Chapter 31: Heretical Teachings

Chapter 31: Heresy

"Why? What's dangerous down there?"

"Just do as I say."

Luna's tone was dead serious. Lyman was puzzled but instinctively felt this was no ordinary matter—otherwise, Luna wouldn't have specifically warned him.

But he wouldn't explain why, keeping it all hush-hush and mysterious. So annoying.

"Fine," Lyman muttered. "Honestly, you're always like this. I can't stand people who talk in riddles."

Seeing that Luna had fallen silent, Lyman returned to the straw.

The next morning.

From early morning, a weird vibe hung over Cape Prison. All prisoners were given an extra loaf of bread as a special allowance, which made everyone both thrilled and terrified—after all, as the saying goes, there's no such thing as a free lunch.

After chowing down, the crowd lined up under the guards' watch and headed to the chapel that hadn't been used in ages, in the prison's northwest corner.

The chapel wasn't big—could hold maybe a hundred or so. The front rows of seats were occupied by the Warden and deputy captains, while prisoners packed the back like sardines. Many more had to stand in the aisles and corridors.

Lyman lucked out and snagged a seat. The scholar sat to his left, and some middle-aged stranger sat to his right. As he sat down, he gave Lyman a knowing look, flashing half a white seashell from his sleeve. So, one of Carlos's guys.

The altar was lined with candles of all different heights, their flames flickering across the holy emblem hanging above. A coffin draped in the flag of the Holy Nation rested at the center of the altar. A faint smell of burning herbs hung in the air. Cape Prison was short on supplies—couldn't afford fancy stuff like myrrh or frankincense, so they used wild herbs instead. The coffin was also surrounded by wildflowers and weeds from the island, which made the whole mass look even more pathetic.

Inquisitor Aether naturally led the mass. On top of his usual white robe, he wore a gold-threaded chasuble. His golden hair spilled down like liquid gold—probably the fanciest thing in the whole ceremony.

He stood at the altar and launched into prayers in a loud, polished, perfectly enunciated voice. First, he sang the praises of the God of Dawn, then recounted the life of the departed Captain Prew, painting him as a hero who died young in the line of duty. Finally, he had everyone bow their heads in silence and pray for his soul.

A proper mass would've had a boys' choir, but Cape Prison made do with a bunch of guards instead. Nashel led the choir, also decked out in fancy vestments. He stood in front of the choir looking thrilled, waving his arms around like a showman.

And so, Lyman got to experience the worst show of his life.

When the chorus of the "Requiem"—a mix of roaring, groaning, and wailing—began, everyone closed their eyes at once, weeping in agony, feeling their souls about to find rest. Then came "Dies Irae," which had everyone trembling in real fear of God's wrath, repenting for ever being born.

When the choir finally stopped, everyone felt reborn, like angels had just pulled them out of hell. This miracle of coming back to life would be burned into everyone's memory as a nightmare they'd never shake.

Then Inquisitor Aether went back to the altar and started his sermon. He brought up the deeds of ancient saints, urging everyone to turn from evil, do good, and strengthen their faith.

His voice was smooth and magnetic, turning the long sermon into a lullaby. After the assault they'd just endured, everyone was about to pass out, each person teetering between awake and asleep, heads bobbing like chickens pecking at grain.

Lyman was dozing off, lying there like a corpse, when he suddenly felt someone beside him rise abruptly.

"Hold on, Your Honor the Inquisitor!" A loud voice rang through the chapel, jolting Lyman wide awake.

Nikola stood up straight, staring Aether down without a hint of fear. You could almost see sparks flying from their locked stares.

Lyman cursed inwardly. He'd actually dozed off and missed his chance to stop Nikola! This punk—he thought the guy was just blowing smoke, but he actually meant it!

He grabbed the scholar's sleeve, frantically trying to yank him back into his seat. But the scholar wouldn't budge, refusing to sit even as his prison uniform ripped.

Aether's face clouded over at the interruption. "What is your business?"

"I've got a theological question for Your Honor the Inquisitor. Would you be willing to answer it?" Nikola said while swatting away Lyman's hand.

Murmurs spread through the chapel. Guards at the back stepped forward to drag off this reckless prisoner.

"Hold on." Aether raised his hand to stop them.

He raised his chin a little and said coolly, "My theological knowledge is pretty shallow, so I doubt I can offer any deep insights, but I'll do my best to answer."

Nikola flashed a smug grin: "Then I'd like to ask—between the sun and the earth, which is the center of the universe?"

Aether's face was expressionless: "The Holy Scripture records this clearly: the sun we see is the palace of the God of Dawn, His eternal abode of light, the birthplace of all things. All celestial bodies revolve around it, and our earth is no exception. Therefore, the supreme and glorious sun is the center of the universe."

Lyman was momentarily stunned: What? The earth revolves around the sun? How could such an advanced theory come from an inquisitor's mouth? Shouldn't it be the other way around?

Nikola sneered: "I'm afraid I cannot agree. If the sun were the center of the universe, why do we see it rise in the east and set in the west? Why do we have seasons? Based on my years of astronomical observation, the earth is clearly the center of the universe, and the sun revolves around the earth! I call this theory—"

He took a deep breath: "—Geocentrism!"

The moment the words left his mouth, thunderous roars and screams erupted in the chapel.

"You heretic, you four-eyed dung beetle, shut your mouth!"

"Ah! My ears are unclean! God, purify me!"

"Burn him! Burn him!"

Lyman felt his brain buzzing. What kind of backwards geocentrism was this?! He'd thought Nikola was this world's Copernicus or Bruno—turns out he was just a crackpot from another world?!

You deserve to be locked up in Cape Prison, and that's putting it mildly!

Nikola, seemingly not satisfied, grabbed Lyman's hand: "Lyman, tell me I'm right! You support me, don't you?"

Lyman closed his eyes in agony. What should he do—was it too late to sever ties now?

At that moment, the middle-aged prisoner to his right—Carlos's man—tugged at his sleeve, flashed the seashell, and looked extremely panicked.

Lyman instantly understood his meaning: Carlos's side was hitting trouble—the tunnel was about to collapse a second time! To prevent the guards from discovering it, he needed to cause a major disturbance!

Lyman looked at the agitated crowd. The chapel was already a powder keg, just one spark away from erupting into chaos.

A plan struck him.

"You heretic, take this punch!"

Lyman slammed his fist into the scholar's face.

The scholar let out a yelp, his body tilting sideways, tumbling through the air several times before spinning away.

A cheer loud enough to lift the roof erupted in the chapel. A group of prisoners rushed over to join Lyman in the festivities, while a group of guards charged in to restore order. The two sides collided like opposing ocean currents.

A guard punched a prisoner; a prisoner kicked a guard. Soon, everyone forgot why they'd charged in and began venting pure hatred at one another.

The chapel descended into chaos. Roars, curses, and cries of pain rose and fell in waves. God's sanctuary became an arena where brute force decided victory. Nearly everyone was fighting with abandon. The Warden fled with his head in his hands, while Deputy Captain Edton dutifully shielded him—and got punched several times in the process. (At least two of those punches came from his own side.)

Amid such chaos, someone was even fanning the flames—Nashel crouched atop Captain Prew's coffin, shouting with glee: "Nice hit! Put more force into it! Get him!"

Aether kicked a prisoner trying to climb onto the altar, then glared at Nashel: "Still playing around?!"

The Red-Haired Inquisitor let out a regretful sigh, his face practically written with "I haven't had my fill yet." He leaped up, drew his empty sword hilt, and gave a casual swing—

BOOM!

The invisible blade shattered the chapel doors into splinters. The thunderous crash stunned everyone into stillness. As their minds cooled, the prisoners realized the gravity of the situation—they'd participated in a prison riot, and there would be hell to pay!

The Warden had already fainted, foaming at the mouth, seemingly on the verge of meeting his maker. Aether, as the highest-ranking official present, gave the order in his stead:

"Captain Eton, acting! Maintain order!"

Eton snapped to attention and saluted, his torn shirt flapping in the wind. Despite his sorry state, he stayed calm, directing the guards to escort the prisoners back to their cells in batches.

As punishment, the prisoners were denied food for the whole day. They groaned and wailed but didn't dare resist, knowing the punishment was relatively light. The ones who'd fought hardest in the "riot" and the ringleaders who'd started it would face far worse!

Two guards hauled Lyman up, and cold, heavy cuffs snapped around his wrists. They didn't say a word, just dragged him out of the church.

As he passed one of Carlos's men, the guy's eyes welled up, and he gave Lyman a solemn look, like he was seeing off a fallen hero.

Lyman figured he was headed back to the black cell, but the guards turned and hauled him toward the auxiliary tower, shoved him into the Inquisitor's office.

He waited, nervous, for a long time. Then footsteps sounded outside. Aether shoved the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. Lyman and the two guards all flinched.

Nashel followed close behind, waved the guards out, then quietly shut the door.

Aether was clearly furious. He ripped off his fancy robes and threw them on the floor without even looking.

Nashel, like a fussy old nanny chasing after a spoiled master, hurried to pick up the robes and patted them a few times, as if calming them down.

"Layman Vichard, explain yourself!" Aether slammed his fist on the desk so hard the Lion Statue jumped.

Lyman looked at him, confused. Nashel quickly cut in, "He's asking why you started the riot."

Of course, he couldn't admit it was to cover the escape. Seeing no sign they'd use the "Mouth of Truth," Lyman picked his words carefully and said with righteous anger:

"I hit Nikola to stop him from spouting his heretical nonsense! I didn't think it would blow up like that. I didn't mean to start a riot."

Aether laughed bitterly. "Don't try to pull one over on me. Nikola himself said you backed his theories!"

"That's a misunderstanding!" Lyman said with utmost sincerity. "Nikola once told me he'd found the truth about how the heavens move, but he never said what it was. He seemed so smart that I took his word for it. Only today did I find out his theory was 'geocentrism.'"

Nashel asked cheerfully, "So you don't agree with him?"

Lyman said firmly, "The earth obviously goes around the sun!"

Aether calmed down a bit, the frown on his face softening. "I didn't know you were so devout, so well-read in the scriptures and doctrine."

"It's not about being devout. I just think heliocentrism makes more sense based on natural phenomena and objective laws."

Nashel suddenly burst out laughing, slapping his thigh. Aether glared at him.

"Hahaha, did you—did you hear that?" Nashel laughed so hard he could hardly breathe. "He said... based on objective laws... Sure, his reasoning's off, but isn't the conclusion the same as what the scriptures say? Seeing God's power in nature—isn't that exactly what the theologians say?"

Aether pressed his lips together. With that spin, Lyman had turned into a defender of orthodox theology, a crusader against heretics—so punishing him now would be unjustified.

"Fine, I know you're not with the heretic," he said impatiently. "But using violence in prison is absolutely not allowed, even to stop heresy."

He called the guards in loudly and pointed at Lyman. "Three days in solitary."

"Three days?" Nashel's smile disappeared. He straightened up and asked, serious now, "Isn't that a bit much?"

Aether kept his face cold, said nothing, and gestured for the guards to take Lyman away.

A guard grabbed Lyman's arm and hauled him into the hallway.

"Solitary? Is it that bad?" Lyman had never heard of this punishment before.

"Heh heh, you're gonna suffer!" one guard sneered. "Solitary means getting locked in a pitch-black, soundproof cell with nothing but water. Even if you're starving and screaming, nobody'll give a damn!"

Another guard said darkly, "Even the toughest hardass can't last a day. Two days and they're bawling for their mommy. Three days—you'd better start praying for divine mercy right now."

"This is what you get for breaking Cape Prison's rules! Repent!"

***

"So, how's this supposed to be a punishment?"

Lyman munched on a bread, cheese, and ham sandwich as he talked to Dandelion.

The solitary cell was in the basement of the auxiliary tower, barely one meter wide and two meters long—just enough to lie down in. Once the iron door locked, only a small vent connected to the outside. Unlike the black cell, where torchlight from the corridor could be seen, the solitary cell was utterly dark, so pitch-black you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.

Aside from a jug of water and a chamber pot, it was completely empty—not even straw. An ordinary prisoner could only lie on the hard, cold floor, fully clothed, surviving three days on that single jug of water.

Hunger and cold were nothing compared to the terror of solitude. In a world without light or sound, prisoners quickly lost track of time. An hour stretched into an eternity, and before long, hallucinations set in, leading to mental breakdown.

But for Lyman, this was no problem at all.

He pulled a stash of food from the Divine Casket. Dandelion sent subordinates to deliver candles. When bored, Lyman flipped through the "World Overview" section of the Book of the Evil God to pass the time and pick up new knowledge. When his eyes grew tired, he had the little mouse keep him company. The only downside was the hard floor, but he could have Sylen bring him a cushion. Isn't that what the Divine Casket was for?

And he got three whole days off from labor reform. Was this really a punishment, or a reward?

Even from inside his cell, Lyman kept tabs on the outside world.

"Most prisoners have been locked back in their cells," Dandelion reported. "The guards are furious—quite a few people got whipped."

"Nikola must be black and blue by now, right?" Lyman asked.

"He got beaten up by his own people. You should've seen it," Dandelion sighed. "But the big guy stepped in and protected him."

"Big guy? Oh, you mean Carlos."

"He thought the four-eyes and you were putting on an act together to cover up the digging. Once he said the word, no one dared touch the four-eyes anymore." Dandelion perked up. "Speaking of which, the big guy and his crew broke through the tunnel!"

Lyman raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. "I thought it had collapsed again."

"It did cave in a bit, but they cleared a path in the end. Now the big guy can keep digging outward!"

That was fantastic news. Nikola's beating hadn't been in vain. Once solitary ended, Lyman definitely had to go see that tunnel for himself.

And so, eating and chatting, Lyman passed the day leisurely. When bored, he pulled out paper and pen to continue sketching the prison map. With no way to tell day from night in the cell, Lyman relied on Dandelion to tell him when evening fell.

Come to think of it, he hadn't checked on Sylen in a while—wondering if he'd reached Silvermist Fort and found that wealthy merchant.

Lyman summoned the Book of the Evil God, pulled out Sylen's Apostle Card, and let his soul drift out, descending invisibly beside Sylen.

From a bird's-eye view, he saw the merman youth standing in a hall. Rows of gleaming, polished seats stretched before him, and at the front stood an altar-like platform piled high with countless lit candles and oil lamps. The blazing light reflected off the Sun Emblem hanging high above the altar, making it shine like a true sun in the sky.

Lyman's pupils dilated in shock.

Why was Sylen in a church of the God of Dawn?

He glanced back at the Apostle Card.

And why was there a corpse in Sylen's Divine Casket?!

***

Morning.

Silvermist Fort, situated by the great river, lived up to its name—a perpetual mist hung over the town. Merchants from all directions gathered here, gradually turning it into a sizable town.

As the resonant morning bell pierced through the fog, the city gates opened, and crowds surged in. Guards barked orders to maintain order, checking incoming travelers. Merchant caravans paid their taxes by regulation, while ordinary travelers were questioned and then allowed through.

"Name? Where are you from? What's your business in Silvermist Fort? Move along, next!"

And so, the line into the city slowly dwindled.

Finally, it was a young man's turn. He was thin, with hollow cheeks, carrying only a single backpack as luggage.

"Name?"

"Se... Silas Abyss."

"Occupation?"

"None at the moment..."

"What brings you to Silvermist Fort?"

"Visiting family."

The guard saw he was alone, his clothes of good quality but ill-fitting, with frayed cuffs, and figured he must be a fallen young master coming to Silvermist Fort to seek out kin. In these turbulent times, the guard had seen plenty of people like that.

The guard motioned him aside for a search, then moved on to check the next traveler.

The next was a tall man, wearing a faded, threadbare cloak with patches at the elbows and knees. He had no belt; instead, a thick iron chain hung around his waist, clanking with every step.

The guard frowned and said gruffly, "Silvermist Fort is a civilized place. You'd best behave and not stir up trouble!"

The man nodded silently. The guard didn't push it and waved him through.

The young man ahead had just been searched and was surprised to see the man behind him pass without inspection. "Why doesn't he need checking?"

The guard thought, *Just as I suspected—a naive young master who doesn't know how the world works.* In a know-it-all tone, he explained, "He's obviously a slave hunter. We're used to them around here."

"Slave hunter?" The young man was puzzled.

"Someone who hunts down runaway slaves. Masters put out hefty bounties, and hunters haul them in for the reward—like bounty hunters." The guard sneered, proud of his legitimate post and looking down on that kind of scum.

The young man's expression changed, looking a little scared. The guard figured it was the gruesome talk and said, "Outside the walls, we can't do anything, but inside the walls, it's civilized. They wouldn't dare start trouble."

The young man nodded and thanked him. The guard waved him on. After hesitating a moment, the young man asked, "Can I ask you about someone? Is there a merchant in town named Lambert Fergus?"

At the mention of Fergus, the guard's attitude suddenly got a lot more respectful. "Lord Fergus is your family?"

The young man looked embarrassed. "I'd never know someone that important. A relative of mine works in Lord Fergus's household..."

The respect vanished instantly. "Just a servant, huh..."

Though the guard was quick to shift his attitude, pointing the way wasn't a problem. He gave directions to the Fergus manor and added, "Once you reach the Hill District, find any kid on the street, give him a piece of bread, and he'll lead you there. Whatever you do, don't give money!"

"Why?" the young man asked, surprised.

The guard explained, "First, those little beggars are sharp—if they see you're a wealthy outsider, they might rip you off. Second, if you give them money, someone might get jealous and kill the kid for it. Give them bread, and they'll eat it on the spot—no one will rob them for that."

The young man went pale, thanked him repeatedly, shouldered his pack, and stepped into the ever-present fog.

Silvermist Fort was built along the river, with docks stretching along the waterfront and boats constantly coming and going. It was a real melting pot, with streets and alleys crisscrossing like a maze.

The young man found a reasonably clean inn to stay in and asked the landlady for Lord Fergus's address to confirm it matched the guard's directions. Then he left the inn and ducked into a quiet alley.

If anyone had watched from above, they'd have seen a man enter, but a woman wearing the same clothes emerge!

The woman took off her coat, turned it inside out, and put it back on, continuing on toward the hill district.

When she ducked into another deserted alley, she changed again, this time into a hunched, gray-haired old man.

Every so often, he changed his appearance. Sometimes a young man, sometimes a middle-aged man, sometimes even a girl or an old crone. By the time he reached the Hill District, he was a burly man with a face full of stubble.

Sylen took a deep breath of the air thick with fog.

At last, he had arrived.