Before Gersimi could react, the hefty Seraphist of Ocean had already arrived behind him. With nonchalant ease, as if he was dealing with a chicken, Mirish put one hand on the priest's left shoulder, while his other hand seized the priest's left wrist then pulled it up and back.
As the arm was violently bent, like a dry branch beyond its limit, it produced a sharp snap, followed by a crisp crunch as the bone splintered and the surrounding tissue gave way under the pressure.
Gersimi let out a howl of pain. Salty streaks trailed down his cheeks, an impressive feat for someone who had not touched a lick of water for so long. His tear ducts should probably be as dry as desert by now.
Mirish repeated the same with the remaining arm. It was a little different this time, since it was accompanied by an additional faint wet pop, presumably from the dislocation of the joint. He then released the priest, allowing the young man to sprawl down on the floor and cry his heart out. "Why?" Gersimi asked in anguish.
"Because you're annoying," Raka replied. "Also, you centre your entire life around ignorance of facts. Those two combined stretch my tolerance level to its experimental limit. Relax, I won't have you pass away in pain. The Ruin will."
He let Gersimi enjoy the suffering a little longer before he seized the priest's sackcloth by the collar and yanked him upwards. "Don't be coy. Open your mouth," he commanded, but Gersimi recoiled, turning his head and snapping his mouth shut, his legs thrashing wildly in the air.
It was a futile gesture. No mortal defiance could stand against the will of a Seraphist. Raka slammed the priest down on the ground hard, rendering him momentarily stunned from concussion, before using his thumb and forefinger to press just below his jawline, coaxing his mouth open slightly. With his other hand hovering above it, he produced a drop of <
Gersimi's small form trembled slightly as wax briefly manifested all over his body. The visible signs of fatigue and weariness that had carved deep lines into his face began to soften. Lines of scars faded from his skin, which also lost its pale dryness and now flushed with a healthier color. He jolted upright and took in a deep breath of air, his chest rising as if reacquainting itself with life while his green eyes opening wide and brightening up.
His broken arms cracked to set themselves back together and smoothed out into their natural positions. His fingers twitched, as the Miracle kept on mending and undoubtedly sending waves of pleasure throughout his broken body.
<
The Miracle pulled forth knowledge sealed in that book, then rebuilt the mortal into what he ought to be.
Where his auburn hair had dully faded and dwindled to just a few fragile strands during his time in captivity, wax grew out to thicken and fill up his barren scalp. The substance transmuted itself into long, soft, and radiant strands as they tumbled down his shoulders, their color deepened and rippled outward from the roots like first rays of dawn breaking through a misty horizon.
The Miracle had revealed a truth. Raka chuckled, leaning close to inspect the changes. "All this time, you've been rejecting the title of heretic. Yet here you are, embodying the very definition of it."
In addition to the hair, Gersimi's cheekbones had also been lifted subtly while her chest swelled outward to form gentle curves as the Miracle rebuilt her body into what she should be when life fed her correctly. The sackcloth, once draping loosely, now clung to her body and revealed a feminine silhouette where there had been none before.
"My God cares only for the sincerity of our hearts." She gritted her teeth to fight back the pleasure and stood up. Her voice had lost all its coarseness, becoming more clear and unclouded, but not its faith. "Branding people like me heretic is a heresy in itself. His divinity touches equally upon both the sons and the daughters. Why then are the former free to answer the call while must the latter be bound by tradition?"
"Because the Scripture of Light is your God's very words, and His words strictly prohibit, with heavy penalty, any woman from assuming the sacred office of the priesthood."
She scoffed. "Half of the Scripture is man-made. It has gone through centuries of edits and redactions and rewritten and reinterpreted by whoever happened to be in charge for their own benefit. You think people have been able to repent their sins by just a donation to the clergy all the way from the Ternary Strife? They wrote it into the Scripture when they discovered the guilty would gladly pay a fortune for a sense of peace. Corrupting the sacred text, my disguise is nothing compared to it."
As matter of fact, Manziholet recalled, the practice began in 1856 during the heyday of the previous government – the Republic of Ascendant Man. The story might be the Imperium's propaganda, but it was likely not far off from the truth.
It was, as usual, a case of decadent Republicans wanting to ease their consciences without actually doing anything that might involve effort like helping the homeless or going to prison for their actual crimes. They approached a local church for a solution. Its clergy, who had been pondering for quite some time how to fund a few more towers and statues, came up with a charmingly efficient idea: just a quiet exchange of funds and their innocence was secured.
The wealthy Republicans, who had never been too averse to spending money, particularly on things that could not be physically touched or felt, were intrigued, and once their interest had been piqued, they would go to extraordinary lengths to satiate it. The practice took root from there.
Soon, seeing its popularity, the clergy were offering discounts on all sorts of sin to expand the operation to poorer people. Thieves, murderers, and rapists were considered absolved in Invincible Light's eyes (His opinion was not known) by a one time payment of a few thousand coins or payable in installments for those who were financially stretched. Land, jewelry, and other assets were also acceptable mediums of transaction.
Naturally, to preserve the Church's image, the Holy Solongo had long put much greater restrictions on the how and who. However, since the deteriorating relation with TerraSol had cut off many potential customers, discussions were underway regarding the possibility of allowing the living to buy indulgence for their dead relatives and friends, thereby maintaining its position as one of the clergy's top three primary revenue sources.
"Maybe we should keep the faithmonger alive," Chiorou joked. "Let her be the Church's headache."
"I have to admit, that's a solid plan," Manziholet said as he walked over and considered Gersimi. She was not exactly the most beautiful girl, even among employees of an average pleasure demiplane, but there was something in the way she refused to stand down that made him think he should lie for her life.
"Bring her back to TerraSol," he suggested. "My mother can find a place for her in Clerical Privilege. They're lacking a proper third perspective over there."
"What do you think, priest? Would you like to work under a Logic Committee?" Raka asked, amused. "I imagine you will be paid more than you can spend, and you get to help dismantle the Church in the process."
Gersimi looked at him, then to Manziholet. "Never, Seraphists. You know who I serve."
He was disappointed. She would be a good person that he could make a companion out of, if only she was not so religious. He considered pushing further to compete with God in a contest of will and take away His follower, but found his interest quickly faded. Gersimi had made her choice. She was a lost cause.
Raka turned the girl around to face the great chamber. "At least you will die happy, priest. Some mortals have sold their family for a drop of nectar. Most don't even get a glimpse of what you have experienced. Be grateful, and finish the job you got sent here to do."
He put one hand between Gersimi's shoulder blades then shoved her through the gateway. His augmented strength was not suppressed, presumably to toy with her one last time. She nearly fell over, her steps scrambling to keep pace with her momentum as she fought to stay upright.
She glared back at Raka, who had manifested his Armament just as his two companions did. The Fireguard mercenary with their crossbows cocked and flamethrowers primed had assumed formations behind them, guarded by Manziholet, while non-essential personnel had retreated further back to make space.
They were expecting a powerful hybrid waiting at the end of the Ruin. The Quorathene usually reserved the good stuff for the end. The display of force also reminded the volunteer that she had two roads to take, both leading to the same outcome, although the one without possible murderous hybrids would be much more humiliating.
Silence fell as they watched her walk out of the gateway and toward the heart of the chamber. Meanwhile, a faint and nagging itch crept up Manziholet's thoughts. Two things, he realized, were out of place.
The first one had always been there before he left TerraSol, but he had hardly noticed it until his latest decision. Since when had he so easily given up getting something his heart set out to acquire? It was both a failure and an example of cowardice, like a certain weakness that reserved only for, as Chiorou had said, the mentally inferior.
He rewound the moments in his mind, reliving them not as himself the Seraphist but as the boy who had yet to face his After-Death. The boy overlaid his common tendencies with the recent events for a deep analysis. Neither Gersimi's faith nor her choice, the boy concluded with a shake of his head, troubled him as much as the speed by which his interest fizzled. It was an abnormality.
The girl had essentially spat in the face of centuries of established orthodoxy, which made her worthwhile because she had demonstrated she possessed what it took to pursue her path. He was supposed to be interested in people such as her. It dawned on the present Manziholet, quite quick but very uncomfortably, that this dulling of his awareness was merely part of a greater pattern. In other words, it was a symptom of the problem that the entire host had pushed on him not long ago, one that he had insisted otherwise like an idiot.
Aezixia's manipulation, it would seem, had struck him deeper than any weapons or Breaker Miracles could and left behind an ugly scar. She deserved an applause while he deserved a beating. He had ignored the words of a sane person partly because of the depression but mostly, he must admit, he did not respect his three companions that much. They had failed to get into the Studium, which made them ordinary and inconsequential in his eyes. There was a lesson here: never judge a book by its cover.
He felt a bit ashamed. It took him almost a decade to make sense of a lesson they had taught him when he was six. If he had known any better, he would have fought harder to keep Gersimi from going in. The forecast for her immediate future was doom with a high chance of disaster, given the second thing that he realized was out of place.
The constant breeze had been weakening.