"How could something this ridiculous even be possible…"
The doctor scratched his head, staring at the medical report before him in disbelief.
After the incident with the old man, he had run a full examination. The results showed that the man's vitals were all perfectly normal—textbook standards for a healthy elderly individual.
And that was precisely what he couldn't believe.
Just praying to a statue could cure a disease?
Did such miracles really exist in this world?
Determined to be thorough, he tested several more patients. Soon, he discovered a pattern.
First of all—the statue's healing really worked. Though the mechanism was unknown, most patients recovered to varying degrees after praying before the icon.
Second—the statue was not omnipotent. It worked well against viral illnesses, but its effects on bacterial diseases were weak, and it had no effect on physical injuries.
Meaning, if someone broke an arm or lost a leg, praying might stop the bleeding or relieve the pain temporarily—but it wouldn't regrow the limb. For wounds, the doctor still had to work his craft.
Well, at least that meant his profession wasn't obsolete yet.
No matter how impossible it seemed, the reports confirmed the facts: the statue truly worked. Instead of replacing doctors, it had become their greatest ally.
Viral diseases—especially contagious ones—were a nightmare to treat, consuming vast medical resources. Even worse, with medicine so scarce these days, antiviral treatments were almost impossible to come by. But now, with the statue's presence, contagion could be halted with prayer alone.
The doctor didn't understand it, but facts were facts.
By now, three statues had been placed around the town—at the entrance, the clinic, and the chapel—open for everyone to use.
Anyone could simply stand before one and pray for healing, free of charge.
The doctor couldn't comprehend how or why it worked—and even less why the Inquisition would do such a thing.
Of course, he couldn't possibly know.
That was exactly Duanmu Huai's intention.
The war between the Inquisition and the Chaos Gods was never fought solely on the battlefield—faith was another front. Competing for believers wasn't about creating more soldiers; after all, most followers were little more than cannon fodder, useless in real combat, hardly able to survive a second against an Astartes.
Yes—in life.
But in death, things were different.
In the world of Galaxy Online, when a believer died, their soul returned to the god they worshipped—much like the golden souls of the faithful merging with the Erdtree. Unbelievers' souls, however, became prey for the daemons that killed them—spoils of war for the Chaos Gods.
That was unacceptable.
The more people you killed in the real world, the more souls you harvested in the Warp—the stronger your faction became. It was an endless snowball effect! If left unchecked, no one else would stand a chance.
Thus, the war against the Chaos Gods wasn't just physical—it was spiritual. Every soul was a prize.
Those killed by Duanmu Huai or his Inquisition had their souls drawn into the Domain of Judgment, strengthening his power. Likewise, anyone who believed in the Inquisition would have their soul claimed by it upon death—safe from corruption, no longer trophies for the dark gods.
That was one reason Duanmu Huai had placed the statues.
When you prayed before one, received its blessing, and were healed, it meant you had entered into a covenant—trading your soul to the Inquisition.
Free of charge?
There's nothing in the world more expensive than "free."
Human life revolves around birth, aging, sickness, and death—and disease is the most pervasive of them all. The Plague God had built his cult on that fact. When the poor couldn't afford medicine or treatment, the "benevolent" Father of Pestilence offered salvation—curing their pain, gifting them with glorious mutations, and welcoming them into his ranks as one of his beloved plaguebearers.
If the Plague God could do that, why couldn't Duanmu Huai?
His blessings didn't grant immortality, but for most people, that hardly mattered. As long as his miracles spread, he could intercept countless potential converts to the Plague God.
Souls—were the currency of the divine.
When people prayed and were healed, they effectively traded their souls to the Inquisition. Upon death, their spirits would belong to Duanmu Huai.
A fair, transparent deal. Nothing wrong with that.
After all, he'd written the doctrine himself: those who believed in the Inquisition would have their souls taken after death, to fight beside the Inquisition in the heavens against the Chaos Gods, protecting mankind.
He'd laid out the terms clearly. Whether they read or believed them was none of his concern.
But try to renege on the contract… and that would be another matter entirely.
Soon, the Inquisition's statues became famous among the vagrants.
At first, people were skeptical. But with the slogans "It's free—why not try?" and "Everyone says it works," most eventually gave it a shot. The results delighted them. The sick who had no access to medicine found relief; the Inquisition gained new souls.
A perfect win-win.
Meanwhile, far away in Jacinto City, things looked very different.
Recently, the Coalition of Ordered Governments (COG) had launched an "Imulsion Blitz" operation, deploying light-mass bombs against underground orc hives near Jacinto, wiping out large numbers of the beasts. The success reassured the COG. Despite heavy casualties, they could now prove to the public that they, too, were capable of fighting the orcs underground.
Next, they planned to use this victory to rally support—calling on the Inquisition to join them in a united assault to exterminate the orcs once and for all.
That was the plan.
Reality, of course, had other ideas.
Before any contact could be made with the Inquisition, the plague began spreading through Jacinto itself. At first, the COG failed to notice—but soon the symptoms were undeniable. They quickly quarantined entire districts, rounding up every infected person and locking them under strict surveillance.
At first, the public cooperated. After all, fresh off the triumph of the Imulsion Blitz, faith in the government was high.
But as time passed, the infected worsened—and began turning into monsters that attacked others. The people's trust crumbled. Rumors spread that the COG had no cure at all—that they were merely isolating the infected until they could be exterminated. Some even whispered that the government planned to kill every last one of them.
Under such fear, those quarantined refused to await their deaths quietly. They began plotting to escape.
But escaping was easier said than done.
"Did you hear?"
In a ruined house, several figures huddled together, speaking in hushed voices.
"Another quarantine zone was destroyed…"
"For real?"
"The COG can't cure this plague! They locked us up just to let us die!"
One man clenched his fists in fury.
"If we don't get out, we're dead anyway!"
"But… how?"
A coughing man asked weakly, and the first replied with a grim smile.
"Through the underground tunnels. I overheard the guards—COG lifted some of the lockdowns down there. It's obvious—they want us to leave!"
"But… even if we escape, where can we go?"
A young girl spoke timidly.
"We can't survive outside. And this disease… there's no cure. We'll just die out there. If we're doomed anyway, I'd rather die at home…"
"How do you know it's incurable?!"
The man snapped, glaring at her.
"If the COG can't help us, maybe the Inquisition can! If we can reach them, maybe they'll save us!"
"The Inquisition? You actually think they exist?"
Everyone looked doubtful. Thanks to the COG's information blockade, most citizens of Jacinto believed the Inquisition was nothing but a vagrant myth. The stories were absurd—unstoppable warriors clad in iron, impervious to the orcs' weapons; exterminating entire nests with ease; divine beings sent by the gods themselves.
Ridiculous. If even the COG's soldiers suffered massive losses during the Imulsion Blitz, how could some vagrant faction defeat the orcs without a scratch?
Protected by gods? Please.
To Jacinto's people, the Inquisition was little more than a fairy tale—a Shangri-La that never existed.
"Of course they're real."
The man lowered his voice and glanced around, then pulled a piece of worn cloth from his coat.
"This map came from a vagrant friend of mine. They were heading to the Inquisition's territory and gave it to me. If we follow it, we can find them."
"That far…?"
Everyone went pale staring at the distance marked on the map.
"Can we even make it?"
"If we don't, we're dead anyway!"
The man stuffed the cloth away and glared coldly at them.
"You can feel it too—the plague is eating us alive. If we stay here, we'll rot and die. But if we go to the Inquisition, there's a chance—a tiny chance—we'll live. So what's it going to be? Stay here and wait for death, or come with me?"
"…"
No one answered.
They didn't want to leave Jacinto. Many had sacrificed everything to reach this city.
And now they were supposed to abandon it?
For most of them, the choice felt impossible.
(End of Chapter)