Great sea god, I hope my husband will survive the storm and return home safely."
"God, please grant me good luck..."
"Kavituwa, my God, my only God…"
"Please bring down disaster, you damned Rune dogs! I'd rather die with them!"
...
Whether weeping, numb, devout, or fanatical, prayers containing countless emotions convey the most genuine feelings of one soul after another.
The relentless storms divide the inside from the outside, and brute force separate the past from the present. The temple, now a ruin, shelters faiths from all over the archipelago. Its broken and crumbling pillars struggle to hold on, barely preventing the dome from collapsing further and taking away the last hope of the Rosd people.
On the collapsed throne, the jewels and gold leaf were nowhere to be seen. The pure marble blocks, worn smooth by the erosion of water over thousands of years, had sunk into the sand and lost their former splendor.
A thin, frail figure sat in the center of the abandoned hall, cradling an ivory scepter beside an ancient throne. His dry, cracked skin and mud-stained robes made him almost indistinguishable from the figures in the faded historical paintings on the wall to the left of the throne. If any living being were to wander into this perilous place at this moment, from a distance, he would likely be overlooked and forgotten as part of the ruins.
Fortunately, the man on the throne was still breathing, however weakly, and each rise and fall of his chest was extremely difficult, but that was still proof that he was alive, the only difference between him and all the dead things in the dilapidated palace.
"Help us..."
"Please expel the Rune people..."
"Punish the executioner…"
Clinging to the storm, the sticky, galaxy-like faith torments the man's spirit, which may also be an indispensable factor in his ability to survive in such an environment.
As the one being worshipped, He is often asleep, but in the intervals between dreams He will draw upon His energy to instinctively respond to prayers concerning the authority He holds, whether righteous or base.
The stars that manifest as prayers collapse and are destroyed, only to be reborn in an instant to fill the void left by the old ones. One after another, year after year, that's why the storms on the periphery never cease, and why men can always linger on the border between life and death, clinging to the shadow of the past that may vanish at any moment.
Sixteen hundred years have passed, and He has long since grown accustomed to everything around Him, silently enduring it all.
However, amidst the prayers, some discordant noises seemed to appear in the Milky Way, where stars seemed to converge.
Is it background noise?
It seems too noisy, too uniform?
For the first time in sixteen hundred years, most of the prayers overlapped, and the originally chaotic and disordered content was transformed into a powerful shout, roaring out the malice deep in the soul to the altar.
"Kill them!"
"Drive them out!"
Punish them!
Savage, bloody desires piled up on the storm's inner walls. A sudden surge of prayers, like stars appearing one after another, erupted in a desperate, lonely gamble for survival. With nowhere else to turn, people abandoned compromise and illusion after yet another attempt, picking up their weapons. Silence became the cradle of conflict. Warriors about to die, families of future heroes—they prayed together, their blood and humility a desperate plea…
The light from hundreds of thousands of stars exceeded the limits that the storm could contain, and in an instant, the rising sun illuminated the ruins.
The sun, born from violent thought, carried the most basic desires and awakened the sleeping gods.
"Please..."
"Save us."
...
"reason?"
Does suppressing mobs need a reason?
Inside the nave of the Sea Wave Church, Cardinal Yann Courtman glared angrily at the governor's officials who had come to seek his advice and assistance. His tall, imposing frame seemed to crackle with electricity, and each of his questions echoed like thunder in the hall.
He pointed to the other side of Blue Mountain Island, using his imposing manner to pressure the officials who had come to ask for help.
"The church initially proposed to completely divide the island's natives, whether by relocation or centralized custody, in order to uproot the blasphemous beliefs deeply ingrained in their minds."
"And how did you respond? You accused the church of being too extreme, allowing idle journalists who only know how to talk big and only care about profit to portray the Lord and His believers as representatives of cruelty and extremism!"
"Last week, the rioting natives killed a plantation owner, a devout believer of the Lord. The believer's son and wife sought help from the church. We were willing to stand up for them and help our brother, who had suffered an injustice, to seek justice. But you rejected the church's actions, telling us that using civilization to reform barbarism is the kingdom's policy, and that we should respect the king and the government, as well as the will of many more peace-loving citizens who cast their votes in the decision-making process…"
The official's upturned face was gradually enveloped by the shadow cast by Yann Courtman's exaggerated physique. The cardinal, with his thick, long hair and hard facial features, looked to him almost like the most dangerous beast.
Step by step, he questioned the issues with reason and evidence, and erupted in anger time and time again. Finally, on the eve of achieving his goal through words, the cardinal abandoned his reserved "reserve." His weathered face, marked by the vicissitudes of life, suddenly tore away the disguise of justice and let out a mocking laugh.
"Now that you've finally passed the decree to cleanse the natives, you've thrown away your scepter of civilization and can't wait to take advantage of your positions to make a quick buck and earn some big, good land for your sons and grandsons..."
"When you were swaggering around, did you ever consider the possibility of angering the natives?"
"In your eyes, are natives just easy-to-use and cheap slaves, docile lambs who won't fight back no matter how much you beat or scold them?"
The last hint of mockery on Cardinal Yann Courtman's face vanished.
"They are human beings too, not animals. Today they are just protesting, gathering a group to surround the governor's mansion and the church to demonstrate. Tomorrow they will be drawing their knives, and more natives will join the mob in the jungle and open fire on you..."
"We've come this far, what are you still hesitating for!"
A thunderous roar erupted, and the skinny official, hidden in the archbishop's shadow, trembled like a quail, collapsing to the ground with a thud. He tried to get up several times but failed each time, looking comically like a stunted penguin.
"Yes, Bishop Cortman, the governor is also willing to send troops to suppress it."
The official, commissioned by the governor to probe the matter, hurriedly produced a pre-prepared file, hoping to quell the anger of the most powerful figure in the Rothschild Islands.
"As you know, the Rothschild Islands have always been a vital maritime hub. For transoceanic voyages, it's difficult to find another transit point sufficient to meet the needs of the Kingdom's cargo ships. Its location is far too important. You are aware that the Fussacs and Intiss have been secretly funding the island's rioters..."
The official quickly steered the conversation to his own expertise, and his speech became much more fluent.
He quickly got into the zone, no longer dominated by fear, and explained to the cardinal the advantages and disadvantages summarized by the governor's court after careful consideration.
"While direct suppression can resolve the hidden dangers of the archipelago, it may also be exploited by those with ulterior motives. The kingdom's colonies in the southern continent have already been affected by the war started by Trensust, and the government does not want its maritime colonies to follow in the footsteps of the Highlands."
"The governor is afraid..."
"Afraid?"
The cardinal's sudden cold laugh interrupted the official's long speech, and with just one gesture, he frightened the official into not daring to continue.
However, instead of his usual aggressive style, Yann Courtman fell into deep thought after hearing the reasons given by the Governor's Office.
The recent conflict between the so-called sea god and the pope off the coast of Rothschild is still fresh in people's minds, and the cardinal who escaped by chance is also afraid of the power of the faith behind the natives.
Relying solely on past experience and the numerous reports on "Poseidon" submitted by his predecessors, Yann Courtman regained his confidence.
"The connection between the sea serpents and the natives is not as close as you imagine; the god they speak of doesn't care about their lives at all."
"No matter how arrogant the rioters are, or how many sacrifices they make, they will not get a response."
Because that wasn't their god at all... Yann Courtman emphasized to himself.
"A bunch of rabble. The church will be your strongest backing. I myself will participate in the cleanup. Tell the governor that if you're going to do it, do it now. The Lord never favors the weak and…"
Boom!
Thunder roared, and a storm that would normally take several days to brew swept across every corner of the Rosed Islands. The sudden change not only frightened the officials who were ordinary people, but also shocked Arne Courtman.
Cardinal Storm's pupils dilated noticeably. He glanced at the governor's official, who was frozen in place, and, ignoring the scolding, hurriedly walked out of the church's central hall.
Rainwater washed over the streets outside the church, flowing down the church's arched roof and forming a tangible curtain at the entrance to the foyer.
Dark clouds gathered, the pale gray sky twisted and turned, and the outline of a python was reflected in the sky, encircling the hideous eyebrows that seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere in the dark clouds.
As the "Sea King" who reigns over the Rosd Islands on behalf of the Lord of Storms, Arne Coltman easily recognized the nature of the anomaly. However, in the eyes of the many mortals on the island, it was the wrath of heaven and earth itself, the roar of nature!
For a moment, the natives throughout the Rothschild Islands—whether working in different places in the city, toiling in the plantations, or hiding in the jungle with guns—shouted cheers.
Crying, screaming, shouting, laughing—different emotions express the same feeling. They don't care about the surprised looks of those around them, or whether they join in immediately after a brief commotion. There is only one thought in their minds.
God answered them!
...
"Help us..."
Layers of illusory prayers echoed in Klein's ears. His deep sleep was disturbed by dreams, which wove a hallucination before his eyes that contained fragments of the real lives of hundreds of thousands of people, causing throbbing pains deep in his head. He wished he could bang his head against the wall to relieve the pain.
Klein, who was taking a nap on a wooden plank bed in a hotel in an indigenous settlement, instinctively tensed up due to pain, bent over, and rolled around repeatedly from one side of the narrow plank bed to the other. After several rolls, he fell directly off the bed, his head hitting the floor.
The impact jolted Klein out of his dream and brought him back to his senses from the pain and dizziness.
"Huff...huff...huff..."
Klein was panting heavily, his shirt was soaked with sweat, and his brown hair was completely stuck to his forehead, making him look extremely disheveled.
What is that?
Ignoring his physical pain and miserable state, he hurriedly searched for the source of the strange phenomenon.
But as soon as he took control of Ludwell and moved from the bed to the edge of the room, the scene outside the window that looked like a natural disaster caught his attention and quickly resonated with a corner of his memory.
Thorny lightning ripped across the sky, cumulus clouds shattered and reformed with each burst of thunder, and the entire surface trembled slightly... The strange phenomena occurring at this moment on the Rothschild Islands were similar to what had happened in Backlund that evening.
"Are the high-sequence individuals from the Stormpath fighting?" Klein deduced.
However, he quickly dismissed this conjecture because he found no other illogical behavior.
After all, someone who can fight a powerful being who has traveled through storms at sea must not be weak; they must be a being who has mastered divinity.
Such a high-sequence individual would not be silent in battle; they should not be completely invisible.
Just as Klein was about to continue his search, examining the ever-changing and sometimes stable patterns on the clouds, the torrential rain and violent storm vanished in an instant. In no time, the Rothschild Islands returned to their usual boundless blue sky, with no trace of the storm except for a few occasional dark-colored clouds.
What exactly happened... Klein wondered blankly.
Faced with two sudden changes, helplessness and confusion dominated his thinking.
Fortunately, Klein had been studying storm-related knowledge recently, and after instinctively calming down, he determined the next step.
Yesterday's conversation with "Mystery" further solidified his idea of seeking out the elves for talks. The very next second after the conversation ended, he used the power of the gray fog to communicate with the crimson star representing "The Hanged Man" Alger, and issued an order in the name of "The Fool"—urging the elf scouts to confirm the date of the visit and meeting as soon as possible.
Klein was even prepared to try impersonating the "God of Mysteries" and ordering Tristan if the "Hanged Man" couldn't meet his needs.
Such a huge commotion, with no other way to release its power, might indicate that the two parties causing the storm are the Archbishop of the Storm Church and the leader of the elves living near the Rosed Isles...
Draw the curtains tight, Klein walked back to the center of the room, and manipulated Ludwell to secretly summon his spirit to guard the corridor and outside the hotel, preventing anyone from disturbing him as he ascended into the gray fog and his spirit left his body.
After completing this series of operations, and after obtaining a divination result that there would be no danger within ten minutes, Klein created a spiritual wall to isolate the room from the outside world.
Before he could take four steps backward, the illusion was not real enough, and he could only distinguish that the prayers of men and women had reached his ears first.
Unlike the agonizing, almost depressive torment of his dream, he was very familiar with the way this voice was expressed.
It was a prayer conveyed by the gray fog, a man...
Is it the "Hanged Man"?
Klein paused for a moment, then took a step forward.
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