Watching the black-robed monks holding the fat priest’s head and weeping, Horn felt like his brain was about to shrink.
As a priest, you should be staying in the monastery on a rainy day, sipping fermented grape juice and playing with young boys!
What exactly are you doing running around outside?
A violent dizziness struck Horn again, and he was entering a state of breathlessness, even his eyelids couldn’t stop twitching.
Biting his tongue hard, Horn forced himself to stay awake; sleeping at such a crucial moment was not an option.
"It was they who killed the priest!"
"By Miseria! Hurry up and catch them, otherwise the Church will surely blame us."
Someone among the refugees shouted, but Red-bearded Tang Li and these Secret Faction members hesitated to make a move.
If a Secret Faction leader protected by a witch died at their hands, even nine lives wouldn’t save them.
The Secret Faction is extremely ruthless to traitors.
In the eyes of Tang Li, Chervis, and these Secret Faction members, it was clear this group came to rescue the witch.
However, this Secret Faction leadership consisted of radicals, who recklessly killed Durdafer.
Their original plans were thrown into chaos.
If they made a move against these Secret Faction members, they’d be in trouble once the Secret Faction pursued the matter.
If they let these people go, they’d still be in trouble if the High Castle Archbishop pursued the matter.
"Jeanne, kill them all!" Horn rasped in Jeanne’s ear.
Horn thought Jeanne was having one of her bleeding-heart moments again and whispered, "They haven’t witnessed miracles and will surely think you’re a witch. Now’s not the time for mercy."
"No, I really can’t do it."
It was then that Horn noticed Jeanne’s body was trembling slightly, and even the electric light was much dimmer than before.
"It’s the aftereffect of the Holy Water," Jeanne’s voice trembled, "The mental pressure of using divine art under the influence of Holy Water is too great. I have a premonition that if I continue to use it, I might lose control."
Horn nearly fainted for real; he grasped Jeanne’s shoulders, taking deep breaths.
Meanwhile, the remaining villagers from the battle gathered around, protecting Horn in the center. Except for the two Child Soldiers, René, Duvalon, and Jeska, all other villagers had died.
More and more refugees emerged from the darkness, holding chain balls, flails, and pitchforks, carrying torches burning brightly.
In the distance, on paths, and even atop the monastery’s high walls, more torches were raised.
In just two minutes, the number of refugees swelled to over a hundred.
Originally, they feared Jeanne’s electric light, but now, with so many people on their side, their courage grew.
Staring at the eyes filled with fear and ill intent before him, Duvalon stepped forward.
"Listen up, the one beside you is the Eye of the Holy Father, the incarnation of the Holy Father, Son of Miseria, the Resurrector, Destroyer of the Demon Rabbit, the great Holy Grandson—Horn!"
"If you don’t want to offend the Holy Father, let us, the Holy Father’s chosen ones, go!"
Upon hearing Duvalon’s words, the refugees burst into laughter.
"Hahaha, if you’re the Holy Father’s chosen ones, then I’m Saint Berel!"
"Where do you kids come from? Don’t talk nonsense, or you’ll end up in the Fire Prison."
"Wait, look at his neck!"
Someone suddenly shouted.
By now, the rain and wind had gradually subsided, and the torches lit up the area brightly.
Following Madlan’s voice, everyone looked at Horn, who was shielded by the Lightning Witch.
It wasn’t until now that they truly saw Horn’s face, and his neck.
Even in dim light, the dark red thorn scar on this person’s neck was visible.
This scar... why does it resemble the Holy Mark from the portrait of Miseria so much?
Everyone’s mind flashed to the prophecy that had been circulating in the Thousand River Valley region for hundreds of years.
"A rain-soaked night with white light, the wound of our Lord, grants the Holy Mark, the Chosen Pope!"
Within the empire, there were fifty-one dioceses of various sizes, with a population of over a hundred million, and almost every diocese and every kingdom had produced a Pope.
Except for the Thousand River Valley, since it became part of the empire, not one person had been chosen as Pope.
Countless Thousand River Valley People hoped for the day one of their own could become Pope and change their destiny.
This is also why the Thousand River Valley People love "offering auspicious signs" and "pilgrimage".
Even the class of Armed Farmers and lords were passionate about the "Children’s Crusade", a religious activity with a very low survival rate.
They desperately wanted a Pope to lead them out of hardship!
These aspirations formed the prophecies and ballads in Madlan’s songs: "A rain-soaked night with white light, the wound of our Lord, grants the Holy Mark, the Chosen Pope!"
Look at the appearance of the person before us!
Rain-soaked night with white light; it’s a rainy night, and next to him is the woman emitting white-lightning.
The wound of our Lord; the only wound Miseria was known for is beheading.
Grants the Holy Mark, and this person has a scar on the neck that looks like a head reattached, a sacred mark from beheading!
Plus the prophecy from that blind Divination Master a while ago, predicting a Pope would emerge in three days and punish the wicked Durdafer.
And today happens to be the third day.
As for the punishment, though a bit severe, surely Durdafer would understand.
He himself has no objections, so what can others say?
Could the person before us really be the prophesied Chosen Pope?
The refugees who were about to charge forward stopped in their tracks, some even looking reverently and in awe at the not particularly tall and strong youth.
Has the Chosen One, the Chosen One really arrived?
"This, this this, no,..." Madlan, in his leather cloak, awkwardly opened his mouth.
But soon, his eyes brimmed with tears.
Unlike the timid refugees, Madlan truly wanted to punish the greedy priest.
He once worked in the monastery’s warehouse and knew the kind of life Durdafer led, knew that Durdafer had enough grain for everyone but still hoarded it.
The reason, of course, was to capitalize on the skyrocketing grain prices after the flood receded.
Now the evil Durdafer was overthrown, and the person who did it almost matched the prophecy everywhere.
Having heard Dean Juanuo’s lectures, he knew prophecies were just illusions.
In his view, if there really was a Chosen Pope, it should be Dean Juanuo.
But the miraculous coincidence made him waver—perhaps this youth standing by lightning was the legendary Chosen Pope.
"Are you really the Chosen One?"
The scene quieted instantly; both the refugees from the Gulag Monastery and Horn’s side awaited Horn’s reply.
Amidst everyone’s attention, Horn hung his head. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to answer, but that he simply couldn’t hold on any longer.
Using all his strength, he lifted his head, nodded at Madlan, and then his vision went black, and he fainted.