Comprehensive network wizard, magic emperor.

Chapter 313 The Journey Around the Land, A Revolution of Faith

"What a fine fog."

This is the border region between the Gott Empire and the Wilma Empire on the bountiful continent. The mountains and forests along the border are lush and green, and the fog is as cool as silk and as dense as seawater. It seeps into the bunkers and trenches, covering the young and immature faces of the recruits, crawling into the muzzles and receivers of guns, and teasing the cold metal shell casings.

The veteran coughed incessantly as he gathered around the stove to boil water, while the new recruits murmured and discussed whether the enemy would launch an attack today.

The early morning charge was over, and the fields swept by machine guns were littered with corpses, now lying in the quiet fog, like being covered with a thick quilt. Crows had landed and were pecking at the dead in the fog, taking fresh flesh and blood from the bullet holes.

As the sun rose, along with its scorching sunlight came a barrage of artillery fire. The dense explosions tore huge cavities through the fog, and the earth convulsed like a frightened woman giving birth, the sound of the cannons echoing through the trenches and shaking the chests of the soldiers. Even if they gritted their teeth, they felt their skulls tremble and their internal organs ache.

After the shelling ended, the enemy infantry began to advance. The GOT soldiers, dressed in smart blue-gray uniforms and wearing iron helmets fitted with spikes and brightly colored feathers, surged forward like a torrent of turkeys.

A corner of the bunker collapsed, burying the veterans who had been tending the fire under the broken walls. The new recruits dug out the machine gun from the pile of dirt, wiped off the ash, checked the water inlet, attached the ammunition belt, pulled the trigger, and moved the muzzle left and right.

Enemy soldiers in blue-gray uniforms kept appearing in the thick fog. By the time they were spotted, they were already too close. Even though they fell to the ground one by one in the hail of bullets, some of them were still too close and threw grenades into the firing ports. Soon after, the roar of gunfire rang out and the machine gun fell silent.

“What a fine fog,” the officer repeated, a smile playing on his lips. The marching oxcarts, mule trains, and warhorses crossed the border, and the troops officially entered enemy territory.

The garrison commander used a radio to transmit intelligence, the radio waves traveling deep into the motherland, across mountains and rivers, past the dark mass of marching troops, to the capital, enraging the emperor.

This is the third day since the two countries declared war. The countries of the bountiful continent either remain neutral or choose sides and enter the fray, and the confrontation between the two major military blocs is gradually taking shape.

The world was already heading towards turmoil, and it was in this time that people endured the torment of disease to keep the war machine running. Flames burned in the blast furnaces of factories, in the generators of coal-fired power plants, in the hands of farmers deprived of their seeds and grain, and in the hands of workers with blisters and severed fingers.

The Cult of Miracles from the Sail Islands has entered port aboard a ship carrying elixirs and is traveling from west to east.

The miraculous potion not only cures plagues but also accelerates wound healing. In this summer of war, any military commander would realize the importance of this elixir.

After they distributed the first batch of elixirs in the first city of the first country they landed in, the country's military and police seized the port warehouses and were determined to remove all the finished elixirs sealed in glass bottles.

Nine lighthouse apprentices stood in front of the warehouse door, facing clubs and muskets.

People flocked to the port, and those with mild symptoms who had taken the decoction showed significant improvement. Rumors circulated in the streets that the more one drank this miraculous medicine, the longer one could live.

Therefore, the entire city's population flocked to the port area, but this did not stop the military and police from taking action. They were like children hiding behind adults, waiting to pry open the crab shell, gazing at the tightly closed doors of the warehouse and those black-clad heretics.

They waited for them to retreat, then swarmed in and rushed into the warehouse to loot.

The shepherd gazed at the thick fog hanging over the city. He began chanting incantations, using gestures instead of thought to guide the magical energy flowing through his veins. Soon, however, the dense fog gathered from all directions, enveloping the port warehouses, so that even people huddled together could not see each other's faces.

In the midst of the chaos, the shepherd approached the officer, whispered a spell, and patted him. A moment later, the mist dissipated, and the officer suddenly ordered the troops to lay down their weapons.

So the soldiers obeyed orders, and when the last gun fell, the lighthouse apprentices chanted incantations together. On this hot summer morning, dark clouds condensed near the ground, and snowflakes fell, soon covering the crowds thronging the harbor.

"The five gods have performed a miracle!" screamed the patients in the crowd, who scrambled about in panic before collapsing to their knees. Several orthodox priests vehemently refuted them, but their eyebrows and caps were covered in snowflakes.

The old priest of Stone Tower Town, the pope of the Miracles Cult of the Sail Islands, unfurled a light blue banner before the crowd. With the help of the Brain-Machine Sprite, he had mastered the country's official language and was now delivering a resounding speech, aided by the Lighthouse Apprentice's spell.

The crowd responded with a loud and powerful roar.

The soldiers and police threw their weapons on the ground and knelt down. Local officials and nobles huddled at the edge of the crowd. The priests of the five gods sighed and slumped to the ground.

When this news spread to various places via secret radio transmission, the rulers of those countries immediately realized that something more terrifying than war had landed in Western ports.

A worse consequence than losing a war is losing power.

The numerous newspapers on the bountiful continent barely reported on the incident, remaining silent as if collectively blind.

Popular radio programs widely publicized the Miracles Cult's grand activities, prompting citizens of various cities to hold collective marches on the days the cult visited, leaving factories, schools, shops, and all other facilities for production and daily life deserted.

Emperors, prime ministers, presidents, and speakers of parliament from all countries hated these Keningans. They hated these cloaked lighthouse apprentices.

However, they had virtually no way to stop the convoy's advance. Armed forces along the way openly defied orders, while their own citizens followed and escorted them.

Assassins were dispatched in waves, using bullets or explosives, all in an effort to wipe the old priest and his party off the face of the earth. Otherwise, the rulers would no longer be able to enjoy the hot and humid summer afternoons, nor sit in the pavilion to bask in the sticky breeze, and listen to the chirping of birds and the footsteps of servants.

But all the assassination attempts were unsuccessful.

These people from Shita Town possess extremely sharp eyes; they can identify those with ulterior motives and carrying weapons with just a glance in a crowd.

The lighthouse apprentices only needed to chant a spell and have their fingers emit strange light to paralyze the assassins, causing them to confess everything. Upon learning this, the public and rioters immediately besieged the mansion of the wealthy man who had hired the assassin, scaring their carriages and cars into fleeing in terror.

To improve efficiency, members of the Cult of Miracles do not stay in one place for long. They leave the potions to defecting armies and to activists of local civilian parties, who then distribute them.

A light blue banner fluttered like prayer flags as this miraculous procession moved forward. Before each vehicle, mechanics meticulously inspected the vehicles to ensure safety. The group never traveled by train, lest bombs be planted on the tracks.

The cities along the way were ignited by miracles.

The old priest vigorously promoted the ideals of peace and shouted the slogan of safety above all else. This raging fire of faith overwhelmed the factory of the war machine.

"We want miracles, not war!"

The followers of the five gods no longer took pride in going to the battlefield, workers refused to produce guns and ammunition, and brutal grain collectors were secretly shot and killed by peasants. Similar incidents occurred one after another.

It was summer in the Northern Hemisphere, the early stages of a major war that was about to sweep the world, but it was thwarted by an unexpected ideological revolution, like an angry strongman being shackled and unable to unleash his power.

(End of this chapter)