyle returned to the shadows, choosing to leave.
The old man paused a second or two, looking at the path he had come back from, when a man with a face covered in sweat approached.
"Father, you don’t need to go out to work, we’ve assigned tasks to each other, and the elderly shouldn’t take such risks."
The old man looked up at his son, taller than himself by a head, and used his own cloth to wipe the sweat from his face.
"But in your plan, there are no snacks for the children, are there? They need nutrition, to face the upcoming Festival of Holy Light in their best form."
"We will find more food for the children, father, we can take on more work..."
"But you are already tired, my child. And I... I do not wish to sit idly like the other old folk, watching you all work hard."
The children who had received the unleavened bread had already divided their portions.
"Grandpa, we are ready now, can we eat?"
The old man formed a circle with the children, their eyes shining with the joy of receiving food.
"Yes, you’re ready, children, but there’s one more step."
The old man’s stooped body strained to stand erect, his head held high, trying to rise above the shadow of the buildings to feel the light enveloping Lokarot. His eyes closed tightly, his face adorned with a peaceful smile, hands bleached by resin clasped in front of his chest like a saint, with the children imitating him, holding their food.
"Praise the Holy Light."
