The night wind whistled through the jagged rocks, making a mournful sound.
Thin mist spread up from the forest, shrouding the edges of the village and its overly simple rural church.
From the outside, except for the cross on the roof, it almost looked no different from an ordinary Armed Farmers' courtyard.
The interior of the church was similarly not very luxurious. Moss grew in the corners, a layer of moldy wood flooring covered the ground, and the low ceiling exuded the damp smell of wood.
A simple stone altar stood at the front, along with a main lectern and two rows of four pews, barely able to seat around 50 people, constituting the scale of this old church.
At this moment, the pointed roof was concealed in darkness, with faint candlelight filtering through the window grills and door cracks — lit intentionally by Ansel.
For this prayer meeting, he abandoned the oil lamps and lit the few remaining beeswax candles.
