The woman's voice trembled, every word torn from her throat as though it carried flesh and blood with it.
"He—he never came back," she sobbed. "When he was finally returned to us, his wounds had already festered. The stench of rot clung to his body… he was tortured to death!"
Her strength gave out at the end of the sentence. She clutched the small child in her arms and collapsed to the ground, crying bitterly, her shoulders shaking violently. The child, sensing the despair, began to wail as well, the sound piercing the heavy silence of the temple.
That cry was like the breaking of a dam.
One person after another stood up, unable to suppress what had long been buried in their hearts. Some spoke for themselves; others spoke for family members who had already been silenced by death. Their voices overlapped, fractured, yet united by the same grief.
One man recounted how his wife, merely because she possessed a bit of beauty, had been noticed by a Noble Young Master. She was forcibly taken, defiled, and when she resisted, she was accused of seducing her master. She was dragged through the streets and beaten until her body went limp.
Another spoke of how his family's few remaining savings had caught the attention of a noble steward. A false charge of "theft" was fabricated overnight. Fines piled on fines until there was nothing left—not land, not livestock, not even the clothes on their backs.
Someone else spoke through clenched teeth, his eyes red with fury, of a son who had merely contradicted a tax collector once. The boy was dragged into the dungeon and never emerged again. No body. No explanation. Only silence.
Case by case. Word by word.
Bloody accusations and tear-soaked memories spilled out endlessly, painting a brutal portrait of the mortal world. It was a catalog of suffering—oppression layered upon oppression—until it seemed there was no cruelty left unspoken.
The vast temple echoed with sobbing, accusations, and the low, restrained gasps of rage. The air itself felt heavy, as though soaked with despair.
Above them all, Karl El's Incarnation of light hovered silently.
The golden projection resembled an eternal sun, radiating steady brilliance as it listened to the grievances of the mortal world. His Power of Faith flowed quietly, encompassing everyone present. Within its domain, truth and falsehood could not be concealed.
Every accusation, every sob, every trembling word—there was not the slightest trace of deception.
These were not exaggerations born of resentment.
They were real tragedies, forged in blood and sealed with tears.
When the final voice fell silent, hoarse and broken, an uneasy stillness descended upon the temple. The golden projection remained quiet, and that silence began to gnaw at the hearts of the gathered followers.
Some exchanged uneasy glances. Others lowered their heads in fear, panic flickering across their faces. A terrible thought crept into their minds—that perhaps they had gone too far, that their accusations had angered the god before them.
Geral suddenly slammed his head into the ground.
"My God! Have mercy!" he cried hoarsely.
He struck the stone floor again and again, blood quickly staining his forehead. "It's all Geral's fault! Geral led the resistance! Geral killed the nobles and priests!"
"Let me bear all the sins alone!" he shouted desperately. "Punish me—only me! Spare these people! They were driven to this because they had no way left to live!"
Despair spread like a contagion. Some began to cry openly once more. Others followed Geral's example, kneeling and prostrating themselves, their bodies shaking.
Then, at last, Karl El spoke.
His voice echoed throughout the temple, vast and solemn, accompanied by a faint sigh—so subtle it was almost imperceptible.
That sigh carried pity for mortal suffering and a quiet resignation toward the tangled complexity of human nature.
"Geral."
The name rang clearly in every ear.
Geral froze mid-kowtow, his breath caught in his throat.
"You have done nothing wrong."
The words fell like divine judgment—and divine pardon.
In an instant, the crushing pressure that weighed upon the crowd shattered. Many collapsed to the ground as though their legs had lost all strength, sobbing uncontrollably, tears of relief streaming down their faces.
But Karl El was not finished.
"Those heretics who exploited others and committed brutality in the name of God deserved death," he continued, his voice carrying righteous authority.
"They defiled faith and trampled upon life itself. Their end was punishment well-earned."
His tone shifted, growing grave, edged with warning.
"However, Geral, you must remember this."
"Not all nobles in the mortal world are drenched in blood. Not all who hold power are irredeemable villains."
"Among them exist those who are just, compassionate, or at least have not committed sins beyond forgiveness."
The golden gaze swept across the kneeling crowd.
"You must learn to distinguish carefully. Judge prudently."
"The flames of vengeance may burn away sin—but they can also scorch the innocent."
"Do not allow anger and hatred to blind your eyes and lead you to harm those who should not bear the cost."
"This is your trial," Karl El declared. "And this is the wisdom you must cultivate."
The divine words echoed long after they were spoken.
Karl El did not merely grant absolution. He set boundaries. He guided rather than indulged blind slaughter.
Faith was not only to be harvested—it was to be shaped.
Geral did not hesitate. He immediately prostrated himself once more, pressing his forehead firmly against the cold stone floor.
"I respectfully heed My God's teachings," he said solemnly. "Geral will remember them and act with care."
He understood. The deity was not condemning his resistance—but preventing him from being consumed by hatred.
Karl El's Incarnation lowered its radiant head slightly, gazing down at the loyal follower with a trace of concern hidden beneath divine majesty.
"Geral," Karl El said gently, "where is your daughter, Lina? Bring her here."
Geral's body trembled violently.
Ecstasy surged through him, overwhelming his fear. His heart pounded so fiercely it felt as though it might burst.
"Yes! My God!"
He scrambled to his feet, heedless of dignity, blood still trickling from his brow. Ignoring the pain, he rushed from the temple as fast as his legs could carry him.
Moments later, he returned, carefully cradling a small, fragile figure in his arms.
It was Lina.
Compared to before, her condition had worsened. The faint Power of Faith she had relied upon was no longer enough to suppress her illness.
Her body was frighteningly thin. Her complexion was ashen, her eyes deeply sunken. Each breath she took was shallow and rapid, as though her lungs struggled against an invisible weight.
The cancer that had plagued her for so long was steadily consuming her young life.
She weakly opened her eyes, staring blankly at the golden figure and the sea of emotional faces within the temple.
Karl El's gaze lingered on the child.
For the first time, his voice softened.
"Poor child," he said quietly. "May the light of the Sun forever dispel the shadows that torment you."
Before the final word faded, countless tiny points of pale golden light appeared throughout the temple.
They shimmered like fireflies, warm and gentle, gathering into a slow-moving stream of pure radiance.
The stream encircled Lina first.
Under the astonished gaze of the crowd, most of the light surged into her frail body, while the remainder scattered like golden rain, falling upon every follower present.
The moment the light touched them, soft moans of comfort escaped involuntarily from their lips.
Warmth spread through their bodies.
Cuts, bruises, and bleeding wounds—injuries sustained during the uprising—began to heal before their eyes. Flesh knitted together. Scabs fell away. Skin returned smooth and unblemished.
Not a single scar remained.
"A miracle!"
"This is a true miracle!"
"Thank My God! Thank My God for His boundless grace!"
The temple erupted into fervent cries. People wept openly, kowtowing repeatedly, their faith burning brighter than ever.
And all eyes finally turned back to Lina.
Her breathing steadied.
Color slowly returned to her face.
Life, once slipping away, was being pulled back into her fragile body—thread by golden thread.
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