Chapter 53: Two Kinds of Faith

Soldiers who had taken part in the Second Battle of Centuria never knew the final outcome. Generally speaking, soldiers on both sides would puff out their chests proudly and declare that their own side had bravely won the victory. But the higher-ranking officers on both sides could not prove their honor with confidence.

In this battle, five thousand Winstons were soaked in blood on the battlefield, and nearly a thousand were captured. This battle completely destroyed the Winston military force south of the Morning Light River, forcing them to give up the large territories they had already seized. They could only hold fast in their only occupied city on the south bank, Davo City, and refuse to come out and fight. But the Delanmaya 9th Legion had ambushed a Winston Army that was only half the size of their own fifteen thousand soldiers. After losing nearly three-fifths of their soldiers, they still could not completely wipe out the enemy beneath the city walls. And even while holding an absolute advantage, at the final critical moment they still could not stop fewer than five hundred galloping Winston Heavy Cavalry, losing the perfect chance to kill the legendary Winston commander, Crown Prince Louis.

In this battle, the Centuria Plains ran with rivers of blood and were strewn with corpses. Beneath Dengote City, the main battlefield, the stench of blood rose to the heavens, turning the area into a paradise for scavengers. Perhaps the excessive slaughter had drawn a curse from the gods. Many years later, this land that had buried too many corpses would not even grow a single blade of grass. The loss of more than ten thousand people soaked an ordinary word that appeared again and again in books with bloodstains.

That word was: war.

This was a war without a victor. Two almost equally great military stars had collided, giving off a fierce glare like blood. No one was willing to see this outcome. If anything had won the victory, it was not Winston, nor Delanmaya, but war.

It was war that won this war. It was slaughter that won this slaughter.

……

“Kill these sons of bitches, these Winston beasts!”

“Yeah, kill them!”

“You still want water? You should be thankful we even give you horse piss to drink. Take it—you’re only worthy of this!”

“Yeah, let them drink all they want, hahaha…”

While making rounds in the camp, I heard these shouts coming from the prisoner camp. I frowned and walked over, trying to stop these soldiers who were venting their hatred. I knew that their families and friends had died one by one, cruelly, at the hands of the Winstons. It was more than normal for them to express their feelings this way. But this was war—a meaningless game in which people had to die. Killing during battle followed the rules, but when the battle was over, I did not want to see scenes like this. I did not have any so-called noble “knightly spirit.” I simply felt that these people, who had also been dragged into the war by force, were just as brave as us and just as pitiful as us. They could not resist their fate, just as we could not. I hated the way these innocent people were made targets of hatred. Those soldiers hated the wrong people. What they should hate was only the war itself.

“Stop!” A gentle yet firm voice. It did not come from my mouth. When I entered the prisoner camp, Millia had already appeared behind the soldiers who were committing the violence and called out to stop them.

“Miss Millia…” The soldiers who had been venting their anger just now all fell silent. The best and most beautiful doctor in this army had won the respect of many of them. Her kindness and purity had won over the vast majority of the soldiers in this army.

“They should not be treated like this.” Millia walked forward quickly, ignoring the blood and filth on him, and helped up the soldier who had been abused.

That Winston prisoner was not old. If his face were wiped clean, we would most likely see a clean, handsome, likable young boy’s face. But right now, he had been tormented beyond recognition by pain, hunger, and thirst.

“Give this young man a bowl of water,” Millia ordered.

No one obeyed. The soldiers’ love for the beautiful monk was not enough to outweigh their blood grudge against the enemy. If asking them to temporarily stop beating the prisoners was barely acceptable, then asking them to help these people was simply impossible.

“Give me a bowl of water!” Millia said loudly, with anger and irritation in her voice. A bowl of water was handed to her—that was me.

“Tha…” She turned her head, saw me, and was a bit surprised, but she did not stop what she was doing.

She poured the water into the young soldier’s mouth a little at a time. After he finished drinking, she used a wondrous spell to stop his wounds from worsening. The endless healing work over the past days had drained her strength, and she felt a wave of dizziness as she stood up. I supported her just in time.

“Why are you helping the Winstons, miss!” a soldier asked in confusion. “He is our enemy.”

“I did not see any Winston. I only saw a person who needed help. He has two eyes, one nose, and two hands, just like you, sir. He is bleeding, and I am helping him stop the bleeding. It’s that simple.”

“But they are our ene…”

“Enemy? Sir, but we are not fighting right now, are we? The kind Supreme God Daremoth tells us: If you have the ability, help those who need help. If you do not have the ability, then save yourself. Right now we have the ability. We only need to treat them a little better, and you will receive blessings.”

The soldiers fell into silence. They did not understand such a charitable religious faith. In fact, I could not fully accept such a faith either, but to some extent, it coincided with my own wishes.

“They are like you—soldiers, warriors!” Seeing that her preaching had no effect, Millia raised her voice and tried a different approach. “They have their honor and their mission. They fight for their families. They may die on the battlefield, but they must not lose the dignity of a warrior.”

“If you wish, you can compete with them under fair conditions. But I do not want you to insult the dignity of a warrior like this, because in doing so, you are also insulting yourselves!”

The soldiers who had been abusing the prisoners lowered their heads, while the Winstons gathered around, who had lost their freedom, lifted their heads. What standing did a soldier captured in war have? They might barely survive on foreign soil, living out a miserable life from then on. But now, Millia, this young woman from the enemy country, had affirmed their dignity and given them a reason to hold their heads up. She was so beautiful, holy and noble like a goddess. The young soldier who had been healed knelt devoutly at her feet, kissing the earth she had walked on, tears of gratitude streaming from his eyes.

In this cruel war, on this land caked with filth and despair, Millia won honor for her faith. Not long after, the sacred appearance she had shown when sympathizing with the downcast prisoners spread throughout this war-torn and chaotic world under the name of “Sacred Countenance of Dignity.”

“Let me add one thing,” I said right after. “Competing is allowed, but absolutely no one may die.” I knew that physical punishment carried out under various banners would never end just because of Millia’s preaching, but I could control it within a range I could accept.

“I have never heard such a wonderful sermon, Miss Millia. But is this really the teaching of the Supreme God Daremoth?” As I accompanied this respectable young lady out of the camp, I asked her this.

“God says, believe in the good you believe in; you can do better than me. Speaking of which, I should also thank you all.” A tired smile appeared on Millia’s face. “You made me understand the feelings of warriors. A warrior’s dignity is even more precious than ordinary people’s. Although my god never said this, it is exactly the good I believe in myself.”

“Then, miss, how is Red Flame’s injury?” I asked about the Elf’s condition.

“The wall of his left eyeball is completely ruptured, and the wound reaches the choroid layer. I am sorry. Unless God Daremoth heals him personally and creates a new eye for him, there is no way to save it. I can do nothing.” She bowed deeply to me, expressing her apology.

“Ah, no, this… it’s nothing…” Realizing that saying “it’s nothing” about someone losing an eye was not a very polite thing, I stammered and added, “You have already done your best. I should thank you for your help on his behalf.”

“It is what I should do.” She turned her head away again and walked out of the camp.

“Um… Fred, he…” I asked hesitantly. When the beautiful, calm young woman heard Fred’s name, her shoulder trembled slightly. She did not turn around, but spoke softly in a sorrowful tone:

“He… he is probably fine… He will get better. Daremoth will protect him. He definitely will!” She had lost her usual calm composure. I had never heard her so uncertain about a person’s condition. She had completely lost her will, placing all her hope on the deity she believed in.

I did not ask any more questions that might put her in a difficult position. I just supported her and walked toward the field hospital, which was filled with wounded soldiers. There, Poirot, who had some basic knowledge of nursing, and the kind Miss Eliot were helping the understaffed field doctors treat the wounded.

“Doctor, doctor! Come quickly, doctor! What is wrong with my brother!” A young soldier with a leg wrapped in thick bandages cried out in panic. Beside him, an older wounded man who looked somewhat similar to him was spitting out mouthfuls of bright red liquid. He was breathing rapidly, and his face was terribly pale.

Millia ran over, grabbed the soldier’s wrist, opened his eyelid to look, and then let go helplessly. She shook her head at us, and at the wounded man’s younger brother.

“Leave it to me.” Poirot gently patted Millia on the shoulder and knelt beside the dying man.

“Am I going to die, sir?” the dying soldier asked in a voice almost too faint to hear.

“Yes.” Poirot nodded solemnly.

“I don’t believe it. Save me, I don’t want to die.” His face was full of fear. One hand tightly gripped his brother’s hand, while the other clawed aimlessly at the air. His younger brother could not bear such grief and began to sob quietly.

“The place you are going to is warm. The Goddess of Death, Tefreelimeilansi, is a very kind and gentle deity…” Poirot smiled and comforted the wounded man. There was a faint black mist in his hand. I noticed that as he stroked him, the wounded man’s expression gradually calmed down.

“She is also very pretty, you know. Her eyes could charm anyone to death. If you are lucky, you might even get to peek at her bathing.”

“Is that so? Then… that’s not too bad. You are a Necromantic Mage, aren’t you?” The wounded soldier’s face turned even paler, but his emotions gradually settled, and his expression softened.

Poirot nodded in acknowledgment. He did not want to explain the difference between a Mage and a Warlock on this occasion.

“You don’t seem… as evil as… as the legends say. Everything after my death… I’ll leave it to you…” The soldier’s face grew paler and paler. As he spoke that word, he fell into Poirot’s arms. Although life had already left this body, the smile on his face was as peaceful as that of a sleeping child.

Poirot held the corpse, then gazed at the air above his head, as if listening intently to something. Then he said softly: “May eternal rest guard your soul. May you find at the side of the most benevolent goddess the happiness you did not find in this life.” After that, he chanted words that ordinary people could not understand, and stretched forward his left hand, which bore an indelible mark. Before him, it seemed as if a black light flared up, and then went out. His expression was so kind that it made people look up to him in awe. Even the dead man’s younger brother stopped sobbing and watched him in amazement as he completed this solemn ritual.

He was a Necromantic Warlock, the guide to the realm of eternal rest. On his left hand was a magical mark—the eye of the Goddess of Darkness, Tefreelimeilansi, in the mortal world. It allowed Poirot to see the forgotten ones who were lost in the mortal world, and helped lost souls see once again that peaceful and quiet place of return, forever removing their pain.

That was exactly what he was—the “Beacon of the Dead,” Poirot Jonas. It was the sacred mission that this kind Necromantic Warlock, blessed by the Goddess of Death, was destined to carry for his entire life.

“He asked me to tell you…” Poirot said to the dead man’s brother. “From now on, the child Victor will have to be taken care of by you, his uncle. Please fight bravely, live on strongly, and kiss his child for him.”

Poirot patted the young soldier’s head. “He would not want to see you again so soon.”

Tears welled up in the soldier’s eyes. He bowed his head deeply before this Necromantic Warlock who was not much older than himself. Everyone in the room looked at Poirot with exceptionally respectful eyes. Some even struggled to their feet and moved to his side, begging for the Goddess of Death’s mercy. Never before had a Necromantic Mage been so loved as Poirot. The dying people’s worship of him even exceeded their thirst for life. He just stood there, his silver hair drifting outside his jet-black robe, like bright moonlight in the night. The dark-skinned and beautiful Dark Elf, Miss Eliot, stood beside him, holding a silver tray in her hands, quiet and kind. They were angels who blessed the dead—people worthy of respect.

“Thank you, Mr. Poirot.” For the first time, Millia took the initiative to show respect to this mortal enemy of her faith.

“Thank me? Why?” Poirot was a little confused.

“The divine power of Daremoth only works in the present world. His love cannot reach the dark beyond and bring warmth to the dead. More than once, I watched lives slip away before my eyes in fear, yet I could not help those poor people. Now…” Millia bowed to a Necromantic Warlock with the highest courtesy a believer could offer, expressing her gratitude and respect. “You and your faith helped them. You did what I always wanted to do but could not. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

This unexpected courtesy made Poirot a bit embarrassed. He said, a little incoherently: “It’s nothing. I mean, this has nothing to do with faith. I think I have received some care from the Goddess of Death. I respect her, I love her, but I do not believe in her. I think there are too many people in this world. Gods cannot possibly take care of everyone personally, so some people lose a lot. All I do is give them the peace they deserve.”

“Actually, I think that although those gods are worthy of respect, they do not necessarily need us to believe in them with all our hearts, treating them as the only one in this world. I think they are like our friends. Although they are not too far away from us, they always miss something. This of course includes your Supreme God. Your faith makes you carry too many burdens, so there are many things you could have done but cannot. As for me, I simply want to help that friend called the Goddess of Death. This thought makes me feel at ease, and it also gives me more strength.”

Suddenly, his tone changed, and he replied somewhat jokingly: “Maybe one day, when I receive Tefreelimeilansi’s call and go to her dinner table for a meal, I will say to her: ‘You grilled the steak pretty well today,’ instead of kneeling before her and kissing the top of her foot. If I, as a person, have any faith at all, it is probably just this.”

This blasphemous speech did not stir up fierce opposition from the devout monk. Millia extended her right hand to Poirot: “Your faith sounds quite interesting too, but I am afraid we will not be able to prove it in this lifetime.”

“I don’t want to convince you either, pretty miss.” Poirot also extended his hand. “We all have to hold on to something for ourselves.”

When the heretic’s hand and the believer’s hand clasped tightly together, a warm and fragrant aura spread through the air, making people’s hearts feel calm. What was that aura called?

Perhaps it was called reconciliation.

Perhaps it was called kindness.

Perhaps it was called… hope……