kingdom of nations

Chapter 307 Qualifications (Part 2) (Two chapters combined)

This answer was no surprise to anyone, but suddenly, Cesar felt a rare surge of curiosity: "If I accept your suggestion, will you really set a big fire in the city?"

Leila glanced at him, her eyes filled with the meaning of "How could you be so stupid?" "How could I?" she said bluntly, "I would only kill you."

Even Cesar was speechless...

"Now it seems you really are a bit of a devil. Didn't you say before that you would allow me to back down or change my mind?"

“Yes, I can’t stop you, but I can kill you,” Lyra said frankly. “Although people call you the Shield of the Holy City, believe me, if I want to make a move, I can find an opportunity.”

As for that suggestion—if you really believe me that much, then if I told you to die, you should go and die too.

She suddenly moved closer to César again, her tone strange, “People’s hearts soften when they see you because you have a face that looks like it was given by God, but I will not be moved by such appearances. I am willing to talk to you, ask you for help, and come to you at this time to remind you because I know you are a good person. If you did not have this virtue, then what difference would you be from those despicable Christian lords?”

"I'd be happy to kill them, and of course I'd be happy to kill you too." She gently stroked Cesar's eyes, her movement as light as a feather rising and falling in a windless environment, almost imperceptible, but Lyra could feel a slight resistance on her fingers.

“The Prophet’s favor upon you is indeed profound,” she murmured, then leaped up nimbly. “I have a bet with you, young man.”

"What bet?"

"I won't tell you the odds or the stakes, but from the bottom of my heart, I hope you win."

------

Leila left, and Cesar no longer hesitated. He thought of another woman who might have crossed this line: his wife, Portia.

Portia once told her that when she was very young, because she was resentful that her cousins ​​could enter the church for the election ceremony while she could not, she secretly sneaked into the church, desecrated it, and almost ruined the ceremony.

For this, her grandfather paid a very heavy price, and César also asked her if she felt anything while attending Mass in church, and Portia thought about it carefully and confirmed that she did not.

Perhaps the reason her intrusion into the church ended so hastily was because she did not receive God's blessing.

Lyra and the duke's daughter were indeed "chosen," but for them, it felt more like a curse.

Cesar felt a chill run down his spine. He immediately realized that if those people were eyeing him and preparing to attack him, then those around him must also be under their surveillance. Damara's current behavior was no different from that of a patient, and perhaps those monitoring her had not yet realized that she was not sick but had been chosen.

After all, it is extremely rare for such a thing to happen to a woman, especially when she is not in a church to pray.

But if Damara, like Baldwin and all the chosen ones, were to be bathed in holy light, or even have symbols like the Spear of St. George appear, then it could no longer be concealed.

He believed that Patriarch Gerard would do everything in his power to protect his daughter, and that Gian would not be an ungrateful scoundrel, but it was hard to say about Bishop Andre and the other priests.

He rushed back to the monks' quarters in the church. To his relief, only Gian and her father, Gerald's patriarch, were by Damara's side. They thought something terrible had happened when they saw Cesar in such a panic.

It is indeed a big deal, but it only concerns Damara and has little to do with the plague outside.

If there must be a connection, it's highly likely that this miraculous event occurred to protect Damara after she contracted malaria—"The saint is watching over her!" Gian exclaimed excitedly, his hands trembling uncontrollably. Gerald, the patriarch, was calmer; he stepped forward and immediately wrapped Damara, bedsheets and all, in the blankets. "Cover her." Cesar didn't know if any unexpected coincidences might occur, such as encountering a priest during Damara's transfer, and Damara suddenly being enveloped in holy light—that would be truly terrible.

Gian paused for a moment, then immediately took off his cloak, which he was wearing today as a black velvet cloak, and wrapped it around Damara from head to toe.

"Where to?" Gerald's patriarch asked urgently.

“The tower—my teacher was there, and the top floor was a small chapel,” Cesar said. Although shrouded in conspiracy, it was probably the most heavily guarded place in all of Bethlehem, surrounded by the most trustworthy people.

They walked in a hurry, and César even personally fetched a large candlestick with sixteen candles.

"Why does it have to be so big?" Gian asked, looking rather clueless.

"Of course, it's to cover it up." Gerald's patriarch said irritably. He only now realized that his son-in-law might be a bit stupid. It was the middle of the night, and the surroundings were dark. If Damara suddenly felt the divine calling and emitted holy light, she would be a bright target. However, there was a bright candlelight nearby. If the light on her body was not very obvious, then she could use the excuse of the candle exploding to cover it up.

They carried Damara into the small chapel in one go and placed her on the low couch by the window. Gian was quite quick-witted this time; he immediately jumped over, closed the wooden windows, and drew the tapestry, sealing the entire room off.

The moment he turned around, he heard Gerald's patriarch praying softly. He was stunned; he saw that familiar light emanating from his fiancée—the light he had seen on the battlefield, in church, and during prayers.

As if in an indescribable dream, Gian walked lightly to Damara's side. He knelt down with utmost devotion, not even daring to touch Damara.

So what was Damara doing?

Damara knew she was dreaming; she had no idea that she would be blessed by God and chosen by a saint on this day.

She did not recklessly rush into any selection ceremony. Although she was in a church, there were many devout and pure people there. She did not stand out, and even as a woman, she did not have the stunning beauty of Princess Hibil, nor the wisdom of Queen Mother Maria, nor even the resilience of Countess Jaffa. She knew what kind of person she was, just an ordinary noblewoman.

Therefore, she did not even develop feelings for César as some people believed, knowing it would be futile.

She quietly accepted her father's arrangement.

Whether it was her first husband or her second, what pleased her was that Gian was a good man, and she knew she would spend the rest of her life in peace—in Magigor, Frankish, perhaps when her grandchildren gathered around her knees, asking her to tell them a story, she could tell them about the boy who was like King David, who had pledged his loyalty to her and single-handedly defeated an entire Saracen army for her.

Thinking of this, she couldn't help but smile. If Cesar heard such rumors, he would definitely look embarrassed. He was such a reserved person, so humble that it was hard to believe he was also a young man.

But today's dream seemed different; she became the companion of a noblewoman.

The noblewoman was not Princess Hibernian; judging from her attire, she resembled a woman from ancient Rome. To the other noblewomen, she was a humble and gentle elder sister, but to others, she was a shocking heretic who refused marriage, love, and the offering of faith to any god other than God.

Unfortunately, because of her beauty and gentleness, the governor of Sicily wanted her to be his wife. When she refused, the enraged governor threw her into prison.

Upon hearing the news, Damara was heartbroken. Ignoring the advice of her parents and friends, she rushed to the prison.

There, she saw her older sister, whose clothes were torn and whose body was covered in wounds. Upon seeing this, Damara burst into tears. She didn't even dare to touch her older sister, fearing that she would suffer even more harm.

The other person simply gave her a familiar smile: "Go, my sister," she said, "Don't be afraid of what you encounter. You are blessed, and you will surely get the result you want."

Damara was completely bewildered, but by then those vicious thugs had arrived. They pulled Damara away and tortured her older sister, whipping her, burning her, and hooking her chest with iron hooks.

Not only that, the governor personally mixed red-hot charcoal and broken porcelain and pressed it onto her body, but no matter what, her older sister did not beg for mercy.

The governor asked, "Why don't you obey orders?"

She replied, "My body belongs to the Lord, not to you or anyone else."

What command to obey? Damara wondered, and then she found out—by the emperor's decree, all Christians were required to publicly sacrifice to pagan deities or face punishment.

"No, no, no!" she cried, but no sound came out. It was the noble lady who answered the governor.

She said, "My body belongs to the Lord, not to you or anyone else."

The governor finally gave up on the idea of ​​getting her to convert, and he imposed the final punishment—taking away the noblewoman's most prominent feminine features.

Throughout this process, Damara cried without stopping until gentle hands reached out from the prison embraced her. Leaning against that warm embrace, she felt overwhelmed with grief, but then she saw light shining down from the sky.

An apostle of Jesus Christ descended into the dark prison cell. He reached out and touched the older sister's body, and the ugly wounds vanished instantly. The jailer melted away like snow under the sun, and even the solid iron and wood disappeared.

“Great!” Damara almost burst out laughing. “Let’s leave this place, good people,” she cried. “Let’s go together, let’s leave this terrible place together.” But the sister just looked at her and didn’t move.

“God will not allow me to run away. He sent His apostles to give me faith, not to take any chances with me. I will not leave. I will wear the crown of suffering like Jesus Christ, just as you see.”

“I don’t want to,” Damara said, weeping. “I don’t want to see you suffer.”

“You are a devout and good child, but the hardships you will suffer in the future may not be any less than mine.”

"Here I bless you. You may lose worldly honors, but you will gain far greater glory here." With that, she bent down and kissed Damara's face.

"I am Ajax."

Damara only managed to grab her collar before she vanished into the increasingly intense light, her eyes barely open.

To outsiders, Damara appeared to be peacefully asleep, her radiance emanating from her and then coalescing into a piece of jewelry she wore—a sacred object given to her by Gian.

A small wheel with a gold base inlaid with rubies was considered by both Gian and Cesar to be a fake relic at the time.

In the Mediterranean region, this practice was quite common, and its value lay more in gems and gold. But now it seems that this is not the case. The sacred object they mistakenly identified as the wheel—whose real name may have been the breast of Agatha Christie—was the result of the torture of having her breast removed.

This is a true sacred object.

“Do you know?” Gerald’s patriarch looked at Gian, who quickly denied it. “I just happened to meet a monk, and I gave him water and bread. He then handed this to me. At the time, it was in a cloth bag, and I didn’t know it was such a valuable thing.”

I even went to look for him, but I couldn't find him.

“Perhaps this is God’s will.” Gerard, the patriarch, grasped Cesar’s hand. “I beg you not to tell anyone about this.”

“I can keep this a secret.” But the problem is that Damara and Gian are engaged, and they have decided that after the wedding in Bethlehem, Damara will return to Magigor with Gian, who will inherit his father’s title and lands, while Damara will become an ordinary lady of the house, living a mediocre and quiet life as her father wished. But now that is no longer possible.

Gian looked at Cesar with a pleading expression, but Cesar could not vouch for him. If the matter were to be exposed, Damara would face death.

The reason the Grand Duke's daughter was able to be imprisoned was because her father paid a large ransom, and all she was given was to live, to spend her life looking at four walls and a small hole used to pass food and filth at the same time. If that were the case, the head of Gerald's family would rather Damara be dead.

Before they could decide what to do, they heard Damara let out a long sigh; she had woken up.

When Damara woke up, she saw three concerned faces looking at her. The girl was a little confused. She couldn't remember what had happened since she had collapsed without any warning.

Her memory also stopped at the moment she fell into a coma, and when she woke up, she only thought it was because she was too tired.

At this moment, Damara's father, her fiancé Gian, and Cesar were all extremely relieved that they had believed the words of the female Assassin assassin.

In the sealed room, Damara radiated a light that was in no way inferior to that of any knight or priest. Soft yet dazzling holy light burst forth from her bosom, enveloping her entirely.

The three people present felt an indescribable joy and lightness—Gerald's patriarch reacted the fastest, immediately drawing his dagger and cutting his wrist.

Before the blood could even drip, the wound had already healed. It was a "gift." Indeed, for Damara—and for most Christian women—her personality, her experiences, and her previous education would not have allowed her to receive "grace" and become a knight.

But a woman, whether "given" or "blessed," should not have such a thing. Gerald's patriarch was in a dilemma. If Cesar hadn't fallen into the trap, he could have handed Damara over to Cesar, sent her to Cyprus, and, as long as she lived a secluded life, it would be difficult for anyone to discover anything wrong with her. Then he could have paid Cesar to build a convent for his daughter in Cyprus, where she could spend the rest of her life in peace.

But now it seems that this method is no longer feasible. Gerald's patriarch stood up with a worried look on his face, while Gian covered his face and wept helplessly. He really didn't want to tell Damara about this terrible outcome.

------

Not far from the tower, Lyra crouched like a powerful owl among the dense foliage of the olive trees, her eyes peering through the boundless darkness and the thick stone walls to glimpse the scene inside.

Gian's actions were timely, but Leila could still be certain that the Christian girl was not infected with the disease, or rather, she was infected, but the torment of the disease on her body aroused the resistance of her soul, and the place she was in happened to be the Church of the Nativity—such a sacred place, full of real relics.

So even without ceremony, mass, or prayer—she was so lucky not to be abandoned by her fiancé, father, and friends; on the contrary, they did everything they could to cover for her.

Although it's unknown how long this cover-up can last, this girl's fate is bound to be fraught with hardship.

But for Lyra, the most valuable thing was the bet she hadn't spoken aloud: "You won, kid," she whispered.
The thief was brought before a priest. The only things in the room were two torches planted beside the priest. Under the torches, one could vaguely see swaying shadows, and the cold light reflecting off the shadows' hands indicated that these people were either holding spears or swords.

The priest did not lower his hood; instead, he deliberately pulled it down, completely obscuring his face in shadow.

He coldly surveyed the people in the room. The room was large—it seemed to be a cleaned-up cellar. "Why are there only so few people?" he said with dissatisfaction.

“Several are dead,” a monk beside him mumbled, but the priest glared at him disapprovingly.

Do you think I'm a fool?

The cultivator could only look up at the sky. Since that was the case, he had no choice but to speak frankly: "Sir, some people have changed their minds."

"Going back on your word, what do you mean?"

"They believe they have truly encountered a saint, and they are no longer willing to do the task you commanded."

"I gave the order? Isn't that the truth?"
The knights were blessed by the saint, making them more agile, stronger, and more powerful, enabling them to fight those despicable heretics and reclaim our holy land.

If a priest receives the favor of a saint, he will have the power to heal others, just like Jesus Christ, enabling the mute to speak, the lame to dance, curing leprosy, and even bringing flesh and bones back to life.

But no one has ever seen a person who possesses both abilities at the same time.

Even God has not yet granted the miracle to His Son, so how could it happen to a mortal?

"If a person displays such power, it can only mean that he is a devil who has escaped from hell." He looked at those people, and although he could not see their faces, he could still feel the coldness and malice of their gaze, like that of a venomous snake.

“Now, as we discussed before, everyone should recite their oath.” He pointed out one of them—a middle-aged man who, despite having suffered from malaria, still looked quite plump. It was clear that he should have been doing well; even in this situation, he still took great care of his hair and beard, and he could even read.

When he took the parchment, he hesitated for a moment, but then read aloud, "I, Worm, hereby swear, to Almighty God and His Son Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, I swear to the cross, I swear to my father and mother, that every word I have spoken is true and without falsehood. I..."

He paused, but under the priest's cold, threatening pressure, he continued reading. "I hereby accuse the Knight of Bethlehem, the Earl of Edessa, and the Lord of Cyprus of casting terrible spells upon us. He claimed to be driving away the plague for us, yet he forced us to commit unforgivable crimes..."

He forced us to urinate on the cross, forced us to eat the bones of dead fetuses, made us utter filthy blasphemy against God and the Son, he… he also made women dance naked and have sex with demons… and, and killed several children as sacrifices to his hellish master…”

He started reading slowly, but gradually sped up, until finally he practically gave up and "rolled" over the last word.

Then came a woman, an old man, and a boy of about ten years old.

The thief stared at them wide-eyed. Indeed, they had received a job, or rather a mission, from the church long ago. In return, they would receive a sum of money from the church, enough to change their future circumstances.

Of course, some people will worry about what to do if they do get infected with the plague.
The church priests generously promised that they would receive treatment from the monks.

The thief did receive treatment from a cultivator, but not from this place.

Every face here looked unfamiliar to him; the monk who had saved him wasn't here.

Well, if they were with Cesar, they might be seen as heretics or possessed by the devil.

The thief watched as fewer and fewer people dwindled around him, his heart filled with unease. He didn't know what to say—he had originally looked down on his new lord, even though he was noble and handsome, learned, and blessed by a saint. But his virility only highlighted the thief's own filth, and he hated that feeling, which was why he spoke so rudely. He even carried a hint of secret joy and smugness that no one knew.

This person pities him, unaware that he is about to suffer because of his foolish kindness and generosity.

But the thief thought differently when the monastery was suffering from malaria.

Malaria is a peculiar plague. Compared to the Black Death and smallpox, it is more likely to induce an inescapable sense of impending death. The excruciating pain and exhaustion it brings make people feel that they are about to die.

No one wants to experience that feeling of repeatedly drowning in death.

And isn't the person who can save them from this sea of ​​suffering a saint?

Finally, it was his turn. He knew that all he had to do was step forward, recite his words from the parchment, and his job would be done.

In return, he would receive five gold coins.

But as he stood before the parchment, staring blankly at the distorted letters, he found them to be like red-hot branding irons. He felt that if he opened his mouth, they would jump into his mouth, shattering his teeth and burning his tongue. He mumbled, unable to utter a word.

At this moment, the priest showed signs of impatience. With a wave of his hand, two knights grabbed him. "Why don't you recite?" the priest asked.

The thief knew that his best course of action was to immediately and loudly pronounce the young lord's crimes. He desperately tried to convince himself that even if he was proven guilty—he was the king's cousin, his steward, and he had so many territories and knights—he would at most be reprimanded and might be stripped of some power.

As for himself, he was just a nobody who shouldn't have gotten involved in the struggles of those behemoths. Although driven by greed, he still took that step—but at least now he could side with the lord's enemies.

The lord was so merciful that even knowing the sins he had committed, he wouldn't severely punish him. But his silver tongue was utterly useless now. Whether reciting lines or finding excuses to refuse…

But the priest had already given up on thinking about it.

He wasn't alone; those high-ranking officials really went all out this time, and there were several other places like this one.

However, he also allowed the man to leave the room at will. With a slight gesture, the knights skillfully subdued the thief, and an executioner came over, carrying a gruesome instrument of torture.

He suddenly slapped the thief's face, and as the thief involuntarily cried out in pain, he shoved a pair of pliers into his mouth, precisely clamping down on his tongue. The thief pulled his tongue out and drew his dagger, intending to cut it off.

“Since you have been deceived by the devil,” the priest said lazily, “then there is no point in keeping this tongue.”

The executioner raised his dagger, while the young thief closed his eyes in despair. He didn't know if he would change his mind if the priest were willing to release him now, but he was surprised and saddened to find that he had never even entertained the thought of surrendering.

Perhaps the original thief had already died in the monastery, and a pure new soul had been cast into this ugly body. He was as upright and virtuous as their lord, refusing to commit heinous crimes. The thief closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

He heard screams, and he thought they were his own. No, they weren't his; they belonged to the executioner. The executioner's wrists fell to the ground, along with his instruments of torture. He was terrified, and the pressure on the thief's shoulders suddenly lifted. The thief opened his eyes, only to see flickering flames—in an instant, all the torches in the room were extinguished.

People screamed and ran in panic. The priests, monks, and knights guarding them were ruthless, attacking anyone who approached them without mercy. Many fell as a result, but it had no effect on the person who appeared there silently—she was a gray-white whirlwind that swept through the entire room in an instant. By the time the little thief, disheveled and exhausted, broke free from the dead man's restraints, opened his eyes wide, took out a flint from his sleeve, and relit the candle on the table, he was the only one left in the room.

Lyra only passed by occasionally, but she knew that killing one of the monks, and those they had bribed, would have little impact on the overall situation.

The Assassin assassin did not linger there long; she needed to reach Patriarch Arazarus before the moon reached its highest point in the sky.

Her teacher, the old man of the mountains, Sinan, has accepted a deadly commission.

If Patriarch Heracli is not dead, then the Assassins will end his life.

The monks guarding Patriarch Heraclius had already taken turns in several shifts. Some of them couldn't help but yawn, and a few were even absent-minded and slow to react. Therefore, when a person dressed in a linen robe, barefoot, and with his hood pulled up, walked into their ranks, no one noticed.

“Wait,” the knight at the door called. But when the man pulled down his hood as he had ordered, revealing a familiar face, he was relieved. “God bless you,” he said, and watched the monk walk into the patriarch’s room.

(End of this chapter)