Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 367 - 366: What I Saw on the Plains of the Holy Spirits

Rocky Ridges Fortress, Priest Wright had a deep memory of this fortress—not because of its unique geographical position and historical stories, but because his childhood was spent in a town not far to the north of this fortress.

At that time, he was just an orphan without parents, a little servant adopted by the Abbot, and the years spent in the small monastery to the north of the fortress were the most peaceful and pleasant days of his life. Although he had not yet awakened his Holy Light Talent or become a ”Transcendent” feared by ordinary people, the old Abbot of the monastery was still alive then.

The Rocky Ridges Fortress itself was a massive city, but it could not be self-sufficient. Many of its supplies depended on the surrounding towns and villages. The monastery where Wright lived at that time was responsible for providing the knights in the fortress with Holy Water, Holy Oil, and talismans. At the end of each month, Wright would accompany the old Abbot, taking a creaking old carriage from the town all the way to the fortress, delivering new sacred objects to the fortress officials.

This huge military facility was full of ferocious knights and belligerent soldiers, but they were all quite courteous to people from the monastery. On delivery days, Wright would wander around under the soldiers’ watchful eyes, between the walls of the lower sections of the fortress. The dark walls embedded with shining copper strips and the catapults mounted on those walls fascinated Wright the most in those days.

But those days did not last many years before the old Abbot was transferred to the central region of the Plains of the Holy Spirits, and Wright followed him. Then, after a few more years, the old Abbot passed away, a new Abbot took over the monastery, and Wright became a priest and was incorporated into the priest Clergy of the central parish... In the blink of an eye, many years passed.

He saw the Rocky Ridges Fortress again two years ago when, as a Missionary Priest, he was kicked out of the church by the bishop of the central parish and traveled south along the banks of the Duoergong river. The little servant who once left here had become a missionary, returning in Holy Light cleric’s robes.

That time, Wright did not stay long at the Rocky Ridges Fortress—although there were many places in the city worth reminiscing about, the familiar faces in the fortress were almost all gone. Even the once strong and intimidating fortress official had left his position due to an old injury issue a few years ago. So he just stopped briefly, replenished his dry food and water, and then left, setting foot on the desolate and wild land of the southern borders.

He did not expect that after only two years of missionary work, he would return to this place once again.

At the checkpoint, essential for the city’s entry, he saw two long queues of civilians, one heading into the city, lining up for inspection, while the other was coming out. The main members of these queues were merchants driving large carts, some were mercenaries and adventurers wearing armor and carrying swords, while only a small number of ordinary citizens were mixed in. Most of them were civilians living in nearby towns—during this era, it was not easy for civilians to obtain the travel documents signed by aristocrats, and apart from the huge and incessant immigration groups of Cecil, few ordinary people would undertake ”long-distance travel.”

Wright patiently lined up, waiting a long time until his turn finally came. At the table for registering names and checking travel documents, he paused and took his document out from his pouch while saying to the lazy soldier behind the table, ”May the Holy Light protect you.”

A massive shadow seemed to cover them as the dozing soldier jerked awake and opened his eyes wide upon hearing the deep voice say, ”May the Holy Light protect you.” Looking up, he saw a man standing in front of him, even sturdier than his commander, wearing a set of old priest robes and holding forth two documents—one marked with the insignia of the Holy Light, proving his priesthood, and the other appearing to be a travel document issued by the nobility.

The lazy soldier suddenly became alert, quickly taking the documents while greeting quite politely, ”Holy Light protect you—Priest sir. You actually didn’t have to queue at all.”

Although the priest’s attire looked slightly worn, a priest is a priest, a Transcendent, a person of high standing, and notably, this was a priest from the presently powerful Holy Light church, so he certainly dared not treat him with negligence.

”Everyone’s queueing,” Wright replied with a gentle smile and casually added, ”There are lots of people—more than I remember from ordinary days here.”

”Well, that was last year, this year is different,” the soldier shook his head and said, ”A huge number of merchants are trading potion supplies between the Plains of the Holy Spirits and the southern borders, and many destitute farmers, having heard some nonsense from somewhere, are trying their luck in the south—numerous merchants hold travel documents signed by the Grand Duke, specifically responsible for transporting these people southward. Do you see those wagons with three bundles of straw hanging on them? Those are they, heading to the White River pier...”

Wright blinked, feeling a hint of sentiment: Even here, the leader’s actions were having such a significant impact?

While they talked, the soldier finished checking Wright’s priest credentials and noticed the insignia on the travel document. He abruptly stopped mid-sentence, his expression turning somewhat peculiar: ”Another one with Duke Cecil’s documents...”

Wright curiously inquired, ”What’s the matter, any problem?”

”...Oh, no problem at all, it’s the Duke’s seal, so it couldn’t possibly be wrong,” the soldier hurriedly said and then, a bit awkwardly, explained, ”It’s just that recently, about half of the travel documents we see carry Cecil’s emblem...”

”Developing new regions always requires manpower and resources,” Wright said unhurriedly, ”It’s just that in these many years, no new developing lands have emerged, which people might have forgotten about.”

”Nothing to do with us anyway,” the soldier mumbled, returning the verified documents to Wright and said, ”You may enter the city, Priest sir.”

Wright accepted the documents, carefully put them away, turned around, and headed towards the familiar, imposing door layered in black steel and copper strips in his memory.

Through the deep city gate, past the fortress’s solid first and second layers of walls, lay the Inner City District of Rocky Ridges Fortress.

As a massive fortress, Rocky Ridges was not just a military structure; it stood as the most crucial barrier between the southern borders and the Plains of the Holy Spirits, serving as a rest and distribution point for traveling merchants. To accomplish these functions and to sustain the nearly ten thousand soldiers, knights, and mages within, its interior actually formed a well-equipped, bustling, lively city.

This city still hadn’t changed much.

Wright strolled through the streets of Rocky Ridges Fortress, slowly watching as the somewhat blurred scenes in his memory became clearer in front of these familiar street views. He noticed his favorite bakery from his childhood—in those days delivering ”goods” once a month, he would have eight copper coins as pocket money, just enough to buy a small cake or sweet pastry at the store. He also saw the greasy ”slaughter square,” observed the tall wooden racks erected at the square’s edge, recalling how those frames were used for flogging thieves and deserters—but as there hadn’t been warfare on the southern borders for long, joining the garrison was essentially a comfortable job, so its primary purpose was for punishing thieves.

Basically, every month there would be a thief tied up with both hands hanging on a wooden frame, whipped until their skin tore open, and the greatest pastime for the residents and many soldiers in the rocky ridges Fortress City was to come to the ”Slaughter Square” to witness these whipping scenes. Wright still remembers, on the second rest day of Fire Moon every year, there would also be a celebration in the rocky ridges Fortress City marking the establishment of the city. The main event was tying up the first thief caught during Fire Moon and whipping them for an hour.

If no thief was caught that month, a slave chosen by lottery would replace them.

The slave owners were more than willing to send their slaves here for a whipping, seeing it as something respectable, and more importantly, the fortress commander would compensate them monetarily—so much so that if a slave were accidentally beaten to death, the compensation would be enough for the slave owner to buy two new healthy slaves. Therefore, those in the city who owned slaves even regarded the Fire Moon celebration as a lottery event and would bribe the soldiers responsible for the whipping...

These memories surfaced in Wright’s mind, and he couldn’t help but frown.

He had once thought this barbaric, thought it cruel, but never like today had he felt it was filled with sin.

After seeing so many serfs, slaves, and slave laborers working diligently in Cecil, gaining freedom in exchange for their labor, having their own houses and property, even attending school to learn to read and becoming like everyone else as ”Cecil Citizens,” witnessing firsthand those deemed ”stupid and inferior” living dignified lives like ordinary people, he found it increasingly difficult to accept these so-called ”civilized society’s elegant entertainment” in the central regions.

And then there was this stagnate city...a city that hasn’t changed for decades, even a hundred years.

Not even a newly built house was in sight.

Wright shook his head, turned away from Slaughter Square, and no longer had any interest in lingering or resting in this city.

He merely replenished some dry food, clean water, and long-lasting beer, and quickly left the rocky ridges Fortress. After passing through the north gate of the fortress, he officially set foot on the Plains of the Holy Spirits.

He walked in the wilderness outside the city for a long time, journeyed the entire day, until finally seeing a small village before the sun set.

Glancing at the sky, Wright decided to rest in the village—his travel funds were limited, but villagers typically wouldn’t refuse a priest’s lodging. He could also chop wood in exchange for a meal, which was much more economical than spending the night in the city.

He entered the village, walking along the bumpy muddy road, flanked by low, dilapidated huts and wooden houses. He inquired about the village manager’s location and headed in that direction.

But a sudden commotion from behind stopped Wright in his tracks.

He turned around to see pedestrians on the muddy road scattering, while two armored soldiers were dragging a man by his arm and hair, pulling him from a nearby house. A woman in a tattered skirt ran out of the house, crying and kneeling at the feet of the two soldiers—behind them, a Holy Light cleric wearing priest robes, with a soft white hat trimmed with gold, emerged.

Evidently, the Holy Light cleric, as the Transcendent, was the one in control.

Wright immediately stepped forward.

”What happened?” He asked the Holy Light cleric in front of him, frowning, ”What crime did this man commit?”

The woman kneeling on the ground, seeing another priest appear, cried out even louder: ”Sir! We really did not believe in the Evil God! It was just an old ledger—”

Her cries abruptly ceased, as a Divine Arts of silence fell upon her, causing her to widen her mouth, eyes glaring, frantically clutching her throat. The Holy Light cleric, having cast the spell, withdrew his hand, looking curiously at Wright before realizing he was a fellow from the church. Only then did he speak: ”Brother, this is none of your concern—I suspect this family is involved with sorcery rituals.”

The man being dragged by the two soldiers mumbled quietly: ”Truly no...truly no...”

Wright frowned at the scene, patiently addressing the priest in front of him: ”What evidence do you have?”

”We found a book in his house,” the priest said, raising an old booklet in his hand, ”this is evidence of engaging with blasphemous knowledge!”

The man on the ground wept: ”It’s just an old ledger...I was just trying to teach my wife to recognize a few words...”

Before he could finish, a soldier beside him kicked him with an iron boot, making him swallow the rest of the words along with blood. The soldier stepped on his head, speaking harshly: ”Don’t incite people’s hearts! What need does a commoner have for literacy? How could a commoner household possibly have books?”

”For a commoner household to possess books is a dangerous signal; those books are likely placed there by a devil. Even if the writing seems normal, blasphemous knowledge hides between the lines. Illiterate commoners don’t see words but hear the devil’s speech,” said the priest, drawing a symbol of the Lord of Holy Light over his chest with a solemn expression, ”This is the warning given by Bishop Megal.”