Chapter 561: Chapter 548: A place of faith
[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: Heart Kingdom]
[Pulchritudo]
It was hidden away from the crowded streets of the city; the old church stood alone in a quiet and secluded area, almost as if it had been forgotten by the rest of the city. The building was large enough to have once been an important place of worship, with tall stone walls, narrow stained-glass windows, and a worn wooden entrance that carried the marks of countless years. Its faded architecture held a simple beauty, with old crosses carved into the stone and a weathered bell tower rising above the roof.
In front of the church was a small garden that had clearly lost much of its former care. The pathways were cracked and overgrown, with patches of grass spreading between the stones. The flower beds remained, but many of the plants were wilted or missing entirely, as if someone had torn away sections of the garden and left the rest to slowly decay. A few stubborn flowers still grew among it all, standing out in the neglected surroundings.
The church felt strangely out of place compared to the rest of the city. Surrounded by darker, more advanced buildings, it looked like something that had been left behind from another era.
"When that baron said ’old church,’ I did not think he meant ’decrepit,’" Robert mused to himself, staring up at the church. "But what is with those crosses?" he questioned.
Mikoto, meanwhile, watched with furrowed brows, confusion present. ("Hold on... a Christian Church? What the hell?") Normally a church like this wouldn’t have been out of place, old as it was. Christianity was one of the biggest faiths in the world.
But that was in his world, his universe, but this was a totally different universe where the Goddess Iofiel was the sole God.
It did not make sense that another world’s faith found itself here, but he knew he would get no answers by waiting outside. He wordlessly moved forward, forcing Robert to follow; they passed the open gate and walked through the old garden and towards the sole entrance.
The inside of the church carried the same feeling as the outside. It was old and somewhat worn, but not abandoned. The moment the heavy wooden doors opened, the sounds of the outside world seemed to disappear behind them.
The interior was spacious, with rows of old wooden pews stretching toward the front of the building. The floor was made of dark stone, cleaned in some areas from years of footsteps but cracked in others. Tall pillars lined the sides of the hall, while faded paintings of saints and biblical scenes decorated the walls. The colors had dulled over time, leaving behind shades of gold, blue, and red that struggled to hold onto their former beauty.
Above, a large stained-glass window allowed a small amount of light to come through; it was the only light. The image on the window depicted a figure with open arms, surrounded by light, though parts of the glass had become damaged and repaired over the years.
The church was not filled with nobles or wealthy citizens.
Instead, the pews were occupied by those who had nowhere else to go.
Demi-humans of various races sat quietly throughout the hall. Beastfolk with ears and tails hidden beneath worn clothing, horned individuals with tired expressions, and others whose appearances marked them as different from ordinary humans. Most wore simple garments, some little more than patched-together rags that had clearly been repaired many times over.
Yet despite their circumstances, they sat with their backs straight and their attention focused forward.
They listened.
At the front of the church stood a simple wooden podium. Behind it was the pastor, an older man with graying black hair, gentle features, and a tired but warm expression. His robes were plain, showing signs of age, but they were kept clean and carefully maintained. He rested one hand against the worn pages of a bible while looking over the congregation.
Beside him stood a young nun.
She was striking, blue eyes stared forward with black hair hidden. Her white and black robes were simple, yet they suited her perfectly. Her expression remained calm as she looked across the room, offering small nods and reassuring smiles to those who met her gaze.
She had clearly spent a long time among these people.
The pastor lowered his eyes toward the scripture before him.
"Today, I want to speak about something many of us have struggled with." His voice was not loud, but the church carried his words naturally. "Endurance."
The room remained silent, and the pastor gently touched the page.
"There is a passage that many of you are familiar with. Romans Chapter five, verses three through five." He looked up. "Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope."
The words settled over the room, and some listened with calm expressions. Others lowered their heads slightly.
Maybe because for many of them, suffering was not something they needed explained.
The pastor continued.
"I know that for some of you, hearing words like this can be difficult." His gaze moved across the congregation. "When someone has lost their home, when someone has gone hungry, when someone has been treated as less than a person because of what they are, hearing that hardship has a purpose can feel almost cruel."
A few people shifted slightly in their seats.
The pastor did not look away.
"But the message was never that suffering itself is good." His voice softened. "Pain is still pain. Loss is still loss. A wound does not hurt less simply because someone tells you that you will grow from it."
The nun beside him lowered her gaze, listening carefully.
"But what we are reminded of is that suffering does not have the final word." The pastor placed both hands on the podium. "There are moments in life where we stand before things we cannot change. There are moments where the road ahead looks impossible, where every step feels heavier than the last."
He paused ever so briefly.
"And in those moments, the easiest thing to do is give up." The church remained still.
A young demi-human child sitting near the front looked up at him.
The pastor noticed but continued.
"I have met many people who believed they were weak because they struggled. They thought strength meant never falling." A small smile appeared on his face. "But that is not strength." He shook his head. "Strength is getting back up when you know you can fall again."
The words seemed to reach the room differently as the pastor continued.
"Think about a tree." Several people looked toward him. "A tree does not become strong because it has never faced a storm. A tree becomes strong because it survives them." He glanced toward the damaged stained glass above. "The wind bends it. The rain beats against it. Sometimes branches break. Sometimes the tree is scarred."
His eyes returned to the congregation.
"But if the roots remain, it can continue to grow." A silence followed.
The nun beside him stepped forward slightly, her voice gentle.
"And sometimes," she added, "we forget that roots do not grow alone."
Everyone looked toward her; she offered a small smile.
"We all need someone beside us. Someone to remind us that even when we cannot see a way forward, we are not walking alone."
The pastor nodded.
"Exactly." He looked over the congregation. "Faith is not believing that hardship will never come." He closed the bible slightly. "Faith is believing that when hardship comes, we will not face it without hope."
A few people exchanged glances; the church had no grand decorations. No wealth or any powerful figures. Only worn seats, old walls, and people carrying burdens.
But it seemed that to those inside, the words mattered.
The pastor looked down briefly.
"I know many of you have been hurt." His expression became more serious. "I know some of you have been abandoned by people who should have protected you. I know some of you have been told that because of your race, your appearance, or where you came from, you are somehow worth less."
His voice remained calm, but there was conviction behind it.
"But I want you to remember something." He raised his head. "No person is defined by the cruelty they have endured. You are not only the things that have happened to you."
The nun looked toward the congregation.
"You are still people with kindness. With dreams. With the ability to choose what you become."
The pastor nodded.
"Hard times can shape us, but they do not have to decide who we are."
For a moment, no one spoke; then slowly, quietly, a few people nodded. It was not because all their problems had disappeared. They hadn’t, tomorrow would still be difficult. The city outside would still be cold; many of them would still struggle.
But it seemed for this brief moment, inside an old church that no longer belonged in this vast city, they were reminded of something they had nearly forgotten.
The pastor closed the bible carefully.
"Let us pray."
The congregation lowered their heads.
The demi-humans, the pastor, the nun, and everyone else in that old church shared the same quiet moment.
"Huh, the old man can surely talk," Robert whispered, staring at the scene. "But not even a mention of Iofiel. Just what kind of church is this?"
"The kind that believes in the highest power," Mikoto muttered back, his red eyes narrowing at the praying faces.
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