Geral's faith was pure—so pure that it bordered on self-destruction.
It was not the shallow devotion born from habit, nor the cautious reverence cultivated for personal gain. His belief was fanatical, sharpened by suffering and despair, refined through pain until it burned like a blazing furnace. Among hundreds of ordinary believers, the birth of even a single fanatic like Geral was extraordinarily rare.
Karl had come to understand this clearly while sorting through the accumulated Power of Faith.
Most of the faith he received was stable, consistent, and usable—but it lacked refinement. It was mixed with countless impurities: selfish desires, fleeting doubts, prayers motivated by fear rather than reverence, and wishes rooted in worldly gain. Such power required constant cleansing before it could be absorbed or utilized.
Yet Geral's faith was different.
It was fierce, unwavering, and frighteningly pure.
Just as Karl was immersed in purifying the Power of Faith—methodically separating out the stray thoughts and emotional noise—an exceptionally strong prayer connection suddenly brushed against his consciousness.
The moment it made contact, Karl felt it.
Pain.
Repentance.
Determination so absolute it bordered on madness.
His thoughts paused.
"…Geral?"
The name surfaced naturally. He had been thinking about that fanatic only moments ago.
Without hesitation, Karl extended his consciousness along the prayer's source. The connection was intense, almost violent, pulling at his soul with such force that his physical body reacted instinctively.
Karl closed his eyes.
For a brief moment, he felt weightless—unbalanced—as if his soul were being drawn upward, passing through an invisible barrier that separated the mortal world from something higher.
When he opened his eyes again, his perspective had completely changed.
He was no longer within the familiar temple on Terra.
Instead, he hovered high above the ground, suspended in midair. Below him stretched the interior of a massive, solemn temple constructed in the unmistakable architectural style of the Nilfgaard Empire.
Black stone pillars rose toward the vaulted ceiling, their surfaces polished to a cold sheen. Gold filigree traced the walls, forming intricate patterns that converged around a massive emblem carved into the stone—the human-faced sun wheel, symbol of the Empire's state religion.
Yet something was wrong.
At the center of the sun wheel, the stone appeared distorted, as though warped by an unseen force. Light and shadow twisted unnaturally there, forming the vague outline of a humanoid figure.
Karl's figure.
His incarnation of faith manifested as a blurred silhouette of golden radiance, its features obscured by intense light, suspended at the heart of the symbol itself.
Below him, Geral knelt.
He was not alone.
A large group of people knelt with him—dozens, perhaps hundreds. They were thin, sallow-faced, their cheeks hollow from long-term hunger. Their clothing consisted of rough, tattered coarse cloth, patched and repatched beyond recognition.
Serfs. Paupers. The lowest rung of society.
They knelt on the cold stone floor, heads bowed, bodies trembling as they followed Geral in devout, agonized prayer toward the distorted sun wheel above them.
Geral himself looked almost unrecognizable.
His eyes were bloodshot and wild, his expression twisted with pain and fervor. His forehead was swollen grotesquely from repeated kowtowing against the stone floor. The skin had split open, bruised and raw, blood flowing freely down his face.
Yet he did not stop.
Each time his head struck the ground, a dull, sickening sound echoed through the hall.
Beside his right leg lay a steel sword.
The blade was stained a deep, dark red. Fresh blood still clung to its surface, slowly dripping down onto the stone floor in thick droplets.
Geral's voice rang out hoarsely, torn raw by shouting and prayer, yet filled with terrifying resolve.
"My God! Supreme Lord of the Sun!"
"I am guilty!"
"I have violated Your teachings!"
His shoulders shook violently as he continued.
"I—I have killed many people! I have stained this sword with too much blood!"
He slammed his head down again, harder than before.
"Please hand down punishment! Punish this sinner!"
"Let all the sins be borne by me—Geral—alone!"
At that moment, Karl's incarnation shifted.
The golden silhouette hovering in the air became more defined, its light intensifying. A warm, holy radiance flooded the temple, washing over every kneeling figure.
The oppressive darkness receded, replaced by an overwhelming sense of divine presence.
Karl observed the scene silently.
It had been some time since he last paid attention to Geral. Judging by the situation, the fanatic had clearly done something significant—something extreme.
The sickly yet fervent commoners behind him…
The bloodstained sword…
The occupied Nilfgaard temple…
Karl raised an invisible eyebrow.
"Did he incite a peasant uprising?"
And from the looks of it, not a small one.
With a single thought, Karl stabilized his incarnation. His voice, amplified by the Power of Faith, echoed through the vast hall like rolling thunder—majestic, absolute, and impossible to ignore.
"Geral."
The sound drowned out every sob, every whispered prayer, every trembling breath.
The effect was immediate.
The commoners below shuddered, then erupted into cries of awe.
"God! The Sun God has manifested!"
"It's real—He's truly here!"
"Quickly! Kneel! Prostrate yourselves before our God!"
The entire crowd pressed their foreheads to the ground, trembling in reverence.
Geral froze.
His body stiffened abruptly, then began to tremble uncontrollably.
Slowly, he raised his head.
When he saw the golden figure suspended above, his eyes widened. Hot tears burst forth instantly, streaming down his face, mingling with the blood from his wounded forehead.
He did not wipe them away.
Instead, he kowtowed even harder, his movements frantic and desperate, leaving smeared streaks of blood across the stone floor.
"My God—my God—" he choked, his voice breaking. He could barely form coherent words.
Karl's voice softened slightly, carrying a calming authority that pressed gently upon Geral's shattered emotions.
"Calm yourself, Geral."
"Tell me—who did you kill?"
The divine presence settled like a weight upon the crowd.
"Explain their identities," Karl continued evenly, "and recount their past deeds one by one."
"I will judge after hearing everything."
Under the influence of that voice, Geral forced himself to steady his breathing. His trembling gradually subsided, though his hands still shook violently.
He swallowed, then began to speak.
"They… they were noble lords," he said haltingly, his voice thick with hatred. "Parasites who clung to us and sucked our blood."
"And their subordinates—the tax collectors and estate stewards who committed evil alongside them."
He clenched his fists.
"Every year, after paying the tithes mandated by the Empire, along with countless other taxes with different names, there was almost nothing left of the grain we harvested with our own hands."
"But they weren't satisfied."
Geral suddenly raised his arm and pointed toward the original decorations of the temple—the sun wheel carvings that once symbolized sacred authority.
"They acted under the banner of the Sun Religion!"
"They demanded additional tithes in the name of offerings to that—hypocritical sun wheel!"
His voice rose with fury.
"And when that wasn't enough, they forced us to 'voluntarily' donate money and supplies to repair the temple and host grand masses!"
"If anyone couldn't pay—if anyone even hesitated—they were branded heretics or accused of impiety!"
"At best, they were whipped and imprisoned."
"At worst, their homes and land were confiscated!"
Karl listened in silence.
His golden figure showed no visible reaction.
He had once believed that Nilfgaard's reputation for efficiency and order meant the lower classes lived under stricter but fairer systems.
Now he understood.
In certain regions, the greed of the nobility and the corruption of the church surpassed even the excesses of the Northern Kingdoms.
This level of systemic exploitation rivaled the Eternal Fire cult of Novigrad in cruelty.
After a pause, Karl spoke again.
"Besides extortion," he asked calmly, "did they commit other crimes?"
"Did they bully the weak?"
"Did they kill the innocent?"
Geral nodded fiercely, as if waiting for this exact question.
He turned around and faced the believers behind him.
Their bodies were thin and malnourished, but their eyes burned with rage and grief.
"Did you hear that?" Geral shouted hoarsely. "Our God is asking!"
"Anyone—any of you, or your family members—who suffered under those nobles and priests, step forward!"
"Before our God, there is no need for fear!"
The crowd stirred.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, a woman holding a frail, undernourished child slowly lifted her head.
Tear tracks streaked her dirt-stained face. Her eyes were hollow, yet filled with deep-seated hatred.
She knelt forward, her voice trembling but sharp with despair.
"My God… please seek justice for me."
"My husband—he was only a manservant in the manor. He worked diligently, never once disobeying."
Her grip on the child tightened.
"One day, another servant made a mistake. He accidentally knocked over a fruit plate prepared for the lord."
"A few fruits rolled to the lord's feet."
Her voice cracked.
"The managers said my husband was also responsible."
"They didn't listen. They didn't ask."
"In front of everyone, they gave him one hundred lashes."
Her sobs echoed through the temple as the child in her arms began to cry softly.
The stone floor felt colder than ever.
And above it all, the golden figure watched in silence—preparing to deliver judgment.
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