Chapter 1241 The Pastor’s Legacy
This place is already filled with thick, streaked dust, like a computer case fan that hasn't been cleaned in years.
Zhu Tang made a hand gesture and summoned a visible green breeze that picked up and blew it away.
As the wind blew in, a golden-red light gradually lit up in the tunnel.
It wasn't fire, but a red gemstone with a gray edge, like red-hot charcoal. Or, in other words, it was a kind of self-igniting charcoal that was extremely durable.
Old Iben nodded slightly to Zhu Tang and walked in.
"And then?"
But Haina was itching to know what would happen next.
Becoming a ritualist or curse-caster... What happened after that? Did he find the murderer? Did he exact his revenge?
"If you knew the effects of the Heartbreak Curse, you could easily guess... who cast the curse that prevented Ibn's father from seeking a cure."
Aiwas patted Haena’s shoulder and said softly, “That’s the Good Lord himself.
"Obviously, the Benefactor didn't execute him outright, which means he didn't have any evidence—this was most likely an anonymous accusation. The Benefactor suspected him, but didn't want to kill him outright, so he tortured him with a curse to observe his reaction.
"If Ibn's father truly had a 'clear conscience,' then his reaction would certainly be the same as Ibn's own, believing that his assassins were rebels. Then, we'll see how many rebels he kills and how he truly feels about the matter."
"...And if you're still merciful despite being cursed, that probably means there's something wrong, right?"
After all, she was from Avalon, so Haina immediately guessed the good master's method.
But she also immediately realized this problem: "But, if he endures the curse and dies, doesn't that mean—"
This is undoubtedly equivalent to acknowledging the questioning of the Good Lord and attempting to transform this temptation into "punishment."
——I am already dead, so let this matter end here.
"Yes……"
Old Ibn said slowly, "Father was indeed a brave warrior, but he also didn't understand politics. Or perhaps, he took his own life too seriously."
"That's just confessing without being asked. How could the emperor not pursue the intelligence on the rebels just because you chose to commit suicide?"
Zhu Tang sighed, "Warriors are like this... they think too simply. Those slaves... those well-trained slaves, they must be spies."
"That's right."
Ibn nodded. "When I learned about the effects of the Heartbreak Curse, I immediately guessed the truth."
He understood this truth when he was only a teenager, but his father didn't understand it even after he rose to the position of leader of the guards... This shows that studying is indeed useful.
"My mother must have guessed the truth. So one day, without even leaving a suicide note, she snuck away with a few things. She never returned.
"Perhaps because our mother abandoned us, the Benevolent Master believed that my sister and I had nothing to do with the incident. So he recalled the slaves. By then, I was already living in the academy and rarely returned home... Perhaps because I displayed an outstanding talent for rituals, the Benevolent Master treated me very well. He often sent people to commend me in public and gave me some expensive ritual materials..."
Old Iben chuckled self-deprecatingly. "This is clearly a way to separate me from my friends. But I have to admit, it's quite effective."
"At the time, I couldn't tell whether any of the friends who came to me were spies of the Good Master, or whether they approached me out of desire for His reward. Those classmates who sympathized with the slaves almost all separated from me... All the ritual groups at the time respected and feared me... but also stayed away from me and despised me.
"later……"
Old Ibn was in a trance for a moment. "I joined the Sandthroat Sect, too. It was really not easy."
"Sandthroat..."
Zhu Tang murmured, "I've heard this name before... from my friend who is resting in peace."
"After all, Sandthroat has a much better reputation than the Red Hand."
Old Ibn nodded. "The Cult of the Sandthroat believes that if we want to overthrow the rule of the Good Lord, we must cultivate the ability to do without water. The cult mixes finely ground cactus thorns with honey to make a special drink. If you drink this drink, scales like those of a snake man will grow inside your throat, effectively resisting thirst. The price is that your voice will become hoarse..."
"They would give this drink to their slaves to reduce their thirst for water. The sect believed that only those who truly did not crave water could be determined to assassinate the Good Lord."
"…Is it just that I'm not thirsty?"
The learned Plotinus felt something was wrong: "But it sounds... like it can't alleviate the problem of water shortage. People will die if they lack water, but it can only solve the problem of thirst."
"That's right."
Old Ibn nodded and admitted, "The sect can't make people stop needing water, nor can they give people water. They can only teach people how to stop thirst... Once you accept the Sand Throat Drink, you will never feel thirsty due to lack of water again. You may even die of thirst without realizing you are dehydrated."
"These rebels who are resting in peace all have some problems... and this is the limit of what they can do."
"I think this drink..."
Aiwass said softly, "It's probably irreversible."
"……right."
Old Ibn was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Once you take Sand Throat Drink, you'll lose the ability to judge your level of dehydration. Therefore, you'll easily die. It also contains ingredients like scorpion venom that can excite and mask pain. Its purpose is to allow a person to endure pain for a short period of time... thus gaining the will to kill others."
"The Sand Throat Cult is essentially a sect that incites slaves to assassinate freedmen and even the Good Lord. They also research other things, mostly to enhance slaves' combat effectiveness or improve their living experience. And without exception... all of them are actually poisons that overdraw the human body.
"For example, there's a spell that can transform a person's lungs into a sponge-like organ—thus extracting moisture from the air while preventing it from being lost through breathing. This is the technology the Sand Throat Cult is most proud of, and it's also why the Good Lord wants to wipe them out..."
As he spoke, Old Ibn walked to the end of the secret passage.
Contrary to expectations, there is no treasure room here.
There was only a table, two chairs, a clothes rack, and a wooden box. Light seeped faintly through the cracks in the wooden planks overhead, clearly indicating that this place wasn't far from the surface.
Rather than hiding things, the main purpose here may be to escape.
Old Iben picked up a notebook from the table and flipped through it.
"This isn't my family heirloom, because my ancestors weren't ritualists. My family has been hunters for generations, and it was only my generation that started reading."
Old Ibn said slowly, "This is the last remnant of the Sandthroat Cult. Fortunately... even though we were reported, my friends still believed me. They kept this treasure with me."
"What's this?"
Aiwass asked.
And old Iben drew a card from it.
Seeing this, Aiwass was suddenly stunned.
Because it was an ancient hand-painted card that looked like a tarot deck.
Aiwass was very familiar with the image on the card - it was the "Sun" in the Tarot card.
But the faces on the card were completely blank. The faces of the sun, the child, and the white horse looked as if they had been scraped off with a knife.
"This is a relic left behind by someone who was once executed by torture in history."
Old Ibn handed the card to Plotinus and said slowly, "The relics of the 'Shepherd'."
Update completed!
(End of this chapter)
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