https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-640-The-Inquisitors-and-the-Tremor/13677484/
Chapter 639: The Collapse of the Divine Statue
"Speech is about to begin. Please remain silent, citizens. Due to recent uprisings, the Empire is taking measures for your safety." The familiar male voice echoed from the Amplifier in Ceremony Square, cutting through the dense crowd.
Amid the throng, Fer clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. Veins bulged across his forehead, and beneath the hood, his eyes burned with unfiltered hatred.
"One day, Hans... I’ll kill you."
The words were gritted between teeth, venomous and desperate.
Lord Hans—newly appointed Imperial official—had only taken office days ago. His origins remained shrouded in mystery, and his primary duty was maintaining order in Dragonhead City, or as the locals called it, Collins City.
Yet in just a few short days, he had demonstrated thunderous authority.
He had learned the exact time and location of the Dawnlight Holy Army’s planned operation, then lured them into an ambush—nearly wiping out the entire force. Afterward, he executed every captured rebel, hanging their bodies from the gallows for three days straight. The sight had instilled terror across the city. Even the most loyal believers dared not offer aid to the Holy Army.
Fer had been part of that raid. He would have been among the corpses swaying from the gallows—mangled, bloodied, forgotten.
Only the sacrifice of his closest friend—Nico Gibson, who had grown up with him—had saved him. Nico had given his life to shield Fer, allowing him to slip through the Empire’s iron net.
Now, hearing that voice again, the memory surged back—Nico’s lifeless body, twisted and dangling, his flesh torn by wind and time. Fer trembled from head to toe.
He gripped his weapon tighter, whispering into the silence:
“Nico… did you see? Revenge is coming.”
Days earlier, the Imperial Official had issued a decree—mandatory attendance for all citizens at the Speech. From the Dawnlight Holy Army’s intelligence, they suspected the speaker would be none other than Lord Hans himself.
The damned Dragon’s Claws had just completed a bloodbath. Now, he wanted to send a message: a warning to every citizen, every rebel, every soul in the city. He would show them the Empire’s strength, cement his ambition to enslave the Aethel People.
And Fer’s mission—his sole, final quest—was to assassinate Lord Hans.
He knew this was a one-way journey. With the Empire’s Guards at peak readiness, any attack would end in instant death. They’d riddle him with bullets, turn him into a sieve.
Yet fear did not touch him.
He no longer cared about his life.
What kept him alive was pure, burning revenge.
Ingrid’s smile. Nico’s last words. Kalen’s roar—each memory fueled the fire within him.
Evil Dragon… I will wage blood war against you and your claws until death claims us both.
Fer’s bloodshot eyes fixed on the distant stage. He screamed silently into the void, his hatred searing through the air.
Ceremony Square was packed—overflowing with forcibly gathered Aethel People. Patrols of Tiefling Guards and Two-legged Flying Dragon Cavalry had multiplied, their presence tightening like a noose.
Fer knew the Speech was about to begin.
He quietly loaded his Sun God Sleeve Crossbow, pulled his hood lower, and scanned the crowd—seeking the perfect position.
In such a fortress of security, he had only one chance.
One shot.
One moment.
If he failed, he would face eternal damnation. His vengeance would be buried with him.
Far away, the crowd roared in a sea of faces. Amid the Tiefling Guard’s formation, the Dragon-Blooded Noble stepped forward, his face twisted into a false smile as he waved to the people.
Hypocrite villain, Fer thought.
There he was—Lord Hans, the man who had executed seventeen Dawnlight Holy Army members.
But now was not the time. Too many eyes. Too many guards.
He would wait—until the Baron took the stage. Until the moment of triumph, when Hans was most confident, most exposed.
Only then would he strike.
Only then could he prove to the Aethel People that the Empire of Ashen was not invincible. That the Dragon’s Claws could bleed. That even the mightiest tyrant could fall.
And more than that—only then could he show them: King Amannata had not abandoned the North Aether.
Yet something caught Fer’s attention.
Beside Lord Hans stood a figure draped in the standard Imperial Long Robe. Though obscured by fabric, the elegant curve of her silhouette suggested a woman.
For some reason, her form stirred a strange sense of familiarity—warm, almost comforting. But he couldn’t place where he’d seen her before.
Fer frowned. Another Empire official?
Hmph. All the same scum.
But then—astonishment struck.
Lord Hans did not step onto the stage.
Instead, the woman beside him slowly ascended the steps, hesitating, as if reluctant.
Hans remained in place, surrounded by guards, smiling as he watched her.
Fer’s face, hidden beneath the hood, darkened.
The speaker isn’t Hans…?
Yet the moment passed. Determination returned.
He checked his Hidden Wrist Crossbow, recalibrated his aim.
She’s an agent of the Empire. That’s enough reason to kill her.
Who spoke mattered little. What mattered was shattering the Aethel People’s fear. Breaking the Red Dragon’s statue in their hearts.
Fer slowly raised his hand, feigning to adjust his collar—really, adjusting his sight.
Come on…
He licked his dry lips, fingers tightening around the trigger.
The arrow, sharp as a sunbeam, was already aimed at the woman’s forehead.
Dragon Tyranny… ends now.
But then—she lifted her hood.
The crowd gasped.
Fer froze.
His mouth hung open. His bloodshot eyes widened in disbelief, flickering with confusion, shock, and utter impossibility.
No… it can’t be.
The woman on stage—pale-skinned, golden-haired—began to merge in his mind with a figure he had only ever seen in dreams.
She was supposed to exist only in memory. In his past. In his dreams.
How could she be here—on the Speech platform, in the flesh?
Was he still dreaming?
Or… was everything a lie?
His world spun.
The perfect, divine statue within him cracked—fractures spreading across its surface.
His face turned ashen. Lips parted.
And then, barely audible:
“Ingrid.”
Around him, the Aethel People murmured in awe.
“Gods… she’s alive!”
“Is it Ingrid Bishop?”
“Really her?”
“She was killed by the Evil King Kai Xiusu, wasn’t she? Was that just a rumor?”
“Even Ingrid Bishop has submitted to the Empire?”
In the past, the Church had held immense power in Collins City. As Honorary Bishop, Ingrid’s reputation was legendary.
Now, standing before them, she scanned the crowd with gentle eyes, offering a strained smile.
She clutched her robe, voice soft but clear:
“Good evening, everyone. It’s been a long time. I am Ingrid Galces—former Honorary Bishop of the Collins Diocese. And now… Imperial Court Cleric.”
The crowd erupted.
“What?!”
“Ingrid Bishop… she really submitted to the Empire?!”
Below, Fer’s world shattered.
His entire mission—his pain, his suffering, his sacrifice—had been meaningless.
“NO! This can’t be!”
He shook his head violently, eyes wild, collapsing backward.
“This is fake! Ingrid won’t surrender! She’ll never be a slave to that evil dragon!”
He ripped his sleeve aside, revealing the Hidden Wrist Crossbow beneath—his fingers trembling, nearly pulling the trigger in panic.
People nearby scattered, terrified. Someone recognized him—Dawnlight Holy Army.
“Enemy ambush! Maintain order!”
Tiefling Guards surged from all directions, rifles raised, encircling the “madman.”
“He has weapons!”
“That’s Fer from the Wanted Poster! He’s a member of the Dawnlight Holy Army!”
“Seize him! Don’t let him escape!”
They dragged him down, handcuffed him, but he still screamed, tears streaming down his face:
“Ingrid won’t surrender! She’ll never betray us!”
On stage, Ingrid turned at the commotion.
Her heart skipped.
She saw a face—familiar, yet aged, worn, broken.
Fer?
Yes. He had been one of the Amanatara Church’s members—once a blind, destitute boy, healed by her Divine Spell. From that day on, he had become devout, quiet, gentle—always arriving early for worship, full of piety.
She couldn’t reconcile that quiet youth with the wild, shouting man before her.
How did he become this?
She wanted to help. To save him.
But she was powerless.
In her heart, she whispered:
“Sorry…”
She felt guilt for all those who had once believed in her. But she had no choice.
Living in Isdalia for years, she knew the Empire’s military might. She knew the Aethel People’s strength was no match for the machine of war.
Her only mission now was to minimize loss—protect as many lives as possible.
“I’m sorry… but this is the only way.”
She took a deep breath, picked up the speech script prepared by Lord Hans.
“I stand before you today to say: I am alive. The rumors that King Kai Xiusu killed me are false.”
She paused, then continued, voice calm, clear:
“Empire of Ashen does not seek cruelty or oppression. We seek to build a new, peaceful, and advanced order. King Kai Xiusu once said: Social change inevitably provokes fierce resistance from the old powers.”
Under the gentle sunlight, she spoke of reform, justice, progress.
The people listened.
It was the same as decades before—when Ingrid had stood before them, reading scripture, spreading the teachings of Amanata.
A moment of quiet. A moment of hope.
Dragonhead City Prison—Dark Dungeon.
“Impossible… impossible… Ingrid is dead. She’s dead. This is fake!”
Fer sat hunched in the corner, tangled in his own hair, trembling with fear. He muttered over and over.
They called him mad.
But he knew—if he believed this, then everything he had endured meant nothing.
When faith collapses, he chose to lie to himself.
He gathered the broken fragments, piecing together a rough, torn statue—just to keep the dream alive.
Tap… tap… tap…
Footsteps approached.
Fer shuddered, lifting his head.
A man in Imperial uniform stepped into view—mid-thirties, Dragon-Blooded Noble insignia pinned to his chest. Lord Hans.
Their eyes met.
Fer’s vision turned red.
He lunged at the bars, head slamming into the metal again and again, screaming curses:
“You! Damned Dragon’s Claws! You deceived me! Ingrid was murdered by you!”
Hans shook his head. “Fer. Stop pretending. This only makes you look ridiculous. You know the truth. You just refuse to face it.”
“You—”
Fer collapsed, eyes hollow, whispering:
“Impossible… impossible… it’s all fake…”
He wiped his face, then pressed his forehead against the bars, sobbing:
“Where is Ingrid? I want to see her myself!”
“Fer Graded. You’ve led multiple rebellions. Caused massive damage to the Empire. Disrupted social order. By Imperial Law, you should be hanged.”
Hans paused, then added:
“However, Ingrid personally asked for a chance at redemption. If you hand over all intelligence on the Dawnlight Holy Army and its affiliates, you may see her again. A second chance.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
Hans stepped closer, towering over him, his hybrid face—human and dragon—cast a shadow across Fer’s broken form.
“King Kai Xiusu said: A clever betrayal is better than blind loyalty. You understand what that means, don’t you?”
Silence.
Long silence.
Finally, Fer spoke, voice hoarse:
“One last question.”
“Go ahead.”
“…Is this truly Ingrid’s own wish?”
Hans leaned down, his smile slow, calculating.
And in Fer’s eyes—more terrifying than any demon—the smile was the face of the Devil himself.
(End of Chapter)
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