Chapter 63: The Disciplinary Corps

Li Nanke turned and walked toward the branch of thorns, its shape reminiscent of the forbidden object 5–792. The branch lay fallen on the ground, right beside the great bell that had just unleashed its deafening sonic wave.

The bell itself was a massive weapon, both offensive and defensive in nature, and the vibrations of its thunderous peal seemed to carry a stunning, dizzying force—much like a concussion rifle. Had Nanke not donned his powered combat armor in advance, he might have been knocked flat.

But this bell was simply colossal, a metal giant standing as tall as a man and a half—no ordinary person could hope to wield it. Protected by his armor, Nanke reached down to claim his spoils.

Suddenly, he froze, a prickling chill crawling from his toes to his scalp, sending goosebumps across his skin. The sense of danger did not come from the branch at his feet, but from above!

That all-too-familiar, earsplitting bell rang out overhead, followed by the mournful blare of a horn…

Nanke looked up. At the very top of the canyon walls, twisted, hulking figures emerged—Carrion Bell-Strikers!

But that was not the worst of it. What made his blood run cold was the sight of several soldiers in metal armor, each bearing a diamond-shaped “8” sigil of penance on their chests. Their gazes, cold and wild, bore down from above.

A herald sounded the horn three times in quick succession—the assembly call of the Penitents’ Inquisition!

“How are there still Inquisition soldiers stationed on the battlefield?!” Nanke, possessing fragments of Edward’s memory, knew he’d died by the Inquisition’s hand, but not exactly how much time had passed between death and his return. Judging by the state of the corpses, the temperature, and the presence of insects and carrion beasts, he estimated at least four or five days had gone by.

For the Inquisition, the resistance of the Mourning Fellowship amounted to little more than a skirmish. Clearing a battlefield shouldn’t have taken four or five days…

“There are still soldiers garrisoned here. Their numbers are unknown!” Nanke realized the commotion from his battle with the Carrion Bell-Striker had drawn the garrison’s attention.

He could not tell how many soldiers waited above, but the handful of Carrion Bell-Strikers overhead were already more than he could handle.

No time to deliberate. Nanke snatched up the blood-red branch through his armor and broke into a dead sprint for the end of the canyon, firing every thruster at full power. The armor’s propulsion system, designed for off-world maneuvering, couldn’t quite achieve true flight on solid ground, but it boosted his speed and leaping ability tremendously.

His only concern was the armor’s prodigious energy consumption—it was best conserved for critical moments. But now, with blue flames streaming from his back, Nanke ran like the wind, heedless of the cost.

Thunderous booms shook the earth as several Carrion Bell-Strikers slid down the sheer canyon walls, leaping into the ravine with enough force to make the ground tremble. Above, Inquisition soldiers mounted their warhorses and thundered along the ridge, the road ahead sloping downward.

Nanke raced at full speed, desperate to outpace his pursuers and escape the canyon. Beyond its mouth, the land was barren and deathly silent, corpses lashed to wooden stakes everywhere.

The bodies were grotesquely contorted, black thorns coiling around their limbs and torsos, stabbing deep into flesh—yet these long-dead faces wore devout smiles, a sight more terrifying than any scream.

After repeated enhancements, Nanke’s body was now leagues beyond ordinary human limits, his speed and stamina further amplified by his powered armor. The Carrion Bell-Strikers and mounted soldiers fell ever farther behind; only by exerting every ounce of strength might they hope to keep up.

He glanced back. Four Carrion Bell-Strikers led the chase, with thirty or forty mounted Inquisitors trailing behind. He noticed these four were smaller than the one he’d just slain, and their bells lacked the blood-red thorns.

Nanke’s pace was relentless. Guided by Edward’s memories, he followed the road toward the village of Soros.

With each step, the carnage grew. Some corpses were blackened from burning; others bore the marks of plague, their flesh dissolved and faces collapsed; still others, lashed and beaten, lay dead by the roadside.

Some were heretics condemned by the Inquisition; others were victims of their own twisted faith, seeking salvation through pain and self-destruction.

Nanke sped forward. The pursuers were almost out of sight when he suddenly skidded to a stop.

Ahead lay the only road to Soros—a wide stone bridge, and on its long span, more Inquisition soldiers stood guard.

There were just over ten of them, led by a subdeacon in penitents’ robes, wielding a long staff like a candelabrum.

Nanke’s arrival drew their attention. The subdeacon, with a gaze cold and mad, raised the staff and shouted a harsh command.

The Inquisition soldiers surged past him, swords drawn, charging straight for Nanke.

This brief delay allowed his pursuers to catch up.

Now he was truly caught between a rock and a hard place. Powerful as he was, Nanke could probably deal with the soldiers ahead—but not without time. If he was held up even briefly, those behind would overrun him.

His eyes flashed. He charged forward, not toward the soldiers on the bridge, but toward the wide, rushing river beneath!

With a leap from the bank, he plunged straight into the water.

A great splash. The turbulent current swallowed him, heavy armor and all, before he could even struggle—he sank without a trace.

By now, the Carrion Bell-Strikers and mounted soldiers had reached the riverbank. The river here was broad and over ten meters deep, its current swift. Even the Bell-Strikers would be swept away or lost if they tried to cross.

Neither group dared enter the water; they remained on the banks, eyes fixed on the surface. Only after half an hour did the Carrion Bell-Strikers and horsemen reluctantly withdraw.

The Inquisition squad and their subdeacon silently returned to their post atop the bridge, convinced the heretic had perished.

A short while later, a figure hauled himself up by the bridge’s stonework and surfaced.

Nanke glanced up at the bridge, a cold smile on his lips, as though his gaze could pierce the stone and see the soldiers above.

He turned to the horizon. On the distant mountain peaks, the setting sun still hung in the very spot it always did, showing no sign of descending, casting the world in a perpetual, sickly yellow glow.

“What a warped world this is…”

Taking advantage of the moment, he retrieved his hard-won branch of thorns and examined its properties.

He was curious to see just how precious it was, that it had been worth risking so much to obtain.

[Crimson Thorn Branch]
[Type: Item / Inset Component]
[Quality: Superior]
[Rating: 57/100]
[Details: A branch of thorns born from the First Divine Grace, processed through the secret rites of the Penitents’ Inquisition, and bestowed as a miracle upon the most devout and fanatical believers. When bound with a special knot to the hilt of a melee weapon, it increases the weapon’s rating or quality. By driving the thorns into one’s own flesh and enduring the pain, the wielder’s strength and the weapon’s power are enhanced—the greater the pain, the greater the augmentation.]
[This component has potential for further advancement and can be upgraded through special means.]
[Note: The world cast me aside without mercy, and now, I shall repay it in pain… Ah, the pain! Too much pain!]