The knight and the village chief returned a short while later, carrying an antique but clearly well-polished silver candelabrum.
"Look!"
The cleric held the candelabrum high. The silver gleamed dazzlingly in the sunlight.
"What an exquisite object! Yet beneath its polished surface lies a curse powerful enough to drag this entire village into hell! This is the evidence! To conceal it is to collude with evil!"
The repeated bloodshed and this seemingly "conclusive" accusation completely shattered the villagers' psychological defences.
Someone was the first to run home.
Then, like a breached dam, the villagers rushed back to their houses, scrambling through their belongings.
They brought out possessions hidden in the most secret corners, things that carried all their hopes and savings: perhaps an ancestral ring, perhaps silver ornaments from a dowry, perhaps a few silver coins painstakingly saved over many years to buy land...
Trembling, they piled these valuables before the cleric like offerings, hoping only to exchange them for the slightest chance of survival.
The cleric paced slowly before the scattered gold and silver, his gaze critical, as though choosing goods at a market.
He picked up a well-made silver ring, weighed it in his hand, then put it back down.
Next, he picked up a heavy gold ring, examined it for a moment, and placed it into a larger cloth bag held open by the knight behind him.
He specifically selected pieces of gold and silver that were heavy and of good quality, showing no interest in tiny silver fragments or poorly made items.
At the same time, his hand occasionally darted out and brushed across the foreheads of certain villagers.
Suddenly, he pointed at a woman who had surrendered a silver buckle.
"You. You hid a better pair of silver earrings inside your pillow!"
Then he pointed at a man who had handed over a single silver coin.
"And you. You still have an ancestral gold coin hidden at home, hoping to deceive us!"
The woman and the man instantly turned pale and tried to argue, but the cleric had already turned away.
"Purify them."
The ruthless order was given.
Two flashes of white light followed.
Flames rose once again, consuming two desperate figures along with their greed.
Or rather, the last faint glimmer of hope they still held for the future.
Their cries and pleas for mercy disappeared into the flames.
By the time the execution fires died down, the cloth bag behind the cleric had become quite heavy.
He weighed it with satisfaction before looking over the villagers, who now seemed to have had their souls drained away, their eyes vacant and numb.
"Today, the Holy Fire has purified the evil and falsehood hidden in this place," he declared loudly. "Take this as a warning. Remain faithful and diligently fulfil your duties."
He waved his hand.
The Purifying Fire Knights escorted the line of prisoners, including that villager, John, led away the ox said to be "unnaturally strong", and carried their bulging "spoils" as they departed from the village now shrouded in fear and grief.
The setting sun cast long shadows behind them, like spreading darkness covering the charred remains and the disorder in the village square.
The noise and despair of the village gradually faded into the distance.
Only the sound of hooves crushing fallen leaves and the stumbling footsteps of the prisoners occasionally broke the silence.
...
Deep within a dense forest several miles from the village, sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick canopy, leaving only scattered patches of light on the ground.
An owl glided silently down from above, its sharp talons lightly gripping a dead branch extending from an ancient pine tree.
Its amber eyes carefully scanned a crude tent half-hidden beneath trailing vines below.
Then it spread its wings and glided to the ground.
The moment the owl landed, its body began to twist and swell unnaturally.
Its feathers withdrew.
Its bones gave off faint cracking sounds.
Its beak receded, while its limbs lengthened.
Within only a few breaths, the owl had vanished.
In its place stood an old man in a dark-brown cloak, his face covered in wrinkles and age spots.
The tent flap was suddenly pulled aside, and a young woman hurried out.
She had long, unkempt brown hair, and her face was somewhat pale from living in hiding for so long, but suppressed anger and gloom burned in her eyes.
"Morrigan, how is it?" the young witch asked urgently in a low voice.
The old wizard Morrigan shook out his robes as though trying to rid himself of the foul air from the village.
"Things aren't good, Isabella," he replied hoarsely. "Omar was indeed there. I saw him with my own eyes, chained up by those Holy Fire thugs and strung together with a group of Muggles."
The witch named Isabella suddenly clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white.
"We have to rescue him!"
Her voice was resolute, but beneath it lay a deep sense of helplessness.
Morrigan sneered and shook his head, the wrinkles on his face deepening.
"Rescue him? Just the two of us? Isabella, you need to face reality. Their leader is at least a High Priest-level wizard, and there are at least two other priests besides him. His knights are all battle-crazed fanatics in full armour. If we rush in recklessly, we'll only bury ourselves alongside Omar and add two more names to their Book of Merits."
"Then what are we supposed to do? Just stand by and watch Omar get sent to the stake?" Isabella shouted in agitation.
A glint flashed through Morrigan's murky eyes.
He lowered his voice and spoke with a sinister smile.
"A direct confrontation would be foolish. But the Church relies on its numbers and its absolute control over those Muggles... We can take that 'advantage' away from them."
He paused before continuing.
"We can use scarlet fever mixed with graveyard moss to transform living people into mindless Inferi controlled by the caster in a very short amount of time."
Isabella's breathing quickened, and her face grew even paler.
"You mean... turn all the nearby villagers into..."
"Not all of them. Selectively."
Morrigan interrupted her, his tone cold.
"There are three more villages of similar size along the Witch Hunting Squad's route south. We don't need to transform everyone. Just enough of them to create sufficient numbers..."
"Inferi feel no pain and have no fear of death. As long as there are enough of them, they can overwhelm the Witch Hunting Squad. The Church's lackeys only have so much magic, and then..."
He stared at Isabella.
"We'll not only have a chance to rescue Omar, but we might even wipe out the entire Witch Hunting Squad. We can use the flesh and blood of those ignorant, cowardly villagers, who might even be cheering for the Church, to tear through the Church's defences and rescue our companion. Ironic, isn't it?"
Isabella fell silent.
Images flashed through her mind: Omar being consumed by flames, the cold faces of the Church knights, the villagers disgracefully reporting witches to the Church...
In the end, hatred overcame hesitation.
She raised her head, the gloom in her eyes giving way to madness.
"What do we need to prepare? We don't have much time."
Morrigan's shrivelled lips twisted into a vicious grin.
"We already have some of the materials. Anything we're missing can be gathered from graveyards and abandoned houses along the way. The key is speed. We must finish before the Witch Hunting Squad reaches the next village. Let the breath of death pave them a 'glorious' road home."
The two said no more and quickly began packing the few belongings inside the tent, preparing to leave.
"So you're members of that Dark Wizard organisation called the School of Withering?"
A voice suddenly rang out, startling the two wizards who had just finished packing their belongings.
___
o(*≧▽≦)ツ💫 Read up to 12+ chapters in advance on Patreon/DarkDevil1