Chapter 52: The Black Apostle

The moon in the night sky was full, shining as bright as the sun.
It loomed so large, as if it might fall straight down to earth.

On such nights, people locked their doors tightly and dared not step outside.
It wasn’t because they consciously remembered the calamity of the past, nor the long, pale age of ruin brought by the moon. Rather, that terror had been etched into the unconscious of new life itself.

Whenever the moon appeared this close, catastrophe always followed.
That knowledge, carved into them at the level of their very genes, was a primal instinct that could not easily be defied.

And so, when a man ignored that warning and stepped outside under the moonlight, it was perhaps inevitable that he would be struck down by heaven’s punishment.

“Uwaaaaaaah!”

It was the scream of a human who had disregarded instinct and now found himself face-to-face with disaster.
Exhausted from screaming, the man collapsed onto the ground, while someone looked down upon him.

If not for the bright moonlight, he would have been unrecognizable—his entire body was shrouded in black. The wind blew, scattering his long black hair so that it writhed like a nest of snakes. The bloody stench carried on the breeze only enhanced that illusion.

And it was his handiwork—the smell of slaughter he himself had created.

The man in black smiled gently.
Then he spoke.

“Warrior, show me a little more strength. You can do it.”

His voice was chilling, the pitch so low it scraped along the depths of the abyss, as though clawing the bottom of hell.
Yet, in brighter surroundings, perhaps it would have sounded different. For his voice, deep and resonant as a hymn, carried a grandeur—almost sacred, even.

“Do you not feel my encouragement, given with all my might?”

“P-please… spare me…”

“Yes. I am sparing you, am I not?”

The man who looked like a grim reaper bent down and reached out a hand. And then—a dreadful sweetness washed over the victim’s body, peace sinking deep into his raw nerves.

It was what people called divine power.
The kind of blessing said to manifest only in the Apostles of Luxlon.
Who else but such chosen ones could ease suffering and heal wounds?

And yet… no one had ever seen an Apostle like this.
An Apostle wandering alone in desolate lands, far from Luxlon’s order? Impossible. An Apostle using his gift in such a manner? Unthinkable.

Had they known, they would never have approached him.

“Uh, ughuhuhhh…”

The divine power surged into the man’s spine, forcing an almost ecstatic groan from his lips. His body, broken with pain, found sudden tranquility.
But then—he remembered. He remembered what would come next. He’d seen the other corpses littered nearby. He knew what that gentle touch would turn into.

Snap!

“Gyaaaaaaah!”

Crack. Crunch.

“S-stop… please! Aaaaaaah!”

Crunch. Snap!

The sound of stone rods breaking echoed again and again. But the only stone within flesh was bone. Anyone could tell what was being shattered.

The man in black was breaking, and then healing, the very same wounds he had just soothed with divine power.
Over and over again.
Breaking, then mending. Breaking, then mending.
Until the victim begged for death—or ended his own life.

“Did you not charge at me so boldly? Did you not accept this outcome then? Why give up so quickly? You are still far from earning my recognition…”

All of this he did with his bare hands. And yet his voice—soothing, tender, almost merciful.

“Sir Apostle… enough. You should stop.”

“Hm?”

Another traveler, who had been watching, finally spoke up on behalf of the victim.

“Th-they’ve suffered enough. You’ve made your point. The rest are already dead. If you release him now, he’ll never commit such deeds again…”

The traveler hadn’t suspected this man of cruelty when they first met.
On the road, seeing him starved, the traveler had shared bread and water. They’d exchanged trivial pleasantries: The moon is beautiful tonight. Traveling, are you? You should buy a horse for the road…

The man in black had smiled warmly, thanked him, and that was it. Just a forgettable encounter—except for his voice. That impossibly deep voice, like someone who sang hymns.

But then bandits had struck.
And in a heartbeat, that “gentle Apostle” had subdued them all—only to toy with them one by one, breaking and healing, dragging out their suffering.

No, not killing them.

“P-please, just kill me…”

Yes. He drove them to beg for death—yet never granted it.

“Kill you? To abandon life so quickly is wrong. Life must be cherished…”

The Apostle’s low voice carried genuine lamentation, as though truly sorrowful for them.
That sincerity—was what made him most terrifying of all.

A broken bandit spat back through his sobs:
“Y-you heretic bastard! To say such things—ugh, aaagh!”

Crunch. Crack.

His bones snapped once more.

The traveler could no longer watch. Any human would find the sight unbearable.
And now the traveler, too, realized. This was no mere Apostle. This was what the Holy Empire hunted—an apostate. A heretic.

But the word stuck in his throat. He lacked the courage to say it aloud. All he could do was address him as sir Apostle and beg for mercy, clinging to human decency.

“Hm…”

Whether persuaded or simply finished, the black Apostle healed the bandit one last time.
But this time, the victim could no longer bear it. Even the peace of healing now felt horrific.

“Heeek… heeheeek!”

And at last, the bandit’s mind broke.

“…Ah. How pitiful.”

The Apostle did not touch him further. He only clicked his tongue softly, pity evident on his solemn face.

The traveler, unable to watch, turned away. Compassion tugged at him, but these had been bandits. He owed them nothing.
Instead, he followed the black Apostle with his eyes as the man began to walk away.

“W-where are you going?”

“To where my Lord dwells.”

He didn’t even glance back as he spoke, striding off into the moonlight.

The traveler wondered: Who was that Lord?
Only one thing was certain—
It was not the god Luxlon.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The sound of carving echoed.
Belmias, who had been resting with eyes closed, opened them and walked over. The sound came from Lema.

“What are you doing?”

Lema was whittling a small piece of wood with delicate precision. Distracted by Belmias’s voice, he quickly looked up.

“Ah, you’ve finished your rest?”

“What’s that?”

“This? Since my body has regained its old condition, I thought I’d return to the training I used to do.”

Training?
Perhaps it was his diligent nature—this knight of hers never seemed to rest.

At dawn, he awoke for physical drills, swung his sword in strict rhythm, and after the basic morning regimen, he cooked meals.
He no longer prayed to Luxlon, but he seemed to have replaced prayer by preparing food: always setting aside a portion for Belmias.

Belmias didn’t need to eat, but she humored him—knowing it was Lema’s new form of offering.

“Yes. As you said, this power is neither Luxlon’s blessing nor even yours. It’s mine. So, if I am to serve you better, I must train it further.”

And so, he was carving wood?
Belmias tilted her head, pointing at the object in Lema’s hand.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“It was something we squires used in training.”