CH-036

The night of July third. The Carson ecclesiastical district.

Archbishop Leopold Hogweth and the clergy under him had originally assumed the duke's wedding would be an occasion to display the Carson ecclesiastical district's influence. The arrival of a divine image, however, had completely disrupted their plans.

"We have two days left before the duke's wedding — is there any way to keep the statue here with us?" Archbishop Leopold interlaced his fingers, his expression grave.

Whether from a theological perspective or an artistic one, the sculpture sent from Stonehollow pastoral district was enough to become a treasure of the entire city.

The Carson ecclesiastical district had always ranked at the bottom of all the Northern Lands ecclesiastical districts. However it was managed, whether in donations or in number of faithful, it consistently remained in last place — the perennial butt of jokes among other districts over their afternoon tea. Yet when Archbishop Leopold first set eyes on this divine image, he felt almost as though he heard something like the sound of light descending. He knew this was evidence that the Lord had not abandoned them. But this grace was offered to the duke as a wedding gift — which meant this hope was like a fleeting meteor, only briefly illuminating Carson City before vanishing, unable to fall into their embrace.

Below the Archbishop was the Deputy Archbishop, followed by the Ecclesiastical Prefect.

Ecclesiastical Prefect Damian was Leopold's confidant. He naturally understood the Archbishop's heartache and said in a low voice: "Duke Claude has absolutely no ability to appreciate the beauty of this divine image — he will only treat our precious statue as his whetstone, toss it carelessly into a storeroom, and leave a precious treasure to go to waste."

With the leader already having set the tone, those beneath him followed one by one: "This is absolutely a great offense against the sacred."

Even though they also knew that the statue would likely be kept in Lady Adalee's private prayer chamber, that did nothing to diminish the desire of the entire upper echelon to reclaim it.

"So why did Father Symeon have to be so forthright?" Ecclesiastical Prefect Damian said with frustrated exasperation. "If he couldn't produce a 500-silver-coin gift, there was no need to give one — just muddle through with something random. The annual tithe of 100 silver coins has always been paid in potatoes anyway."

After those words fell, no one responded.

First, the Ecclesiastical Prefect ranked above the Archbishop and Assistant Archbishop — no one dared challenge his authority. Second, this was an idea they themselves had agreed to. The original suggestion had been put forward by Deputy Archbishop Hugo, and they had truly thought about putting pressure on the district priests, especially certain newly appointed priests with no savings — for whom it was nothing short of salt rubbed into wounds.

Yet their actual intention had never been that the priests could actually provide such gifts. Most of them couldn't even meet the annual tithe of one hundred silver coins, dealing with it year after year through unsaleable church goods or expired seeds, only managing to gather the full amount under periodic pressure.

In a situation like this, who would genuinely expect a priest from a pastoral district to present a gift? The real reason the price was set like this was to perform for the new Duchess — Lady Adalee. They wanted to use the pretext of gift-giving to prompt the new Duchess to distribute money to the clergy. Because from news passing through the Grand Cathedral, it was said that the new Duchess had always been engaged in a quiet rivalry with the late previous Duchess, and wanted everything the previous Duchess had. Unexpectedly, so soon after her husband's death, she had set her sights on the Northern Lands Duke. This gossip had spread through the Grand Cathedral everywhere. Presumably for the sake of her status, this new Duchess would also be willing to spend money for the faithful priests — and when the church district received donations as the representative, they would then distribute one-tenth to each district priest.

Of course, at the time Archbishop Leopold had also said: "If they are willing to voluntarily produce a gift worth 500 silver coins for their duke's wedding — that is also not a bad outcome for our Carson City cathedral."

But who could have known — the stone would be picked up and dropped squarely on their own feet.

A heavy silence fell over the meeting room. Everyone looked to the Archbishop for his direction.

"Where has Hugo gone?" Archbishop Leopold finally collected his gaze and spoke.

Ecclesiastical Prefect Damian turned to look at his subordinate, Gideon. There were some things that couldn't come from his position — it would too easily bring trouble. Having long served in management, he knew very clearly what to say and what to do to ensure he wouldn't easily draw unwanted attention.

Gideon, the Carson City church deacon who was also a longstanding mouthpiece, quickly received the Ecclesiastical Prefect's signal and knew he had to speak up. He began stuttering his explanation: "Lately with all the night market activity in Carson City, Deputy Archbishop Hugo is... he's gone gambling again."

At this, Archbishop Leopold clenched his fist and slammed it on the table. "Absolutely outrageous! What are you all still standing around for — go find Hugo and bring him back."

Gideon, who had been like a fish gasping for air, immediately took the order and ran out behind him.

He had barely stepped out the door when he ran headlong into Father Corny, a young priest from Hargrave pastoral district.

Among those in the meeting room, Corny was comparatively young — about twenty-six, slightly younger than Alistair, who had only just come of age and still had traces of a child's features, with unsharpened cheekbones and a generally amiable appearance.

In truth, he was amiable. But in contrast, no one dared slight them because of the scene's gravity and the commanding presence of Herens.

Of course, the reason people were so attentive toward that small priest was certainly not because of Herens. They knew plenty of people who were tall and stern-looking. Anyone capable of becoming a priest's attendant would certainly have reverence for the sacred and would not dare casually offend clergy.

What truly drew the lower-level clergy's attention was "Alistair's identity."

The junior staff not only had to keep an eye on the activities of believers within the district, but also needed to gather rumors from every major pastoral district, the better to understand the overall situation of each district at any time and facilitate management.

For them, two major things had happened in the first half of this year. First, a miracle had appeared in Stonehollow pastoral district. Divine blessings transformed into butterflies and fell into the hands of the townspeople, enabling the entire town to escape the torment of nightmares. This was not only a celebrated story circulating among the pastoral districts — it had even begun spreading wider in influence on account of the statue brought by Stonehollow pastoral district. Rumor had it that on the day of the miracle, a deity had descended in Stonehollow, and the next day a divine image had appeared in the bell tower. If one looked carefully, the cloak pattern on the statue also featured a butterfly motif.

Second, in recent times, it seemed there was a whisper among the major pastoral districts about a papal candidate-in-training who had been dispatched from the Grand Cathedral. The one most likely to be the candidate was the Savoie pastoral district priest, Alistair. The rumors surrounding him were far more entertaining than the miracles of Stonehollow. Things like: a single word to locate the demon of Savoie pastoral district, preventing a bloody case from escalating; predicting which direction lost children had wandered, and simultaneously capturing military spies; summoning rain on behalf of the Lord, and directing villagers to assist stranded traveling merchants. There was even a report passed down from the military side that after Duke Claude encountered Father Alistair, he had been shaken in his faith and actually dispatched people to send gifts.

Of course, that last one was far too absurd, and almost no one believed it. Even if the Duke was willing to remarry into an alliance with the Grand Cathedral Archbishop, that didn't mean he had changed his view of the church.

Earlier that very day, Gideon the Deacon had intentionally skirted around the topic of the Duke with Father Alistair, but Father Alistair seemed to have virtually no impression of this person and no further understanding — only knowing he was the Northern Lands ruler.

The church deacons kept speculating about Alistair's true identity, suspecting that with so many miracles around him, it absolutely wasn't coincidence — yet the Archbishop was disinterested, even hoping people would stop discussing such news.

"Did something happen? Can I help?" Father Corny asked, seeing Gideon's hasty expression.

Gideon hadn't initially been interested in or attentive to Father Corny, but after spending three or four days together, as he found Father Corny always friendly toward the deacons, willing to do tasks diligently even when directed by the deacons without complaint, Gideon had become somewhat more favorably inclined toward him.

Not stopping his pace, Gideon said: "I need to find Deputy Archbishop Hugo."

"Is that the Deputy Archbishop who's said to be the mastermind behind Carson City's strategies?" Father Corny asked.

Gideon had to say Hugo was the church's golden goose — but that wasn't really something to say aloud to just anyone. He turned his gaze toward Father Corny and with a righteous air said: "Is there anyone else in our church whose name is Hugo?"

Father Corny smiled and said: "Would it help if I came along?"

Gideon was puzzled by this eagerness, but an extra pair of hands wasn't a bad thing, so he offhandedly said: "Fine then."

Once the other had caught up, Gideon was still wondering about his motives when Father Corny proactively spoke up: "Actually, I also have a question to ask you."

Gideon thought: waiting for the fox's tail to show itself — and he grandly said: "Go ahead."

"I heard that the Savoie pastoral district priest, Alistair, also arrived tonight," Corny paused and said. "And tonight you all suddenly held a closed meeting, so I wondered if Father Alistair was perhaps a candidate for the future papacy."

Gideon immediately smiled: "So you too are thinking about how to perform well in front of him, right?"

"Not entirely," Father Corny looked at Gideon and said. "I also don't want to waste the knowledge I learned in seminary. Hargrave pastoral district doesn't have many faithful — after all these months, I've only gained thirty more believers."

Gideon was taken aback: "That's quite something! I heard Father Alistair doesn't have many faithful either — apart from a deacon, only a single hunter. You're doing much better than him."

He couldn't help adding: "If judging purely by the number of faithful, I actually think Father Corny is more like the papal candidate."

Father Corny immediately waved his hands: "No comparison, no comparison."

Gideon said matter-of-factly: "Look — what's the use of all those miracles? He hasn't even increased his faithful count, just letting ordinary people take advantage for nothing. You do your own work properly and you have so many faithful. Faithful provide offerings, which benefits us — that's the point!"

Father Corny's gaze darkened slightly. He lowered his eyes, avoiding Gideon's gaze — seeming fearful, seeming humble. "Hearing you say that makes me not know what to say..."

Gideon thought it was probably because his pragmatic philosophy was too harsh for someone still living for faith to hear. But once Father Corny had been a priest long enough, he'd understand — making money was what mattered most. A church that couldn't make money was not a successful church. Miracles couldn't be monetized. They were like free sunrises, moonsets, meteor showers, drifting snow, and fireworks — no matter how beautiful, they were entirely meaningless.

He was about to say something when he spotted Hugo in the crowd — white hair wild as overgrown weeds, sitting on the ground gambling with someone else. Gideon's heart skipped a beat and he rushed over: "Hugo..."

The words weren't finished before the momentum of his approach was deflated by the look Hugo the Deputy Archbishop gave him. "...Old sir, what are you doing?"

"Be quiet." Hugo didn't want to be disturbed.

He knew that if someone had come to find him, it could only be because Archbishop Leopold was still fixating on that beautiful but impractical stone figure, wanting him to come up with a plan to legitimately keep it in their possession rather than let it remain as a wedding gift.

Hugo added: "I'm busy."

Gideon instinctively looked toward Hugo's opponent across from him—

It was an enigmatic fortune-teller, wearing an all-black cloak with the hood pulled low, concealing nearly half his face. Only curly hair stubbornly escaped from under the hood. The figure's flowing garment hem was embroidered with ancient rune patterns, and there was a gemstone ring on one finger — fitting every cliché impression people had of a southern fortune-teller.

Gideon took a look at him, then shifted his gaze to see the state of play between the two.

The curly-haired fortune-teller spoke with easy confidence, and out of curiosity Gideon listened, so the man explained: "We're playing a game of alternately hiding a coin. The rules are simple: just guess which hand the coin is in. The coin can only be placed in the left or right hand, no other hiding places, no tricks — otherwise it also counts as a loss."

He pushed the coin to the center of the low table. "If I guess correctly, I can take one coin from the other person. If they guess correctly, they can take all the coins on my side."

Gideon instinctively looked at the curly fortune-teller's side — a high pile of copper coins, silver coins, even gold coins, enough to dazzle anyone walking past. Anyone wanting to try their luck would want to bet against him. Though given these results, it was clear he had won quite a few rounds. And those silver new coins gleaming away were very much beginning to look like they'd come out of Hugo's pockets.

Basic reasoning told Gideon that Hugo had already lost a significant amount. He felt as though his heart was bleeding.

The fortune-teller indicated with his eyes: "It's the old sir's turn again."

The other Hugo, unresigned, clutched the coin in his palm, frantically switching between hands beneath the table, doing his utmost to prevent his opponent from guessing. But the fortune-teller simply smiled lightly, voice calm: "Most people, once guessed correctly, rush to switch hands. But the more they switch, the more they sense a pattern — and inevitably return to their most habitual preference."

Hugo's expression froze at the words. His gaze flickered briefly, and then he forcibly composed himself back into a poker face. But this tiny hesitation had already been infinitely magnified in his opponent's perception.

The fortune-teller spoke unhurriedly: "Time's up. Sir, you may place both hands on the table."

Hugo's large, calloused hands curled into fists, clenched as though the two hands were a single naturally merged stone. He had staked everything on his hands, and his voice was low and stubborn: "I refuse to believe I lose every single time."

Gideon's head throbbed dully: "How many times have you played? Every single time you say it's the last one, and every single time you play until you've lost everything."

His gaze swept over Hugo's disheveled white hair. Looking at him like this, who could imagine that this old man currently sitting in the street corner gambling with a fortune-teller, looking like nothing so much as a vagabond, was actually the distinguished theologian, the man of great virtue and authority who had been sent from the Grand Cathedral ten years ago, entrusted with the great mission of reviving Carson City's faith?

At first, naturally, he had not been an inveterate gambler. In everyone's eyes, he was the embodiment of benevolence and wisdom, a model and beacon for students on the pulpit, a master of eloquent debate. But as the faithful slowly drained away from the church one by one, and as the church-funded charity schools, welfare homes, and hospitals were closed down one after another, Hugo began to change.

He began doing anything and everything to amass wealth — the most notorious of these being the forced inclusion of donation payments into city council policy, that is, proposing the policy of "paying donations in lieu of taxes." This single move forcibly turned ninety percent of citizens into church believers. Believers were required to participate in all church activities in accordance with the rules — observing fasting days, attending mass and prayer. All manner of red tape had citizens endlessly complaining and filing grievances.

Faced with the protests, he had simply said from the pulpit with cold composure: "Those who don't want to become believers may proceed of their own accord to the city council next door and pay their own taxes. And don't forget — late taxes come with fines."

From that point on, the Carson ecclesiastical district became the district with the strongest smell of money across all the Northern Lands. The holy altar of faith became a unit of monetary calculation. The only advantage was that, unlike other districts where believers would occasionally apostatize, Carson City's number of faithful rose year after year and its economy grew more and more prosperous.

Take this round of traveling weddings as an example — Carson City's market activities were the liveliest and freest in the entire Northern Lands, far surpassing the other districts which were dull and stiff. But in winning back the faithful, the cost had quietly devoured him. Hugo gradually sank into being a compulsive gambler. No matter how much money was on hand — even just a single copper coin — he would have to take it to the gambling table.

In ten years, he had been said to have lost his late years' dignity, ruined his reputation, and some even said this was who he truly was all along. But Hugo had long since lost the ability to distinguish what he was gambling on — money, or the last flickering embers of a faith that was already barely clinging to life.

When he met Claude the Duke again and saw in the duke's eyes a reflection of himself — he had in a flash recalled the version of himself that had long been forgotten, the self that had not yet fallen, that still had glory. In that instant, he had felt nothing but unbearable shame. And it was also in that instant that he understood — he could no longer carry the responsibility of presiding over the wedding.

Now, Deputy Archbishop Hugo, sitting in the street corner, could already see from the fortune-teller's eyes that he was certain of victory. His original resolve had dropped a notch. "Guess away..." he murmured in a low voice, with a trace of fatigue and despondency impossible to conceal. He was old — too old. His steps could no longer reach the holy altar. All he could do was sit at this dusty street-corner gambling table, pressing the last scattered fragments of faith upon it, trying to exchange them for a glance from God.

Such was fate. If he lost this hand, then so be it. Forget it. He knew himself it was nothing but grasping at a slim hope. Tonight he could make a clean end of it — consider it personally wrapping up the close of his faith.

However, before the fortune-teller's voice had even finished, a child's voice nearby broke in: "If you're just guessing like this, isn't it very uninteresting? I've been watching for so many rounds. Your guessing method is really simple — every time you just use your words to confuse the other person. No matter how many times they switch underneath, it doesn't help..."

The fortune-teller looked sideways, and saw an eleven-year-old boy in coarse cloth standing to one side, his large eyes glimmering with cunning. His expression shifted, and he asked: "What would you find interesting, then?"

"Why not just guess which hand has no coin?" the boy said brightly — not stirring trouble, just perfectly sincere and wanting to stir things up, the playful look of someone completely seized by the excitement of it all. "The old sir's coin can go right into my hands. Both my hands stay uncrossed, and I won't move the coin's position — then you guess which hand has no coin in it."

The fortune-teller had been playing with Hugo for many rounds. If he had an accomplice, it wouldn't have gotten to this point. So he also spoke to this suddenly appeared boy: "If you took the money and ran, how would we count that?"

The boy reached into his small satchel and placed a half-eaten mango on the corner of the table. "Collateral! Can you see it? This is worth three copper coins. This old sir — if he loses, it's nothing to do with me, because I had nothing to do with switching his coin. And if the old sir wins," he added, looking at Hugo first, "it's also nothing to do with me, and I don't want the money either."

Now it was plain to everyone that this was a child who was itching to play but had no money, so he was taking advantage of the excitement. This small boy had quite some confidence, telling the old sir: "My hands are always very reliable — maybe with the coin in my hand, the fortune-teller won't be able to guess which one it disappeared into."

The fortune-teller was entertained by the challenge and smiled. The child was transferring the coin in plain sight of everyone, not switching hands — he was still guessing where the old sir's coin was, not the boy's. It made no difference to him.

"I don't mind — as long as the old sir doesn't object. As for the child, no switching the coin's position at the last minute."

Hugo had no idea why this child had appeared, where he'd come from, or why. The child was smiling as though this were a delightful game, and had clearly jumped in on a whim — the child's expression was pure and natural. His heart felt a little bittersweet.

This child absolutely didn't know that the outcome of winning or losing would decide his life or death tonight, and so was this cheerful and natural about it. The feeling of being trusted by a child — something he'd been missing for so long — moved him with unexpected force.

In the end he relented.

"Fortune-teller, watch carefully — and everyone watch, I'm not secretly switching, okay?" the boy's voice rang out high and clear.

Though their exchange was within the fortune-teller's visual blind spot, it was exposed completely and without cover to the surrounding crowd. Even if they hadn't seen which hand the coin was placed into, everyone could clearly see throughout the entire process that the child's hands had remained steady, with no sudden switching.

And as the old man quietly passed the coin, the child immediately clenched both small fists tight, pointing them toward the fortune-teller.

"Guess now!"

Before this, the fortune-teller had already guessed that Hugo had the coin in his left hand. Hugo was fond of hiding things in his left hand, so guessing which hand had no coin — naturally the right hand had none.

The fortune-teller said: "Right hand."

As the words fell, Hugo felt his heart stop entirely. But the next second, the child opened his left hand — the left palm empty as a blank slate — and smiled until his eyes crinkled, saying: "My luck is really good, as expected!"

After this, the applause and cries of amazement from the onlookers rose one after another.

The fortune-teller was stunned — he had actually guessed wrong. Though the fortune-teller had never claimed to be infallible, his accuracy rate was generally quite high, and it was even more so against an easily-read old sir like this. Had he been too careless? He didn't understand what had happened.

On the other side, Hugo stared dazedly at the coin, feeling as though he had been struck by lightning. He could hardly believe — hadn't he placed the coin in his left hand? How could it not be there?

Had it been accidentally dropped somewhere?

Hugo's gaze locked onto those two empty hands, stunned as though he had seen a ghost. For a moment, the applause in his ears grew distant and indistinct, unable to dilute his inner confusion.

The boy didn't pay attention to Hugo's astonishment. He just smiled, naturally pressing his hands together — as though concealing some great treasure — and nodded toward the old sir, gesturing for him to open his palm. A coin slid silently from the boy's palm and returned to Hugo's hand.

"You won," the boy said, then leaned close, in a voice only the two of them could hear, and added: "My grown-up says — you won this round, so don't gamble anymore. If you keep going, you'll definitely lose again. Go back. Don't worry people who care about you."

After saying this, the boy lightly retrieved his mango from the corner of the table and said to the fortune-teller: "I definitely have to come gamble a round with you when I have money next time."

From the gleam in the boy's eyes, the fortune-teller sensed a sharpness that didn't belong to children. He suddenly began to suspect that perhaps he was the one who had been ensnared. Just as he hesitated, Gideon the deacon on the other side had already rushed excitedly to the table, beaming as he prepared to help Hugo collect his winnings.

Hugo didn't pay attention to how much he had won. His gaze was fixed on the retreating figures — the boy had burrowed into the crowd, and turning to leave with him was a black-haired young man.

The boy acted just like a cat, pressing close to the young man's side, and murmured: "My hair looks like it's gotten messy."

The black-haired young man looked down at him briefly, raised a hand, and smoothed the loose strands at his forehead — the motion quick and practiced, as though long accustomed to this clinginess.

Hugo hadn't gotten a clear look at the young man's features, only that as the young man's group turned away, in the instant they turned he caught a glimpse of a cross that flashed at the young man's collar.

And in that split second, he felt as though he had been struck by a beam of light.

An intuition that had been waiting for a long time suddenly gripped his heart — telling him he absolutely could not let that person slip away. He plunged almost bodily into the crowd, chasing that one trailing shadow as he pressed forward.

From the end of his student years onward, Hugo had never run this recklessly. Not many steps in, his chest was heaving as though it would burst, his throat dry and aching, his heart feeling as though it was about to be vomited up through his esophagus. His limbs felt as though filled with lead — heavier and more aching with each step, as though each stride was a battle against the edge of collapse.

Yet he still could not stop himself from pressing forward at full force.

He was afraid that if he missed this moment, he would never catch that thread of salvation fallen from the sky again.

Fortunately, the two hadn't vanished like divine figures from the stories, disappearing entirely, leaving no trace for anyone to follow. They had only moved to a quieter side street away from the crowd — as though deliberately leaving a trail for him to follow.

"Young man!" Hugo called out in a hoarse voice, stopping them. The voice echoed in the empty alley, raw and urgent, as though his chest had been torn apart. The young man and child, hearing the sound, turned around together. In the instant they turned, faint light drifted at the alley's end, the clouds gathering and blocking their silhouettes on the side.

It was darkness — a darkness that seemed to take away light.

No!

Old Hugo suddenly felt his heart trembling. He didn't know why, but his eyes instantly welled up, his throat constricting — as though he were a sinner who had waited long and finally found his place at the confessional.

The old man slowly raised his hand, pointing at the grey sky overhead, his voice like thunder yet with a concealed trembling: "Young man, please answer me!"

"The scripture says: when the Lord is with us, the world will light up like daylight. But now—" He looked around — the street lamps dim and yellow, the human shadows sparse, still as death. "In the deep of night, darkness thick as a cage, not a crack of light. In such deep night, how can the Lord be with us? How can He illuminate us? We — how can we wait for a night that has light? How can we... not sink into the darkness along with the night?"

The young man's silhouette stood still in the night. A corner of him was lifted by the wind.

He turned. In that moment, the wind stilled. Only his voice came through clearly and with force: "As midnight approaches, can you still see me? And can you still see your own two hands?"

"What good is seeing you?" Hugo looked down at his own hands, voice hoarse: "If I couldn't see, how would I have found you and spoken with you?"

The young man looked at him, his voice low and tender yet steady: "As you say — the night is deep, the darkness thick as a cage. But if there were no light, how could you see me? You ask where the light is?"

He paused, his gaze unwavering as faith itself: "My answer is — the light is already in your heart, illuminating every path you need to walk. Even when you are deep in darkness, it allows you to move forward steadily."

Hugo: "......"

In the silence, at the alley's end, faint light drifted — it was the light that came from the cloud layer splitting apart. And that light illuminated the silhouettes of the two ahead. Hugo stood in the dim yellow lamplight, motionless.

His stooped and silent silhouette stretched long in the moonlight. The long alley was perhaps lonely — and yet it also resembled a sculpture about to awaken.

Because the Lord's intent had already fallen upon him.

He felt — he had come back to life.

*

Returning to the church residence, the steps that had tormented the seventy-year-old man now somehow felt remarkably light.

Yet just as he stepped onto the final stair, a figure abruptly blocked his path.

The face blurred in his memory, stirring some corner of his recollection — familiar, yet impossible to place. But when he focused on the person's eyes, the rain in his memory began to fall, pitter-patter, summoning back the shape of someone from long ago.

The voice gradually sounded: "Deputy Archbishop Hugo, it's been a long time. You will admit, won't you, that it was you who, for over ten years in Carson City, extorted wealth, drained people dry? It is time — to accept the Lord's judgment."

The words were like a blade pressed against the side of his neck, and the grief and viciousness within the other's voice made his heart involuntarily clench. He instinctively tried to step back — but it was a moment too late.

A hand slammed heavily into his chest.

The force sent his entire body hurtling off the steps, and the world spun around him. He heard only the cold wind shrieking past his ears, his spine striking one stone step after another in rapid succession, before his head sank and the sharp pain arrived all at once.

A line of crimson wove from his temple, carrying away the body's warmth — soaking through his collar as it spread, staining that head of white-gray hair red.

The night wind was bitter cold. The church cross loomed in silence.

The assailant walked away without looking back.