studiobondurri Chapter 170 : Chapter 170
Chapter 170 : Chapter 170
Translator: AkazaTL Pr/Ed: Sol IX
***
Crusaders.
The holy knights of the Cross Order, servants of one of the Seven Lords — the Son of Sin and Punishment. Born to carry out the commandment that “every sin must meet its punishment,” they reigned as absolute powers over the peaceful Southern Continent.
Encased in full plate that exuded intimidation, wielding maces capable of crushing skulls in a single swing, and blessed with the divine power to wield miracles — in a land where even ordinary knights were scarce, the Crusaders were the embodiment of strength itself.
To the gentle Southerners who had never known war, the Crusaders were terrifying… yet also reassuring. They were the guardians who smote sinners and protected the weak, the living symbols of divine justice.
But that was before.
“From this day forth, no one shall offer prayers to Goddess Revrua in this place.”
After the Cross Order declared holy war upon the Southern Continent, the Crusaders changed. No longer were they the protectors of the weak. Their hammers no longer fell upon the wicked — but upon anyone who was not one of their own. To them, all others were sinners to be purged.
“Disobedience is a grave sin. This land is the holy ground of our Lord, the Son of Sin and Punishment. To worship another god here is to profane Him.”
“That’s absurd!”
They began forbidding even the worship of other gods. Even the gentle Southerners could not bear that. For them, faith was not merely belief — it was life itself. The core of their souls.
“The scriptures say the Seven Lords and Nine Goddesses are equals! Their followers are equals too! The Holy Empire never forbade us to pray to other gods in the Sun Temples! And now that you’ve torn down our sanctuaries, where shall we pray if not at the statue of our Goddess?!”
The people of Visente had endured quietly until then. But this—they would not accept. And for their defiance, the Crusaders raised their hammers. Then, without hesitation, they began to kill.
“This… this can’t be happening…”
Buildings burned. The once-proud city of Visente crumbled beneath the march of the Cross. The Crusaders desecrated the Sun Goddess’s statue, the pride of the city. When morning came, the people awoke to see the decapitated figure of their goddess—her head replaced by a cross. Some of the devout, unable to bear it, took their own lives.
“O Eternal Day, merciful Sun… why do you grant us no salvation? They are defiling Your light, nailing Your faithful to their crosses! Sing Your wrath upon them—or at least take our souls!”
Hopelessness blanketed Visente. Some prayed for the return of the Monks, ascetic warriors of the Sun Order; others whispered for the return of their greatest champion, the Grand Monk, the Buddha. But no salvation came. No answer from the Sun. Rumors spread — perhaps the goddess has abandoned us.
A few brave youths tried to strike back, ambushing the Crusaders. They failed miserably.
Their mutilated bodies were nailed to crosses in the town square — a warning to all.
The people of Visente drowned in helplessness. Anger, despair, and grief boiled within them, but their cries went unanswered. Powerless before cruel strength, they had no voice but prayer — prayers to an unhearing sky.
Across the Southern Continent, the Crusaders burned everything.
The Star Order submitted to martyrdom; the Sun Order resisted around the Holy Empire, but without its Monks, there was no true war to fight. Darkness crept across the land — a shadow of despair and death.
“Ah…”
Under the bright gaze of Goddess Revrua — beneath the blazing sun itself — the soldiers of the Cross strode fearlessly through the light, unafraid of the very goddess they profaned.
The clanking of armor echoed through the city. Hearing it, Oren, an aged priest of the Sun, wept bitterly. Why would the goddess not answer their faith? Even if her teachings commanded self-discipline, could she not grant a single miracle to her suffering children? Had she truly abandoned them?
“Goddess…”
He lifted his eyes to the mutilated statue — the decapitated figure of Revrua crowned with a bloody cross. It was hideous. Yet what was more hideous was the sight of his ruined city — of lives shattered beyond repair.
“Goddess, O Goddess…”
As if something snapped within him, Oren began to run barefoot through the streets, drooling, eyes wild, his robes filthy and torn. The townspeople, seeing their once-kind priest in such madness, followed in alarm.
“Father Oren! Where are you going? Please stop!”
He did not stop. He ran toward the Sun. And soon he reached the desecrated statue.
The crimson cross atop it gleamed in the sunlight — a red cross, surrounded by armored Crusaders who watched him coldly.
“Come, Father. You shouldn’t be here.”
“How strange,” Oren rasped. “This is where my goddess dwells. Why do you act as if I’m the intruder? Why do the guilty stand proud while the wronged must bow and tremble? What sin have we committed beneath this sun? In this eternal day, why should we lower our heads?”
He raised his trembling hands and traced a holy sign.
“Eternal Day, Great Sun above, send down a single ray of light. With your warmth, drive away this darkness. Let those who have done wrong be punished, and those who have done right be rewarded. As the sun rises by day and the moon by night, so too must good and evil find their due. Fulfill the law set by the Seven Lords and Nine Goddesses — let justice be done!”
Oren’s voice rang clear. It was the same strong, noble voice that once filled the temple with prayer. Some of the townspeople began to weep. But the heavens did not stir. The sun shone indifferently. The sky remained still.
The Crusaders advanced, maces in hand.
“You have sinned. And sin demands punishment.”
Oren’s desperate prayer changed nothing. The red cross gleamed. The Crusaders approached.
“Please, no! Have mercy!”
“Spare him! He’s just a priest! Even your priests would do the same in his place! Please, show compassion!”
The townspeople rushed forward, forming a wall between Oren and the Crusaders. Old men, women, and children—all standing with arms spread wide.
Oren looked at them and understood.
The heavens did not move. The Sun ignored them. In the most desperate moment, only the powerless rose to defend one another. The smallest, weakest souls — and only them — had the courage to stand together against the darkness.
Light flickered in Oren’s eyes.
“To shield a sinner is also a sin.”
The Crusaders raised their hammers—And then—Slice.
Thin crimson lines traced across their armor.
A cracking sound followed, like shattering glass— and their bodies split apart.
“Well done.”
Blood burst in every direction. The Crusaders collapsed, their armor clattering against the stones. And before Oren stood a young man.
“But next time,” the man said, “don’t look to the Sun. Don’t beg the heavens. When danger comes, remember—it was the people, not the gods, who saved you. The Seven Lords and Nine Goddesses offer no salvation. In this cruel world, only you can save yourselves. If you had been alone, your faith would’ve led you to die here.”
He stood radiant — golden-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful as sculpture. A sword gleamed in his hand.
“But you live because those who loved you stood for you. It wasn’t gods who saved you—it was your neighbors. Not the heavens above, but the humans beside you.”
“……”
“Remember this: in times of crisis, don’t rely on heaven. Find the answer within. If you lack the strength, build it. If you can’t, unite with others. Don’t kneel and pray—act.”
Flames danced around him— not consuming flames, but sacred fire, like the holy light of Revrua herself.
The priest, trembling, whispered.
“Are you… a warrior sent by the Sun Goddess?”
“No.”
“Then… the Grand Champion of the Sun, perhaps?”
“Not that either.”
“Then who are you?”
The young man brushed back his hair and sheathed his sword.
“Karavan.”
***
The gods exist. The Seven Lords and Nine Goddesses are real. But when their faithful suffer, they offer no salvation. Before unjust violence, they turn away. No matter how one cries, screams, or prays—the heavens remain still.
It was the same back then. When my homeland fell. When a Swordmaster slaughtered innocents and erased my house from history. When my dearest ones died beneath the blade— the heavens were silent.
No matter how I cursed them or begged for divine punishment, nothing changed. In the end, those who live in this cruel world can do only one thing— move forward. Not wish, not wait—act.
‘Do not become a hero.’
My master’s words echoed in my mind. Right. I wasn’t here to be a hero. Had that been my goal, I could have played the part—claimed to be the Sun’s chosen, spoken grand words of justice. But no. Those saved by heroes fall when the hero disappears. If they rely on others for strength, they’ll never stand alone.
They must learn, as I once did— that in the harshness of the world, the only one who saves you is yourself.
“W-what…?”
The desecrated statue loomed over me. From all around, soldiers with crosses surged into the plaza. Crusaders, priests, zealots—an army of faith. It wasn’t a mob; it was a disciplined force.
Of course.
“There! That man—capture him!”
Not one of them could stand against me.
“Oh…”
Not a single one.