By this point, the Church Knights standing around had already become sparse.
The expense of pure iron armor was truly difficult to bear even for the Church. At most, there were only about three hundred Church Knights within the Holy Lord Cathedral.
Half of these three hundred were drawn out to line the main pathway at the beginning for show, while the rest were dispersed among various routes—at most one per intersection.
This meant Norton would have to traverse this lengthy path alone before meeting others at the next intersection and finally entering the Sanctuary.
Looking at the emaciated poor lining both sides of the road—so thin it was hard to distinguish men from women—and feeling their desperately longing gazes, Norton felt tremendous pressure.
How could one describe the miserable state of these medieval commoners?
Starving? Ragged clothing?
These words would actually be generous descriptions of their condition.
Their bodies, thin as twigs, resembled skeletons wrapped in skin. Their cheeks were so gaunt they seemed almost fleshless, their extreme thinness making their large eyeballs protrude, giving them the eerie appearance of big-headed ghosts.
Why couldn't "ragged clothing" describe them? Because they wore almost nothing. The better-off might have underpants to cover their privates, while the worse-off had no clothes at all. Women wrapped themselves in tree bark or leaves, exposing their shriveled breasts, and men went about with half their buttocks exposed.Father Mia had given teachings about the common people's living conditions.
To thoroughly eradicate vampires, the Church decided to starve all the poor thin, making them anemic and blood-deficient so vampires couldn't obtain enough food and would starve to death, thus achieving the goal of exterminating vampires.
A truly idiotic line of thinking, truly worthy of the product of over twenty years of isolation per capita.
As someone who had lived in modern society with parents and a good education, Norton felt the same pity any normal person would feel looking at them.
But pity was useless. In this environment, he, Norton, had absolutely no power to perform any so-called salvation or redemption—he could barely take care of himself.
Unless someone overthrew this feudal Papal States...
Ah!
Norton's heart suddenly stirred as an idea emerged in his mind.
Hiss! Could he, Norton, have a chance to become this country's savior, the leader of red power, the greatly admired supreme commander, the leader in people's hearts?
Clearly, there was no chance at all. Norton didn't believe his limited knowledge could lead a benighted era into modernity. Such thinking was as laughable as going back to ancient times and imagining emancipating slaves—naive and ill-timed.
Besides, he, Norton, was trash—trash raised in captivity by the Church for twenty years. What fucking brains did he have!
Norton sank into his contemplation, a mental illness brought on by over twenty years of closed-off management that made him easily absorbed in his own world of thought.
Yet his movements didn't stop; he continued like a machine, passively walking on the petal-strewn path, constantly scattering black bread crumbs around him.
This could be considered his special skill—usually even reciting the Bible could immerse him in his fantasy world.
"God, grant us some food!"
"We beg for God's divine light!"
As he moved, the poor on both sides of the street cried out to God while scrambling for bread, following Norton's footsteps like madmen full of frenzy.
Until the bread crumbs in his basket were completely distributed.
"Hmm?" Only when he reached into the basket again and found nothing did Norton finally emerge from his fantasy of building a new world.
He blankly turned his gaze to the basket, seeing the empty container and the street that had reached its end.
"Already finished distributing?"
Norton withdrew his gaze from the basket, inwardly scolding himself.
He felt his current problem was really quite serious—always getting lost in his fantasies at any moment, showing signs of schizophrenia.
Norton continually reproached himself for his abnormality, unaware that he seemed about to sink into his thoughts again.
Until a voice pulled his mind back to reality.
"Mi-missionary, sir, please, please give me some bread! My son is starving to death!"
Norton suddenly returned to his senses, his lowered hood rising slightly so his eyes could see the scene before him.
Norton's body trembled slightly. He remained silent, paused briefly, then tremblingly resumed his steps.
During the Mass, pauses were forbidden, as was communication with the surrounding commoners, because this was a time to bathe in God's holy light—not to be contaminated by the filth of the lower classes.
If he paused in his steps, what awaited him would be the Church Knights' executioner blades.
If commoners trampled the flower path, they would face God's judgment.
Norton's heart bled with regret—why had he lost himself in thought? Why hadn't he paid attention to the amount of black bread crumbs? Why couldn't he have saved just a little!
Even if he'd saved just a little, when the woman knelt begging, he could have reached out and thrown her a handful.
As Norton slowly took steps forward, the last glimmer of hope in the kneeling woman's eyes gradually faded.
The child in her arms seemed to convulse from hunger, which undoubtedly struck the last remaining bit of her reason and sensitivity.
She could no longer care about the Mass rules. On her knees, she crawled onto the flower path, reaching out to grab Norton's robe.
The mud on the woman's legs stained the petals of the flower path, also defiling God's holiness.
"Missionary, sir, missionary! I beg you..."
"Swish!"
A blade light swept down across the woman's neck.
"Gurgle..." Her head, spurting blood, rolled onto the petals in the center of the street, splashing scarlet onto the colorful blossoms.
Norton's raised foot paused slightly, then tremblingly came down, avoiding the head rolling before him as he silently moved forward.
A Church Knight stood quietly behind the woman's headless body, holding a greatsword, his gaze sharp as a blade scraping over Norton's retreating back without a single word.
Only the woman's head remained on the flower path she had never been allowed to tread in her lifetime, her eyelids trembling slightly as the light completely faded from her eyes.
"Swish!"
Another blade light fell. A small head rolled to rest beside the woman's head, its half-open pupils reflecting Norton's cowardly retreating figure.
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