Borne followed the beggars and the poor crowd through several broad avenues and narrow alleys until they finally arrived in front of a dilapidated church.
The church's outer walls were weathered and worn, clearly having endured many years of wind and rain.
The tall spire was slightly leaning, with many of the stone bricks eroded by time, and there were even cracks in some parts of the walls.
In the open space in front of the church, more and more beggars and poor folks were gathering.
Their eyes were filled with longing and anxiety as they formed a rather disorganized line.
On the steps at the church's entrance stood a priest who looked to be in his thirties, with a slender build.
His brown hair was combed back, and he wore an old white robe.
His eyes were filled with compassion and pity, as if he truly saw these poor people as his brothers and sisters, without any prejudice or resentment.
Beside the priest were a few worn-out wooden boxes and iron barrels.
One of the boxes was filled with dark-colored black bread, while another iron barrel contained a pot of murky soup with a few wilted leaves and scattered chunks of potatoes floating in it.
A deacon dressed in black used a ladle to scoop the meager food, distributing it to the people in line.
His movements were slow and careful, as if trying to make each scoop as even as possible, but the food was clearly insufficient to satisfy such a large crowd.
"Please be patient, everyone. There will be enough for all," the young priest reassured the crowd as he continued to distribute the food. His voice carried a gentle strength.
Borne stood not far away, watching the scene at the church entrance, filled with doubt in his heart.
The old church before him seemed particularly out of place in the bustling city.
It appeared as though it had been forgotten by time, with its walls mottled and its roof's stone slabs broken and crumbling, as if it could collapse at any moment.
What puzzled Borne even more was that the priest here was so young, appearing to be just over thirty.
After the food was distributed, the young priest did not hurry to leave.
He stood on the steps at the church entrance, smiling at the poor beggars and common folk before him, and spoke softly.
"Please wait a moment, everyone. We will now hold a short mass to pray for God's protection and blessings upon us all."
Standing on the steps, the priest slowly raised his hands, his face wearing a gentle and devout expression. His words were soft but carried a force that touched people's hearts.
The mass was simple but sincere.
The beggars stood before him, their expressions somewhat blank; some lowered their heads and mumbled along with his prayers.
The mass lasted about half an hour, and the priest concluded the prayer with his gentle voice.
He did not immediately end the gathering but instead began to tell a story.
His gaze swept across each beggar's face, and he slowly began to speak.
"Today, I want to tell you a story.
From the first chapter "Undiscriminating Kindness is an Accomplice to Evil" of *The One: Books of Bless* from *Sacred Words*.
His voice was low and calm but carried a magnetic quality that made everyone present unconsciously quiet down and listen attentively.
"In a peaceful village, there lived a kind shepherd. He was friendly to everyone and always willing to extend a helping hand to those in need.
One evening, as the shepherd was returning home after a day's work, stepping through the twilight's glow, he suddenly found a man lying half-dead by the roadside.
The man was in tattered clothes, his face pale, and his body covered in blood, as if he had just gone through a fierce battle.
The shepherd felt a surge of compassion and thought, 'No matter who he is, the most important thing now is to save him.'
So, without a second thought, he put the man on his donkey cart and took him home.
Back at his house, the shepherd cleaned the man's wounds and offered him his only bowl of hot soup.
The man looked into the shepherd's eyes, and a hint of gratitude seemed to flash in his gaze."
But soon, that emotion was quickly masked by the cold indifference on his face.
The shepherd didn't mind. He believed that as long as he could save a life, he was doing what he ought to do.
A few days later, the man's wounds gradually healed.
However, he still refused to reveal his identity, only saying that he was being hunted and hoped the shepherd would shelter him for a while.
The shepherd, unwilling to cast him out, agreed.
One night, while the shepherd was in a deep sleep, he suddenly heard the sound of heavy footsteps.
Half-asleep, he got up and was about to check when he felt a sharp pain in his chest.
Looking down, he saw a sharp knife lodged in his chest.
The hand holding the knife belonged to the very man he had saved.
With a grim expression, the man coldly said, "Thank you for taking me in, but I can't risk exposing my whereabouts, so I have to do this."
The shepherd's eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth opening as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came out.
He collapsed, his gaze slowly dimming, filled with deep confusion and bewilderment.
The following morning, the villagers found the shepherd's body.
The missing man, it turned out, was a murderer who had been wanted for a long time.
This shepherd was the father of my lord, Alkis. His name was Joel," the priest said, his voice full of emotion as he looked at the crowd before him.
"Kindness is a virtue, but sometimes it requires wisdom to discern. We must be compassionate, but we also must be wise."
After finishing the story, the priest paused for a moment, seemingly waiting for the crowd's reaction.
The beggars listened in silence; some lowered their heads in thought, while others remained confused.
After the mass and the story, the priest did not leave immediately.
Instead, he stepped down from the stairs and began to gently touch the heads of each beggar.
His hand moved slowly and tenderly over each person's hair, even though their hair was messy, filthy, and reeked of a foul odor.
Yet, his face still maintained that gentle smile.
His actions carried a soothing power, as if he were offering some form of comfort and blessing to these unfortunate souls.
A white light emanated from his hand, healing each person he touched.
An elderly beggar with a limp was miraculously healed and knelt down, thanking the priest profusely.
Other disabled beggars began to grab at the priest's white robe one after another.
The black-robed deacon beside him wanted to stop them, but the priest intervened.
"They are all lost, poor sheep," he said.
Even though his white robe was stained by the dirty hands of the beggars, he showed no anger, continuing to look at them with compassion.
However, the tall, thin deacon in black beside him was clearly not as calm as the priest.
He covered his nose with his sleeve, his brow furrowed, his face filled with disgust and repulsion.
He was visibly uncomfortable with the filth and odor of the beggars and the poor crowd.
The deacon muttered under his breath, "Honestly, how can these people be so filthy?" as he kept retreating, his expression one of revulsion, as if he regarded them as some sort of dreadful creatures.
The priest seemed to ignore the deacon's complaints, continuing his actions, touching every beggar's head. His eyes showed no sign of disdain, only deep pity and mercy.
After finishing, the beggars gradually left.
Having watched the mass, Borne was about to turn and leave to buy the medicinal herbs.
Just as he took a step, he suddenly heard a warm and magnetic voice behind him.
"Young soldier, please wait a moment."