Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 843 - 456: The Rapid Collapse of the Holy Eastern Empire (Part 3)

Bishop Salomon just looked at him, slowly revealing a gentle yet distant smile, as if observing prey that finally realized it had no way out.

The Holy Certificate completely collapsed on the same day.

Without the backing of gold, those counterfeit coins adorned with thorn patterns became worthless.

In the morning, they could still buy an apple, by noon just a grape, and by evening, too stiff even to wipe one’s behind.

Civilians piled up mountains of money in the streets, setting fire to these holy tokens for warmth.

The firelight reflected on gaunt and numb faces.

Beyond the disappearance of money, the greater horror was the absence of food—under the manipulation of the deceased old Duke, sunken ships in the canal severed the western grain route.

The grain stores, opened for public display, contained nothing but sand mixed with moldy husks, most of the grain had been taken by the Church Court.

Bark was chewed bare, rats swallowed alive, hunger teaching people again to see kin as food.

Amidst this despair, Archbishop Salomon issued the "Great Purification Decree".

He did not speak of when food would arrive, only offered an explanation enough to grasp for the desperate: the food had not vanished, it had been stolen.

"Why don’t we have bread? Because witches stole it with black magic."

"Why does plague run rampant? Because heretics hide among us, blaspheming God."

This logic was simple and required no evidence.

The hungry did not need truth, only an enemy upon whom to unleash their fury.

A black iron box, called the Truth Box, soon appeared in front of the church.

Rules written on a wooden sign were straightforward and cruel: reporting a hidden heretic verified by the Judicial Court would earn five pounds of flour.

Hunger shattered the last fragments of humanity overnight.

For a child’s bowl of porridge, a wife accused her husband of hoarding gold coins for devil worship.

Neighbors reported mid-night lit candles across the street as witchcraft.

Some even pointed to their elderly mother, crying that her sleep-talking was possession by evil spirits.

Every day, the inquisitor in red robes bore thick stacks of denunciations, kicking in doors as if ordering food.

Arrests no longer aimed at trials, but served as outlets for the hungry mob’s savagery.

The number of stakes for burning grew.

The first to burn were not the poor, but those who still dared think.

Scholars, scribes, former officials, who, for their literacy, questioning golden broth’s content, or attempting to document events, were labeled faith-shaking tumors.

Next came the old wealthy merchants, their properties confiscated and themselves dragged to the flames.

Centers of public square stakes increased from ten to fifty, never ceasing, night or day.

The black, foul smoke of burning corpses mingling with the sweet, thick aroma of golden broth from charity kiosks, blanketed the whole city.

The golden broth from charity kiosks was holy water bestowed by the Church Court.

Salomon, standing atop a high platform, overlooked the emaciated figures in the square, voice merciful: "Hunger is a lie of the flesh, proof of spiritual poverty, come, partake of the golden gift."

Huge copper cauldrons fumed, golden broth boiling.

The starving rushed to drink.

Soon, they no longer felt hunger, their faces flushing with a sickly blush.

They danced and cheered around the stakes, as if celebrating a festival.

Flames lit up their emaciated yet smiling faces, illuminating the city’s graveyard.

Inside the Duke’s mansion, Seldon locked himself in the study.

Outside, the cries for witch hunts, inside, dead silence.

Seated at the table, he tightly clutched the key to the underground treasury.

He could not comprehend, millions in gold coins cannot disappear into thin air.

"An insider? Impossible, emptying the treasury would need hundreds of carriages, too noisy."

His father’s image flashed in his mind, instantly dismissed.

"The old man was too sick to leave bed, too breathless to speak, how could he pull this off under my nose?"

"Was it the Church Court? Surely Salomon, dealing with me on one hand, secretly tunneled to transport the money, then pinned the blame on me."

The conclusion formed; this was a case of the Church’s black-on-black crime.

In desperation, an absurd thought struck him: as long as he held the Duke’s mansion, waited for the Northern Territory to march south... Louis wouldn’t miss this chance.

He was still an indispensable chip.

Yet Salomon merely cut the Duke’s mansion’s water and supply.

The Holy Hall Knights shouted from street corners: "Seldon eats roast meat inside while you eat dirt outside."

On the tenth night, Seldon was still in his bedroom polishing his sword, preparing to deliver another speech.

The door was smashed open, not by a mob, but by the family knight order.

With sunken eyes, green irises, hunger drool at the corners of their mouths.

The leading Knight Captain dropped the sword, holding only a bone-cleaver.

"My lord," his voice hoarse, "we had no choice, it has been half a month without food."

Before Seldon could argue, he was pinned down, silk nightgown torn, fake ring severed with the finger.

He was dragged through the long corridor, tossed into the jubilant crowd outside the Duke’s mansion.

In the square, the mob chanting like a tsunami after drinking golden broth.

"Heretic!"

"He’s the one who stole our grain!"

Seldon was hoisted upside down on the tallest stake.

As the flames devoured him, understanding dawned on what he had lost, and what he never truly possessed.