Goblin Heavy Dependence

Chapter 378 Blood and Honey

The longest seven days of my life were spent in a withered orchard when I was thirteen.

Back then, I thought faith was an unbreakable rock, and I didn't know that this invisible and intangible thing could be so sharp.

So sharp that it can so easily peel away a person's life.

The wilt disease in my hometown spread silently like a plague, and one after another, the orange trees in the orchard lost their green color, their leaves curling up as if scorched.

The parents had long since given up, sitting in the dimly lit room all day, waiting for the same fate as other fruit farmers.

But I didn't.

I prayed under the oldest orange tree in the orchard.

One day, two days, three days...

My knees sank into the mud, and my lips were chapped from dehydration.

On the fourth day, I heard my neighbors crying. They had decided to burn down the orchard and move elsewhere.

On the fifth day, my brother tried to pull me into the house, saying I was crazy and that the great and high god would not stoop down to listen to the prayers of lowly people like us.

On the sixth day, I could barely hear my own voice anymore, and all I could see was a withered yellow landscape.

On the seventh day at dusk, as the setting sun bathed the sky, He came.

It wasn't the gentle and kind woman depicted in the stained-glass windows of the town's church, but rather a presence as warm as the sunshine.

I couldn't see His face, but I could feel the gaze falling on me, like a mother watching her sleeping child.

"Why persist?" His voice was like a gentle breeze blowing through an orchard.

“Because these trees are the lifeblood of my family,” I replied in a hoarse voice, “I don’t believe God would stand by and watch everything die.”

Then the sunlight brushed across the withered orange tree, and the dry branches sprouted new green leaves, the curled leaves unfurled as before, the fragrance of orange leaves permeated the twilight, and tiny white flowers bloomed on the branches.

When I staggered home and told my family about the miracle, they didn't believe me at first, until they saw the orange trees in the garden coming back to life.

That night, the sweet juice quenched my parched throat.

But when I arrived at my neighbor's orchard the next day, hoping for the same miracle, all I saw was desolation.

Fusarium wilt continues to ravage the land, and more and more fruit farmers are preparing to leave.

Miracles seem to only happen where His gaze falls.

At that time, I didn't understand why God, despite His abundant grace, was so stingy, giving only a single drop and leaving the entire land parched. I regarded this special gift as supreme glory and attributed it to God's calling.

That autumn, when the baskets were full of harvested tangerines, I bid farewell to my family and embarked on the path of serving the gods, determined to dedicate my life and all my piety to the great being who saved my family's lives.

……

Thirty years have passed.

My hair has turned gray, and my face is etched with the lines of time.

I consider myself devout enough, but unfortunately my talent is limited.

Even in the diocese closest to God, bathed in the holy light of the Mother of All Things, my devout prayers for over ten thousand days and nights failed to advance me any further. I only served as a minor steward in a remote corner of the church.

Of course I won't be disappointed.

I have long decided to dedicate my life to that great "Mother," even if I can only share the smallest ray of Her dazzling light and become Her representative in the mortal world, I will be satisfied.

"Pastor Moen, please conduct a prayer ceremony for the residents of the South District." I took the ornate program sheet, on which the prayers were written in gold powder.

During the ceremony, I wore a ceremonial robe adorned with silver threads and led the congregation in chanting. My loud voice echoed in the air filled with the scent of incense and burning candles, drowning out the faint stench of decay wafting from the distant slums.

I looked at the sunken and emaciated figures below the stage, and at those eyes filled with hope because of their faith. Even though my heart was already numb, my stomach still churned.

Accompanying the prayers that had been repeated countless times was an increasingly deathly silence within.

I know that the cost of this ceremony was merely the extravagant burning and discarding of incense and candles, and the exquisite vessels that held simple food... enough to feed a village on the edge of the kingdom for a whole month.

"The robes of the bishops are more precious than the ears of wheat of the tenants."

I muttered to myself, unable to help but recall the scene I had witnessed a few days ago.

Three "great figures," bathed in divine light and acting as agents of divine authority on earth, closer to the Mother of All Things than themselves, argued for an entire morning over the seating order in a sacrificial ceremony, while at the same time, refugees outside the city were shoving and fighting over a piece of bread.

Countless quiet nights I knelt in the church, praying to the silent goddess statue, only to be answered by the cold moonlight streaming down from the dome.

On one occasion, I was in charge of allocating a batch of relief supplies to a disaster-stricken parish.

I witnessed firsthand that the originally plentiful food and medicine on the list were reduced to less than one-tenth by the time they arrived, after layers of "procedures" and "management fees" were deducted.

As I rushed trembling into the district bishop's room, clutching the initial list and the final receipt, I wanted to speak up for the disaster victims who were too weak even to pray.

Seated behind an expensive wooden table adorned with exquisitely carved sigils, the bishop, renowned for his piety and wisdom, merely raised an eyelid and silenced all my resentment with a single sentence:
“Pastor Moen, the church’s massive body needs to function, and a little ‘lubricant’ is necessary.”

"You must remember that sometimes, for the sake of the church, for the sake of Goddess, and for the greater good, individual sacrifice is inevitable."

At that moment, as I looked at the image of the goddess "compassionately caring for humanity" on the wall behind him, I felt a wave of dizziness.

Is the great being I serve the same thing as the "goddess" he speaks of?

I have learned to communicate with the Holy Light and guide divine power, but the distance between me and Him seems to be growing further and further apart.

The goddess has not appeared for a long time.

I was horrified to discover that I seemed to have long since stopped expecting His appearance.

This terrified and bewildered me.

I couldn't help but wonder:

Why condone all of this?
Or is it that... you simply don't care?
Sometimes, I even doubt whether the miracle I experienced at age thirteen was just a beautiful dream during a high fever.

But the oranges that are transported from my hometown every year, the aroma when I peel them and the sweetness of the flesh remind me that it all really happened.

The place closest to the goddess also seems to be the farthest from her.

……

When news came that my hometown was once again struck by wilt disease, I had some connection to it within the church.

With a little exertion of influence, the church sent technical personnel and the best holy water.

The disaster was brought under control in less than two weeks.

I've decided to go back to my hometown for a visit.

The carriage drove along the familiar road, with familiar orchards on both sides, but the surrounding land was now enclosed by stone walls with wooden signs that read "Private Property".

Occasionally, I would meet a few unfamiliar fruit farmers, who would treat me with utmost respect, calling me "sir".

The old house has been expanded so much that it is unrecognizable from its original state, and the marble doorposts are somewhat dazzling in the sunlight.

The person who hosted me was the current head of the family business, and also my nephew.

He spoke with enthusiasm and pride about how he used his past reputation for "miracles" and his relationship with me in the church to monopolize most of the local orchards, and how he got other fruit farmers to "voluntarily" give up their land and become his family's hired laborers.

His words were filled with a desire for wealth and power, but lacked any reverence for the miracle itself, for the orange tree that had come back to life.

Just like the important people I've seen in church, sitting in high positions.

"Thanks to you, Uncle! The blight disappeared immediately after the church sprinkled the holy water!" His fat face, which looked like it could squeeze oil, was full of smiles. "It's not a bad thing either, because of this blight, the last few fruit farmers in the vicinity sold their land to us."

I asked him to take me to see the miraculous tree from back then.

As a manifestation of divine grace, they built a luxurious little temple for it. It was not large in scale, but its furnishings were more expensive and exquisite than those of the town's church.

The old orange tree was surrounded on the altar in the very center of the temple, like those carefully dressed mummies in the western desert.

I went closer to take a closer look and found that its branches were bare, without a single leaf, let alone fruit.

“It hasn’t borne fruit for many years,” the nephew said. “But that’s okay, we’ve grafted many new trees onto its branches, and we have a bountiful harvest every year.”

He smiled knowingly.

I reached out and gently stroked the tree trunk, and my mind couldn't help but recall the days and nights I spent kneeling at its base praying many years ago.

Suddenly, a piece of dry twig broke off and fell into my hand; it was very light.

That night, I sat alone in the church for a very long time, and for the first time, I missed a service.

The goddess's grace may indeed have been Her blessing in the beginning.

But when it fell to earth, it became a tempting and sweet "poisoned apple".

I, my family, and even the entire church swallowed it without hesitation, and withered away as a result.

boom--

An inaudible roar suddenly resounded in my heart, like a broken, fallen branch.

My faith in Goddess remains unchanged, but after returning to the church, I submitted my resignation from all core positions.

Amidst a chorus of bewilderment and secret schadenfreude, I packed my bags, taking only the necessary sacred texts and a few familiar clothes.

I whittled that withered branch into a wooden dagger.

It's not long, just the right size to hold in your hand; and it's not sharp at all, even a bit rough.

Holding it, I can remember what I was like at the beginning.

……

Giethoorn is a remote little town, and I became its pastor.

Over the years, I have tried my best to do everything a pastor should do.

He presided over weddings and funerals for the townspeople, listened to their troubles, and occasionally treated minor injuries and illnesses; he helped farmers improve their farming methods, cared for the sick during disease outbreaks, and opened literacy classes for poor but ambitious children.

The real labor, and the respect and gratitude in the eyes of the townspeople, gradually made me stop expecting miracles during these unforgettable times.

The townspeople respect me. No one knows my past; they just see me as an ordinary, elderly pastor who was transferred here from the big city.

On a few quiet nights, I would take out that wooden dagger and reflect on my life.

Recalling how I witnessed firsthand how pure faith could be corrupted by a poisoned apple, and how it could survive in ordinary and simple life.

I started writing articles to record my thoughts on faith and life, not expecting anyone to read them, but just to organize my own thoughts.

I continued to preside over worship services and preach the doctrines. The townspeople all said that I was a truly devout practitioner of the Goddess's teachings on earth.

But only I know that when I led them in reciting the prayers aloud, my heart was completely empty.

Everything I've done is less about serving the goddess and more about finding a reason for my existence after so much of my life, trying to plant a glimmer of humanity in the cracks of the wall of faith with my own strength.

My devotion has long since shifted from facing the altar to the hearts of the people behind it.

……

The turning point occurred late at night when no one was around.

I was taking a walk in the garden behind the church. The night sky was clear and the air was still.

A pink light suddenly rose in the church.

Light and slow.

It landed in the goddess's palm, which held a rosebud.

It was a pink gem the size of a thumb, like a dandelion seed.

I brought it back to the house and put it on my desk.

It is beautiful, indescribably beautiful, as if it changes with the viewer's mood.

I originally intended to report this to the church, but for some inexplicable reason, I pressed the message button and left it there.

After a while, I noticed that the town's residents were starting to change.

The blacksmith stopped arguing with people over a little money, the orchard owner was willing to give oranges to poor children without asking for anything in return, and even the usually stingy innkeeper began to provide food for the homeless for free.

I gradually realized something.

These people who underwent changes were all devout believers who regularly attended church services, and they were also the townspeople I had the most contact with, as I carried the gemstone.

I conducted an experiment, inviting several ordinary residents who weren't particularly devout to the church and deliberately letting them see the crystals on my body.

A few days later, they underwent the same change, with their desire for material wealth noticeably diminishing.

Meanwhile, as the number of people affected gradually increased, the gem seed in my hand became increasingly dazzling, as if it were absorbing something invisible, taking root and sprouting.

I put the seed back where I found it—in the palm of the goddess's hand.

So that every townsman who comes to the church to pray can silently feel its influence in the prayers.

The changes in Giethoorn are becoming increasingly apparent.

There were fewer arguments and more mutual assistance, and the whole town presented a harmony that I had never seen anywhere else.

Even if the person they are talking to is the town's sheriff or a homeless person on the street, they can talk to each other on an equal and friendly basis without any prejudice.

It's just like a scene from my dream.

Involuntarily, I recalled the wilt disease that struck my hometown thirty years ago, and the miracle of the goddess's "stinginess".

Perhaps, this gem, with its power to directly change people's hearts and weaken greed, is the true gift from God?

Is this the ultimate answer given by the great goddess after guiding me through everything that has happened?
I continued to fulfill my duties as a pastor in Giesecke Town, but secretly I began to study the properties of crystals more systematically, distributing the multiplied crystals to those "devout" believers and controlling the sphere of influence.

The changes in the town naturally attracted the attention of the surrounding areas, and some people noticed something amiss, but when they came into contact with the crystals, most of them were assimilated by them and chose to stay rather than leave.

"It's not about selectively saving a minority, but about fundamentally changing human nature and eliminating injustice and greed."

"This is a true miracle."

Occasionally, late at night, as I hold that wooden dagger carved from a dry orange branch, a question arises in my mind:

Is this kind of redemption, which deprives people of their right to choose through external force, truly more just than the injustice in the natural order?
I have personally witnessed the filth within the church and seen how greed can destroy a person's life.

If this pink gem can bring about a fairer world, then it is righteous.

Outside the window, the lights in Giethoorn were few, but they were brighter than ever before.

The goddess granted me a miracle to save a few, and the crystallization may give me a chance to redeem the majority.

This time, I will not let Him down again.

……

The night was deathly still, and the pink beam of light that had shot straight into the sky quietly went out.

Covered in crystals, the aged and mutilated corpse lay silently on the cold ground.

A dagger made of withered branches was tightly tied around his waist, and his ceremonial robe was torn to shreds, leaving only tattered rags.

A small, bright orange mandarin orange fell into the pool of blood.

The force field energy emanating from its body did not cause much damage to the vessel it was carrying; only the excessive force used when throwing it crushed a small portion of its orange peel, revealing the fragile flesh inside.

Mixed with the scent of blood and citrus, glistening juice slowly dripped down, mingling with the spreading blood below.

The liquid, a mixture of blood and honey, flowed silently through the cracks in the stone slabs, reflecting the pink crystal goddess statue on the altar in front of them.

(End of this chapter)