CH-058

On the night of the harvest festival.

Leslie watched Father Aliss ahead of him—slight and slender-looking—and yet when he ran he moved like the wind.

Being pulled along by him, Leslie felt himself almost lifted into flight. The wind howled past his ears, his footsteps so light they barely touched the ground. His feet couldn't even get any leverage—he could only let his body be hauled forward. Several times they were moving so fast they had to look back at the people nearby who were pointing the way.

Those people were gasping and unable to keep up, pointing with a finger in a direction: "Over that way!"

Father Aliss also kept using his gaze to fix on the location of light and black smoke.

This time the site was also the grain storehouse—but not the village's makeshift storehouse built for the harvest festival.

It was a flat-roofed building of wood and stone, with fire blazing up and dense black smoke rolling out. The outermost part was burning worst—the hay stacked against the wall had carbonized entirely, leaving nothing but black ash and bare earth.

This kind of enclosed structure might burn slowly at first, but once the fire took hold the scene would spiral out of control and become extremely difficult to manage.

The whole process wouldn't even take half an hour.

Villagers came rushing from all directions to fight the fire, but the water source was too far away, and the buckets they carried back were nowhere near enough to put it out. Running back and forth, some looked at the fire and simply stopped moving—staring in despair as the flames consumed the walls and eaves.

"It's over—!" This was the most important emergency grain in the village. Next year's seeds were inside too…

Crackling sounds came from inside the storehouse. There were no windows on any side, making it impossible to see the interior situation.

Father Aliss asked: "Is there anyone inside?"

Before the villager could answer, someone nearby who had heard Father Aliss jumped in urgently: "Nobody's come out! Not a single one so far!"

With those words barely fallen, Father Aliss made an immediate decision and snatched a bucket from nearby, dousing himself in water from head to toe with a splash. He raised his voice—steady and resolute: "The fire started from outside. The weather isn't too dry—the fact that whoever's inside can't get out doesn't mean there's no way out. There's still a chance."

He spoke as his gaze swept the crowd and gave instructions: "I'll go clear a path. Don't follow me inside—wait outside to receive—if anyone is injured, someone on the outside needs to be ready to help—to carry them out..."

Leslie had barely begun to react when he suddenly felt a gaze fall on him.

He looked up. Father Aliss was looking directly at him, his eyes unwavering: "Then I'm counting on you."

These words hit Leslie's still waters like a stone, leaving ripples that would not settle for a long time.

Had Father Aliss guessed what ability he had?

Those words carried not a trace of doubt, not a hint of testing—they were one hundred percent certainty.

Leslie had already half-sensed it when Father Aliss pointedly asked for his help just moments earlier. But at that time it was still a vague, indistinct feeling—like looking at flowers through a mist. Now, Father Aliss's words had blown away the mist that obscured his perception.

He drew a deep breath, lowered his head, and replied: "Understood."

With his consent, Father Aliss gave a brief nod, picked up an empty wooden bucket, held it up before him as a makeshift shield, and plunged into the flames.

Firelight fell across his soaking wet body. Water and flame interlaced—as if sacred light had ceased to be merely a blank expanse, and had instead gained depth and shade, lightness and weight, warmth and chill. In that instant every eye in the crowd locked onto him, unable to look away.

The wait was unbearable. Especially since the building in front of them was a very old structure—never given extra maintenance—and the sounds of beams and pillars cracking inside were deafening.

Every sound was soul-shaking—as if tearing everything apart.

Leslie and the others outside were suffering through the wait.

Every second felt stretched into an eternity.

After a long while, a figure lurching and stumbling emerged from deep within the firelight.

When he reached the burning fire gate at the entrance, his steps paused for a moment—but perhaps having experienced the harvest festival ceremony, he didn't hesitate long, closed his eyes, and leaped through directly.

The body that tumbled out was trailing small flames, corners of clothing still burning.

The survival instinct drove him into frantic rolling, trying to smother the fire on his body. People nearby had water ready and quickly threw bucket after bucket over him.

But the fire had already burned through his clothing—the skin exposed outside was flushed dark red from the intense heat, both arms bearing burns that were horrifying to look at.

After the whole person came tumbling out, they collapsed on the ground, breathing labored, and consciousness began to blur.

Others called out to him, but his eyes were unfocused—completely unable to hear what anyone was saying to him.

Leslie said nothing, instantly pushing through the crowd, kneeling and sitting beside him.

Someone tried to stop him, but he had already extended his hand—

The next moment, a faint light flowed slowly from Leslie's palm.

The temperature around the collapsed person's wounds was still scorching, yet beneath that charred, blackened skin something was visibly flowing through—a shimmer seeping in. The originally burned and ruined wounds were healing before their very eyes, second by second—even the blisters at the edges retreating, the skin becoming as smooth as if it had never been injured.

"God," a villager drew a sharp breath, his voice trembling. "How... how is this possible?"

Before, everyone had been focused on Father Aliss—as the crisis eased somewhat, they suddenly realized that the young boy whom they had always avoided, the child they had been unwilling to approach—was Leslie. The boy once called an omen of bad luck. The faint halo still lingering around his hands, his eyes locked intently on the injured person's condition.

In an instant the crowd exchanged glances, their expressions complex—those who had been about to speak having their throats stop, unable to open their mouths.

A formless silence solidified in the air.

Leslie paid no attention to what was happening around him—his expression calm, his focus complete. He gently loosened his grip, then fixed his cold, steady gaze on those now clearing eyes and spoke in a tone that was calm yet carrying a subtle pressure: "Why did only you come out? Where is Father Aliss?"

If the person had fled to save themselves and left Father Aliss behind in the fire—Leslie's eyes flashed with a brief, cold light.

The boy's tone was not loud, yet it landed like glowing coals held close to skin.

The man was already lucid—and now instinctively gave a shudder. Not because he was still in pain. Because he was now fully conscious and could feel it clearly: the coolness that had just been delivered to him was now like a stabbing ice pick, threading through his every limb.

There was no one who understood better than him in this moment: what stood before him was not only something that could save lives.

If it chose to, it could also make wounds never heal.

"I... I was unconscious inside," the man said, his voice coming out weakly, his hand trembling as he touched the place below his nose. He could still recall the pain of it. "Then I was woken by pain from something pressing hard under my nose. And then I looked up and all around me was fire—someone told me to run."

Leslie's expression tightened and he pressed immediately: "Did you tell Father Aliss there was someone else inside?"

The man startled—only then seeming to realize something: "Cecilia is inside!"

"Then why did it take so long?" The sinking in Leslie's voice was involuntary.

Under the gaze of the newly rescued man, his urgency was like a dagger that struck without warning—swinging in every direction. Anyone could be cut.

Especially now that the man could feel Leslie's palm temperature dropping sharply.

He had wanted to hold on a little longer, but he chose to draw back from beneath Leslie's hands, stuttering: "I... I really didn't know... I was only thinking of running..."

He lowered his head, not daring to meet Leslie's eyes.

Just as the tension reached its peak—a sudden shout rose from the crowd: "He's out! Someone's walking out!"

Leslie snapped his head up and followed the crowd's gaze—

Father Aliss's silhouette emerged slowly from within the churning firelight.

His clothing was charred and damaged, even catching small flames. But his steps were steady, both arms cradling a person—that person lying quietly nestled against him, face pressed to his shoulder, as if asleep.

Flames churned and burned around him, making it look as if he were walking through fire. In the glow of that light, his young pale face was clearly defined—his nose straight, his eyelashes trembling faintly in the smoke. The way he carried her as he walked out—both devout and solemn, like a sacred image bearing the burden of redemption.

Leslie stared at him blankly, and suddenly the image of the divine figure in the Kason City bell tower sprang unbidden into his mind.

For an instant, the two silhouettes nearly merged into one.

Just as Father Aliss cradled Cecilia and the two of them were about to pass through the burning gate—with everyone ready to sigh with relief—a tremendous crack suddenly rang out.

The charred gate frame, unable to bear the strain, finally gave way and collapsed—blazing with roaring flames, plunging straight toward Father Aliss's head.

The crowd's hearts leaped into their throats. "Watch out—!"

"Father Aliss!" A young voice cried out in shock—as if tearing through the very air.

Finnian, who had just arrived at the scene, witnessed this breath-stealing moment and couldn't help crying out.

And in that instant—time seemed to freeze.

Before everyone's eyes, the entire blazing storehouse was as if someone had pressed a pause button. The differently-shaped flames stopped swaying, sparks stopped mid-air, and the falling gate frame held its position—not moving another fraction of an inch.

Dead silence all around.

Only him—Father Aliss—seemingly unaware of this eerie stillness, not turning back, simply cradling the girl in his arms and walking forward steadily as normal.

And Cecilia's hair only swayed gently with his steps—even the wind seemed to make way for the priest.

Sounds of wonder, murmuring, and awe rose among the villagers in waves.

"I've never seen anything like this before. The fire... the fire actually stopped on its own."

"Is he actually the incarnation of a deity? How could anyone walk out of this."

"What is happening here?"

……

In that instant, everyone had already instinctively held their breath.

To them, Father Aliss at this moment was no longer an ordinary mortal.

He was a sacred image walking out of the firelight.

The thoughts of others were entirely unimportant to Leslie and Finnian.

The two of them simply rushed toward Father Aliss's direction.

"Father Aliss..."

"Father Aliss!"

Shu Li had been choked by the smoke and fumes from inside the storehouse and felt disoriented—not knowing what the situation was outside. They had clearly said that if he brought people out, everyone was supposed to come and receive them. Yet the villagers were all standing there like statues, frozen in place. It was Finnian and Leslie—the two children—who reacted fastest and hurried over to help.

Shu Li barely had a moment to catch his breath. He sent a reassuring glance at Finnian, then turned to Leslie and said in a low voice: "Can you help treat her?" Shu Li lay Cecilia gently on the ground.

Only then did Leslie look at Cecilia—her face had been scorched by the flames, the skin red and swollen, parts of her outline blurred. The clear-featured face she once had was no more.

Shu Li instinctively shielded her face with his hand, unwilling to let others see.

In this era, a girl's appearance was bound to her future and dignity.

Such scarring would not only be physical pain—it would be a heavy shadow over her life.

Shu Li had seen in the original novel that Leslie's abilities—most of the instances where he used them in the military academy, on enemies or criminals—were ones where the body burst internally, bones shifted out of place, even flesh tearing open on its own. Extremely gruesome abilities.

But through their interactions these past few encounters, Shu Li suspected Leslie's ability might actually lean toward something more like an ability to accelerate cellular activity.

Accelerated cellular activity—

Those who had seen the educational animation Cells at Work would understand: it could activate the body's own healing abilities, or boost immune response.

Yet similarly, excessive cellular activity would result in overgrowth—accelerated cellular death. And so Leslie's ability could also kill.

Under Shu Li's gaze, Leslie's hand moved toward Cecilia's face.

The light intensified greatly.

And beneath the light, Cecilia's wounds healed at a remarkable speed.

In just a few breaths, Cecilia regained consciousness too. She still remembered that she had been about to escape—and then a falling burning stick had struck her at the back of the neck, and she had instantly lost consciousness.

Her face—

Cecilia quickly touched her own face. Smooth as before. "...?"

And still half-disoriented, she seemed to recall catching a glimpse of Father Aliss coming to save her. She looked up and found herself meeting Shu Li's gentle, comforting smile.

Cecilia said gratefully: "Did you save me?"

"The Lord saved you." Shu Li paused, then looked at Leslie. "So did Leslie."

Leslie didn't look up. His attention was entirely on something else—Shu Li's hands.

Both hands' knuckles had gone white at the joints, the wounds crisscrossing them, dried blood and all—the skin looking as if it had been tightly bound with a burning rope, cracked open in long, deep splits.

He didn't understand why Shu Li hadn't said anything. But he understood: he wanted to treat the priest's wounds.

But he didn't dare take his hand directly. That was too presumptuous, too abrupt. And so he learned from Finnian's earlier gestures—those seemingly casual, but actually carefully tentative ones.

From Cecilia's perspective, she watched the young boy approach like a cautious little animal, head lowering, lightly brushing against his keeper's side. His two hands rested gently on Shu Li's arm—as if afraid of startling something, yet in a way that left no room for refusal.

Restrained, yet intimate. Sensitive, yet bold. Nervous, yet reverent.

Cecilia felt that the normally aloof and cold Leslie had unexpectedly quite a childlike side to him.

Feeling the touch, Shu Li understood Leslie's good intentions and said nothing—only gently turned his wrist, and held that tentative, approaching, yet still hesitant pair of hands in return.

"Thank you, Leslie. You were amazing!"

Leslie's lips involuntarily softened, just about to smile—when he saw Finnian off to one side giving him a cold stare. "..."