Chapter 335: Chapter 284: Heretic
The Indigenous people captured and brought into the mine are still alive.
Even though they eat very little, with food almost comparable to pig slop, live in dilapidated dormitories even worse than dog kennels, and have become extremely weak due to the constant physical labor and scarce meals, even though they are covered in injuries inflicted by other laborers at the mine, at least they are still alive.
But they would rather die.
If they could just die quickly by the sword, they could at least end it swiftly, avoid these torments, and die like a Warrior—but now, they can’t even choose to die. Their swords and sabers were taken long ago, and being unarmed, they find it challenging even to commit suicide.
Even if someone among them can’t endure this life anymore and plans to choke each other or simply smash themselves to death with a stone, it’s impossible.
Simply because there is another group watching them.
"You want to die? No way!"
Seeing two Indigenous people ready to strangle each other with shackles, a few skinny slaves with little work rushed over and dispersed the pair with punches.
"How can you die? Do you know how much trouble a death causes us? With anyone dead among you, the overseer will reduce our food!"
"Ah, ah ah ah..."
Unable to seek survival, and even unable to seek death, these Indigenous people have sunk into utter despair.
And those slaves who struck them keep talking.
"Going down the mine? What’s the big deal? Being captured means working—get used to it... Look at me, I’ve burned coal in Jizhou, moved bricks in Yanzhou, carried logs in Yizhou, and chiselled rocks in Songzhou. Finally got caught again here in Dengzhou. Did I complain?"
The leading slave is ranting, and the rest look at him with respect—clearly, in the slaves’ eyes, this traveler who wandered all over must be a formidable figure, constantly perpetrating crimes, repeatedly captured, yet still lively and kicking—indeed a leader among leaders.
But this means little to the Indigenous people, even among the slaves, they are at the bottom, unable to find joy amidst anguish—especially when those slaves attack them for amusement, and the patrolling overseer turns a blind eye, leaving only more profound despair for those Indigenous.
So, the question arises.
Who caused all these events?
"It was you!"
At night, a group of Indigenous cornered their elder against the wall.
"If it weren’t for you telling us to come east to find the Saint and the Promised Land, none of this would have happened! We wouldn’t have ended up like this!"
"How is this my fault? Did I say anything wrong?"
Even cornered, the Indigenous elder stiffens his neck and argues.
"Yes, we didn’t find the Saint the scripture mentioned, but who told you the Saint would be a stranger? The Saint can be anyone, naturally emerging among us. Your failure to gain training from this journey—how is that my responsibility?"
Spitting on the ground, the Indigenous elder raises his head again.
"Moreover, we found the Promised Land. Didn’t we?"
"How can you even mention it?"
Mentioning the Promised Land infuriates the crowd of Indigenous even more.
Or precisely, that’s the reason for their anger; they did find the Promised Land, which was supposed to be joyful—receiving God’s blessing in the Promised Land should add more pleasure. Combining these joyful events should elevate them like ascending to heaven—even if they truly ascend to heaven, dying in battle for the Promised Land and sacrificing life for the glory of God would be most honorable.
Yet they failed to ascend to heaven, nor died in battle, descending instead into such depths.
Only because their leader, their elder, the wisest among them, also the most devoted to worship,
chose to serve the devil desecrating God.
"How dare you, how dare you..."
Thinking back, the group of Indigenous trembles instinctively; their excessive anger raises blood pressure, still unable to accept this reality.
But eventually, they witnessed those scenes, saw their elderly leaders begging on knees, licking the devil’s toes to plead for mercy—with those Divine Soldiers, carrying Divine Power, offered by the cursed traitor with both hands.
This damned traitor, does he even realize the vile deeds he committed?
"How could I not know?"
Facing the crowd’s accusations, the Indigenous elder is calm.
"What’s wrong with worshipping the devil? Didn’t our previous king harness devil’s power? Moreover, this devil’s power is so strong, even enough to slay God’s Angel—before such a being at least equivalent to Angel, why shouldn’t I show respect?"
"You..."
The few Indigenous just about to throw punches pause, unsure how to refute.
Perhaps, there’s some truth here?
"Me? What’s wrong with me? We’re all God’s creations; Angels and devils are the same. If I should kneel before sacred Angels, why not before devils, also created by God?"
Saying so, the Indigenous elder stands, turning back, glaring at this group.
"Come on, tell me why I can’t do that? What did I do wrong?"
"You, you, you..."
Confronted by the aggressive Indigenous elder, the group awkwardly stutters.
"You worshipped the devil—the devil is God’s enemy, how could you..."
"How could? Do you think I’m a traitor?"
The Indigenous elder chuckles.
"Fine, let the God you speak of come and punish me, come on, I’m standing here—let God punish me! Let God punish that devil!"
"..."
Under the elder’s stern reprimand, the group of Indigenous mutters in silence.
Fortunately, the elder doesn’t continue shouting, knowing loud calls easily invite the overseer’s whip—but as the elder lowers his voice, it resembles more like devil whispers in their ears.
"You come to blame me mostly because you can’t face yourselves, right?"
The elder smiles, teeth glinting in cold moonlight.
"You must find a vent, someone to shoulder all this, or you’ll realize everything I said is right... God didn’t punish the devil, did he? God hasn’t punished me. Even for all the blasphemy I’ve done, God doesn’t punish me, aren’t you curious why? Why doesn’t God punish me? Is it because he doesn’t want to?"
The elder’s voice lowers further.
"Or perhaps God is only a creation of forged scriptures?"
"Stop! Stop saying it!"
Several front Indigenous immediately lash out with fists.
But their tightly clenched fists feel so powerless at this moment.
Perhaps among them, someone is truly shaken.
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