Wandering Swordsman |

Blood splattered!

An old woman, struck in the shoulder, clung tightly to the door hinge, screaming, "Young Master Loren...come into the city quickly—!"

This sound resounded like thunder in Loren's heart.

His eyes were bloodshot, and he suddenly drew his sword, the tip pointing directly at the gates of Ruolan City, his voice like thunder: "Charge!!!"

The hundred or so riders following behind them roared and galloped like tigers released from their cages.

The horses' hooves pounded the ground, shaking the earth. Seeing this, the people rushed towards the defenders without hesitation. Some grabbed the soldiers by the legs and threw them over, some threw pottery jars at the archers, and some teenagers even climbed the city wall and cut the ropes of the drawbridge!

"Boom—!"

The suspension bridge suddenly collapsed, kicking up clouds of dust.

With the combined strength of a thousand people, the city gates burst open with a deafening roar!

Loren charged ahead, his sword piercing the enemy's heart like a sharp blade. His left arm wound reopened, blood staining his fur coat, but he paid no heed. Wherever his sword pointed, the defending troops crumbled at the mere sight of him.

The guards tried to protect Edgar as he retreated into the inner fortress, but they were surrounded by a swarm of people—some threw stones, some poured boiling water, and some cried out and lunged at him to bite!

"You stole my cow!"

"You killed my sister!"

"Give me back my son's life!"

......

Edgar was disheveled, his golden crown had fallen to the ground, and he looked like a stray dog.

He tried to escape into the carriage, but was recognized by a maid who had served him wine at his banquet. The maid grabbed his collar and said, "Viscount, do you remember me? You said I looked like your Persian cat, so you..."

Before she could finish speaking, the kitchen knife in her hand had already slashed down fiercely!

Edgar screamed in agony as blood gushed from his shoulder, and he staggered and fell to the ground.

He crawled, tears streaming down his face, screaming, "I am the rightful Lord of Ruolan! How dare you touch me? King Ingle will exterminate your entire race!"

"Shut up!" Loren leaped off his warhorse, stomped on his chest, pressed the tip of his sword against his throat, and said in a voice as cold as iron, "You are not a viscount, you are Ruolan's cancer."

The people formed a circle, silent as mountains, yet their eyes blazing with intensity.

At that moment, the entire city seemed to hold its breath.

Loren surveyed the crowd and proclaimed loudly, "Today, Ruolan no longer belongs to one person, but to all who suffer! The tax decree is abolished! The granaries are open! All stolen goods must be returned within three days!"

"Long live—Young Master Loren!"

Cheers swept through the city like a tsunami, even shaking the city walls.

Seeing that the situation was hopeless, the garrison in the inner fort surrendered one after another.

In less than half an hour, Ruolan City changed hands.

The reason for all this was that Hua Tianyou defeated eight hundred cavalrymen single-handedly.

……

At noon, the sun pierced through the clouds and shone on the center of Ruolan Square.

Edgar was bound hand and foot and knelt beneath the statue of the former sage—the statue he had once commissioned to be gilded and recast, now covered in dust and grime, yet still majestic.

He trembled all over, his former arrogance and debauchery completely gone, leaving only the mournful cries of a dying man.

"Brother...no, Lord Loren! Spare my life! I'll surrender all my treasure! I'll be exiled to the frontier! I'll..."

"You can go to hell to repent," Loren interrupted coldly, throwing a scroll of parchment in front of him. "These are the 327 oppressive decrees you've issued since becoming lord, each one stained with the blood of the people."

He turned and walked toward the high platform, and the people automatically made way for him, their eyes filled with admiration and hope.

"From this day forward, Ruolan will re-establish the laws: taxes will be halved, child labor will be prohibited, wrongful convictions will be reopened, and trade routes will be opened." His voice was steady, yet every word was as clear as a bell.

A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd.

In the distance, two figures dressed in black and silver robes stood quietly, watching from afar. The two were Shen Mo and Hua Tianyou.

......

The English Papacy, situated in the heart of the empire's plains, boasts towering spires that pierce the heavens like divine fingers, and its white stone dome gleams with a holy radiance in the sunlight, as if the entire building were forged from faith.

However, at this moment, Deacon Augustine had no heart to appreciate the solemnity of this ancient sanctuary—his face was pale, his robes were covered in dust, and he walked hurriedly as if rushing to a funeral, passing directly through the seven corridors and three holy doors, to the cardinal's residence.

Incense wafted through the air, and the holy image hung low.

Cardinal Silas sat upright on an obsidian high chair, his silver beard reaching his chest, his eyes half-closed, and in his hand he held a string of rosary beads made of human bones—the "merits" left behind by the inquisitors of past generations.

"How dare you trespass into the inner palace?" Silas asked without opening his eyes, his voice as cold as ice.

"Your Excellency!" Augustine knelt on one knee, his voice trembling with excitement, "Silvermane City... has been invaded by heretics! No, false saints! They perform miracles in the name of 'missionaries,' but they were not sent by the Holy See!"

Silas finally opened his eyes. His eyes were as murky as an ancient well, yet they concealed a deep, turbulent power.

Explain yourself.

Augustine took a deep breath and recounted everything he had seen and heard in Silvermane City: Adrian was afflicted by the miasma of the Thousand-Mile Canyon and was on the verge of death; two unfamiliar "missionaries" appeared, one dressed in black and silent, the other in a warm silver robe; the former's palm glowed...

Silas slowly stood up, his black robes billowing even without wind. He walked to the window and gazed into the distance—the direction of Silvermane City.

"The miasma in the Wanli Canyon..." he murmured, "is a mixture of ancient battlefield resentment and earth vein turbidity. Even we cardinal-level holy powers can only completely eradicate it by relying on the Holy Spring of the Holy See."

He whirled around, his eyes gleaming: "If they can truly purify this poison... then they are not 'false saints,' but... wield power beyond the Papacy's system!"

He paused, his voice suddenly turning cold: "Such power, if used by heretics, will surely become a great scourge; if it falls into the hands of the common people, the authority of the Papacy will be utterly destroyed! You may leave now, and remember to keep this matter a secret. I will make a decision after I have informed the Pope."

......

Thousands of miles away, in the Holy Land of the Vatican, on Mount Vatican City.

This place is not of this mortal world, but a sacred realm forged by faith.

The entire sacred mountain rises abruptly from the ground, like a pure white sword piercing the heart of heaven. It is built from the "Sacred Radiance Marble" that has remained intact for thousands of years, and each stone has been blessed by six bishops.

Ninety-nine steps spiral upwards, symbolizing the ninety-nine trials that mortals face on their path to divine grace; beside the steps stand twelve angel statues, their wings outstretched, their faces compassionate, their eyes inlaid with holy crystals that shimmer with iridescent light in the sunlight, as if they might take flight at any moment and lead the lost back to the light.

Beneath the dome, ten thousand sacred lamps burn eternally—the oil for these lamps is drawn from the ashes of martyrs and the sap of the sacred olive tree; the flames are pale gold, never flickering, never going out.

Deep and majestic hymns constantly echo in the air, chanted day and night by three hundred monks of pure sound, their sound waves like a tide, cleansing the soul.

Even the wind that brushed against the pillars seemed to carry the rhythm of the Book of Revelation, whispering, "Judgment is coming, salvation is in sight."

At this moment, the Pope stands on the "Stargazing Terrace" at the highest point of the Holy Dome.

He wore a plain white robe, without gold thread or emblems, as simple as an old farmer in the countryside; on his head was an unadorned gold crown, which had a warm luster due to the wear and tear of time.

His face was kind, with deep wrinkles like furrows in a field, but his eyes were as deep as the void before the universe was created, reflecting both the birth and death of stars and piercing the darkness of the human heart.

In his hand, he held a secret letter. The envelope bore the emblem of the English Papacy, and the sealing wax had been removed, leaving slightly charred edges—marks left by the sacred flame used to verify its authenticity.