The cold emerald night was as hard as iron.
The dark shadow of the castle stood at the end of the avenue, its gothic spires piercing the night sky like giant ironclad knights erecting dense forests of mounted lances Holy Capital, Vatican.
The ground shook like wild thunder rolling in advance. Eight fiery horses pulling black chariots, spewing white air, galloped into the main gate of the Vatican. All were solid-colored black horses, shrouded in black iron masks, with bloodshot eyes like beasts conjured up by the night. In the center of their foreheads, the iron masks were inlaid with a cross of red brass, and the serpent was nailed to the center of the cross with a sharp sword.
The symbol of "Heresy Judgment Bureau", this is a privileged carriage.
The carriage stopped in the square, and a man dressed in black vestments slowly stepped down from the carriage and looked around coldly.
He was about thirty years old, his hard face already had fine wrinkles, and his long, slightly curled black hair was full of sand. In his left hand was a worn parchment-faced Old Testament, in his right hand was a black carrying case, and particularly conspicuous were the muskets stuck on either side of his thighs. Though dressed in vestments. But unlike other clerics, his vestments are not of soft long-staple cotton or silk texture, but thick felt sewn with thick thread, with the collar raised high to block the blistering wind. The hard lines of this vestment were old, worn white in some places, and wrapped tightly around his muscular body like a piece of armor.
By the looks of it this man was somewhere between a priest, a soldier, and a beast patrolling the wilderness ... perhaps all three. The wind lifted his vestments and the pungent odor of gunpowder filled the air. The priest's gaze was across the massive square, looking out over the majestic building half hidden in the darkness.
It was a white marble church, perched on tiers of stone steps with a spire as stern as a sword. Richly baroque, carved from top to bottom with countless angels, demons, dragons, and holy kings, the vertical sharp angles and lines gave it a slender and morose beauty, but on this dead night, under the light, the ornate white marble façade was reminiscent of walled-in layers of white bones.
Several white lights and hundreds of heavily armed soldiers surrounded it. Half-kneeling at the bottom of the steps, the soldiers slung heavy multi-barreled muskets over their shoulders, their muzzles aimed at the various exits of the church. These Ordnance Bureau special multi-barreled muskets could fire all of their shots at the slightest trigger, and anyone stepping out would instantly be confronted with thousands of shots.
The Holy Land would become a battlefield this night, and the priest stretched his nostrils, inhaling the scent of gunpowder in the air harshly.
The soldier in the black uniform approached him from behind, his gaze cold, "Father Drususus?"
The soldier's chest also bore the bronze insignia of the cross, sword, and serpent, a high-ranking "knight" of the Heresy Bureau, part of the privileged religious army.
The priest handed over his credentials with a blank face.
The knight checked his credentials, nodded slightly, and handed over a document written on parchment.
"A judgment?" Drusus scanned it.
"I apologize for not informing you of tonight's work ahead of time, as everything is classified and no one knows about tonight's work until they arrive here. The same goes for us," the knight said, "Tonight a witch will be burned at the stake, and you are asked to say the dying mass for her."
"Here?" Drusus frowned, "This is the Vatican, a sanctuary, not a torture chamber."
"The witch's evil power is very strong, and it is necessary to use the suppression of the demons in her body." The knight said, "It is also for this reason that you were transferred here from the outer body, you have experience in performing dying masses for vampires and death eaters, there are not many who can do the job."
"The so-called vampires and death eaters are all just fallen souls in the eyes of a benevolent god, and so are we." Drusus drew a cross on his chest.
"The Inquisitor is already waiting for you inside." The knight said, suddenly reaching out to remove Drusus' two muskets, "I apologize, any weapons are not permitted in the Sistine, and there is your carrying case I need to inspect."
Drusus silently opened the black carrying case and a gleam of pure silver splashed out. Crucifix hammers, trebuchet nails, double thin swords, hooks, tooth saws, thin knives shaped like the two thin bones behind a fish's gills ... All of the tools were sterling silver, and even the glass vials that held the grass-green liquids were hooped with sterling silver mouths.
"Is this the legendary torture device? What is this?" The knight grabbed the glass bottle.
"Hemostatic, some of these things cause witches to bleed profusely after they are stabbed in the body. Some of them can't hold out until the fire is lit and they have to be hemostatized." Drusus said lightly.
"Truly the finest priest of execution," the knight exclaimed, "How many heretics have you killed with your own hands?"
"Killed? I thought I was saving their souls." Drusus closed the carrying case.
The metal spindles made a harsh scraping sound and the black iron doors of the church slowly caved in.
Drusus walked slowly up the steps through the gun-toting military men, whose bodies tensed, muscles bulging under their thick uniforms, as if the devil might pounce out of the church at any moment.
It was as if the gates of a reservoir had cracked open, and a sea of warm light tilted out in a sea of light tilted out in a sea of light tilted out in a sea of light tilted out in a sea of light tilted out in a sea of light tilted out in a sea of light tilted out in a sea of light tilted out in a sea of light spilling onto Drusus as if a great orgy was being held inside, but silent spilling onto Drusus as if a great orgy was being held inside, but quiet and without a sound. The knight stopped before he reached the end of the steps, "You are the only one authorized to enter, I have no permission to go forward."
"It is well," said Drusus blandly, "that I have made the spectacle of the dying mass, which some would be uncomfortable to see." He stepped into the church, the black-iron doors closing behind him, and the last sight the knight saw was the black back of the priest walking through the flame-colored aisles as if he were a lonely soul walking into hell.
"A priest from the provinces, how dare he be so arrogant in front of the Heresy Judgment Bureau." The knight's fellow officer, the Musket Captain, walked to his side. From the beginning, Drusus did not salute this high ranking knight.
"Priests who say they say they are celebrating the dying mass are in fact executioners of the highest caliber," said the knight, "and it takes a harder heart to stick a man with those delicate tools than it does for us to drive a gunshot into a man's body. Such men cannot be offended, and have nothing to do with position, for they are too close to death."
"I've heard they call themselves sculptors, but they don't sculpt plaster, but human bodies." The Musket Captain shrugged, "Come to think of it who is closer to the devil, such people or witches."
"Have your men ready to fire, we obtain direct authorization from the Pope, anyone who tries to enter or leave this church without permission can simply be shot." The knight ordered in a low voice, "From now on, this is purgatory."
The church was lit by candlelight like mountains and oceans, illuminating the grand zenith and frescoes. Thousands of white candles were lit in hundreds of silver candlesticks, and a roll of red carpet went down into the depths. At the end of the red carpet was a black coffin surrounded by a dense mass of long sterling silver spikes. After putting the body of the deceased into the coffin, the undertaker would hammer down all the silver nails, and these barbed nails would seal the coffin completely, and then suppress a huge stone on top of the coffin, so as not to have the deceased, who had been seduced by the devil, come back from hell. This was the tradition of burying vampires and witches, and it was said that when the coffins of those heretics were opened years later, they would see deep scratches all over the inside of the lid, and the dead bones of those heretics actually grew sharp nails.
But the casket was exceptionally beautiful, not only in craftsmanship and wood, but the center of the lid was even inlaid with a cross in gold. The entire casket was surrounded by thousands of bright red roses. The witch on this occasion came from an honorable family, there was no doubt about it.
The Inquisitor was seated at a long table next to the coffin. He wore a black robe that hung down to the soles of his feet, without a hint of any other color. The black robe was attached to a hood that covered his hair as well. His face was covered with an iron mask etched with the pattern of the Holy One slaying dragons. It was the usual attire the Inquisitors wore they did not show their faces in front of people.
Drusus frowned slightly, there was actually someone sitting at the long table.
A boy covered in white, about seven or eight years old. Drusus couldn't help but look straight into the boy's eyes, probably everyone who saw the boy for the first time would notice his eyes, the black pupils were a shade more beat up than normal, so black that they had no impurities. Gazing into his eyes was like gazing into a dark night without stars or moon.
The boy stood up and courteously saluted Drusus, opening his mouth to speak his name. Just then a wind blew from nowhere and thousands of candle flames were dimmed. His name was swallowed up by the wind.
"Father Drusus, please be seated." The Inquisitor nodded slightly, "Now, we are all here."
"Here we will go through the final procedures, followed by the execution by fire. Both of you will sign the closing text, we are the ultimate witnesses to this trial. The eyes of God are behind us." The inquisitor drew a cross on his chest.
The inquisitor pushed a thick stack of documents in front of Drusus, the full dossier. Each of the witch's charges was recorded, accompanied by different testimonies, and each document was signed by the court. The testimonies were as hard as iron, researching black magic, performing blood sacrifices, stealing corpses, worshipping demons, and insulting the sacred ... According to religious law, any of these were punishable by life imprisonment. Drusus flipped to the last document and hesitated for a split second. This last document stated the crime of the witch attempting to burn her two children to sacrifice them to the devil.
"She tried to burn her own children?" Drusus raised his eyes.
"Yes, all heretical crimes involving human decency are doubly punished, and it was this last crime that shot her to the stake." The Inquisitor said, "But witches practicing black magic have always believed that in order to exchange something from the devil, one must give up what is most precious to them, and while a virgin will give up her chastity to lust with someone for that evil desire, a mother will give up her own flesh and blood, and that is the most impermissible of evils."
"I understand, but this document is unsigned." Drusus pushed the dossier back, "The executioner must check the entire court document, all procedures must be complete, or I cannot sign the execution."
"All procedures will be intact." The Inquisitor handed a tube of dip pens to the boy sitting next to Drususus.
"You may refuse to prove your mother's guilt, there are other witnesses who can sign, but write your name if you wish." His eyes were gentle and grave behind his iron mask, and his voice was low and thick, fatherly and trustworthy.
Drusus shuddered slightly and snapped his head around to look at the boy. This was not his first execution; he had faced all manner of soon-to-be-executed heretics and their families with all manner of expressions, from stupefied to devastated to frenzied. Death was the scythe of God's harvest, capable of tearing away all human pretenses and exposing the hidden nature of the heart, and almost everyone was naked and wantonly mad in the face of death. But in the boy's eyes, he saw only black as night and hard as iron.
Was it hatred for his mother's attempt to kill him as a sacrifice? Drusus dared not assert.
"Whether you sign or not, there is no need to worry about yourself; witchcraft does not affect relatives. You are innocent, and the Pope has granted special dispensation that you will be legally disowned as kin after the execution. In other words, after this night, she will no longer be your mother." The inquisitor added.
"Thank you, Your Holiness." The boy said good-naturedly.
He read the testimony carefully from beginning to end, word by word, and nodded, "I can attest to everything said here." He signed his name at the end with a dip pen and pushed the document back to the Inquisitor.
"Now that the entire procedure is complete, Father, do you have any questions about the execution?" The inquisitor turned to Drusus. Without answering, Drusus took the dip pen from the boy and signed his name on the executioner's line.
"Well, Father, please go up the spiral staircase behind me, the witch is waiting for you there." The inquisitor drew a cross on his chest, "Amen."
Drusus rose and lifted the black box, the instruments inside making a heavy sound. He turned to go, without the slightest intention of saying goodbye; the priest from the provinces seemed to be particularly deficient in the area of etiquette.
"Are there no other questions? For example ... who is to be executed." The inquisitor asked from behind him.
The name of the witch in the scroll was smeared with black gum, and it was unlikely that Drusus hadn't noticed this. It was often the case during the execution of nobles that the covered words were still visible in the hot sun after the gum was applied, but the candlelight couldn't pass through, an attempt to preserve the honor of the family the criminal belonged to. But the executioner would often be especially cautious in such cases; after all, it was to kill a man of high standing, and no one could be sure that there would not be retaliation afterward.
"I am called an Executioner, but in my heart, I am just a priest." Drusus said lightly, "This is a fire execution as well as a dying mass, God will not give up on any lonely soul, I just have to carry out my mission."
"Even if that's the devil?"
"Even if it is the devil."
"What a pious man." The inquisitor exclaimed softly.
"I'd like to see him one last time," the boy rose, "if I may."
Drusus froze. The tone of the boy's request was soft and meek, as if he were asking the Sister to let him out to play for a while. But he was asking for something terrible, asking to watch his mother burn with his own eyes.
"What's the point of going to see her now when you're no longer her child in her eyes, a sacrifice to the devil?" The Inquisitor sighed softly.
"Just wondering why?" The boy lowered his head.
It was the first time Drusus had ever detected sadness in his voice, a sadness that was quiet but vast, like the silent rising tide of an iron-gray sea.
The Inquisitor was silent for a long time and got up and touched the top of the boy's head, "It is a courageous thing to be able to face evil on your own, and I hope that this experience increases your righteousness, you are a child of God, and God's gaze is on the top of your head."
The boy walked over to Drusus and gently took his hand.
Drusus flinched and involuntarily tried to shake it off. He rarely touched people, or few people wanted to; he was the Executioner, and believers believed in his steadfast heart that suppressed demons and honored him as a holy man. But bloodstained hands were always intimidating, as if they had been transformed into murder weapons. While other priests would touch the tops of the heads of the believers after the ceremony, he never did so, and he would not even hand out communion to the saints because he could see the disgust in the eyes of the believers at that moment. It was as if the plate contained the flesh and blood of a heretic, and touching him was as disturbing as touching a cold snake.
Gradually he also felt a trace of blood on his body, and he repeated his baptism by immersing himself in a cold stream. He received the cheers of the faithful in public, but lived in a remote house where no one wanted to be his neighbor, and it was said that because he had killed too many demons, their spirits surrounded his house, ready to pounce on his heart and tear it out when he was not firm enough. Occasionally a believer with a new lung disease would come up and ask to be able to kiss the palm of his hand, their eyes glittering with anticipation and greed, those believers believed that they could lick the blood of the dead from Drusus' hand, which was seen as a good cure for lung disease.
So upon contact with the boy's slightly cool hand, Drusus immediately tried to struggle, like a snake being grabbed. One only knows that a snake's scales are creepy to touch, but never thinks about the panic a snake feels when being held.
But he suddenly felt the boy's hand trembling slightly. He looked down and touched the boy's eyes, who was looking up at him, a sea of candlelight reflected in his dark pupils. No one in his memory had ever looked at him like this before, and he saw total unreserved trust and dependence in the boy's eyes. There had been countless devotees who had prostrated themselves to look up to him, but those eyes were different, tinged with awe and too much thirst.
In the eyes of the believers, he was a weapon to slay demons, and at the moment he mistook himself for a father. No matter what the father was, a miner, a butcher, or a backstabber, the child would never find his hands dirty.
"Scared?" Drusus asked in a low voice.
The boy nodded.
"Follow me." Drusus gripped the slightly cool hand slightly tighter so that he didn't have to tremble. They walked higher and higher along the thin, tall, black iron spiral staircase as the oceanic candlelight below them faded. The Inquisitor snapped out the candles one by one with a small brass bowl in his hand, dragging on his black robes like a black snake devouring the light. At last he went to the organ and sat down and began to play, and it was a requiem, like a whole legion of angels singing in the clouds, like a storm of rain and thunder. But beyond the storm and the thunder there was a vague sadness
Through the reaching darkness, a waterfall of moonlight came crashing down.
A huge moon wheel broke through the clouds and hung from the roof of the chapel, with a huge black cross stuck in the center of the black marble terrace. The woman was bound to the cross as if in a deep sleep. She wore a white robe, and the soft fabric clung to her frame in the breeze, outlining devilishly seductive curves, but her face was seared bright by the moonlight, so holy that it would not allow any dust to stain it.
"Amen." Drusus drew a cross on his chest. It was a devil's shell, but it seemed a sin to burn such a perfect shell.
"Is that your mom?" Drusus asked.
The boy nodded, "Can I come closer and talk to her?"
"No,, no one can guarantee she won't hurt you."
"But she's my mom," the boy said softly.
"Even though she tried to sacrifice you to the devil, do you still believe she's your mom?"
"But I don't have another mom" the boy lowered his head.
Drusus' heart twitched slightly deep inside.
"Don't get too close." Drusus loosened his grip.
The boy walked towards the cross with soft steps as if he was afraid of waking the woman from her wonderful dream. Finally he stopped five feet away from the woman, and being the obedient boy he was, he stood within safe range
"Mommy," he called softly.
The woman on the cross slowly opened her eyes, they were as clear and blue as summer water, hidden under thick lashes. Her eyes suddenly lit up when she saw the boy.
"Son, I've been waiting for you." The woman's gaze was gentle and content.
"I wanted to come see you too, but they wouldn't let me." The boy said, "They said it wasn't safe."
"Don't believe them, those are charges they made up. You are your mother's own children, even if God wanted to snatch you away from you mother would cut off his hand, how could he spare you for sacrifice?" The woman said.
Drusus was a silent bystander, the woman refused to plead guilty but the execution would not be paused, the Heretic Judgement Bureau was a privileged body and their approval did not need to be acknowledged by the heretics.
The boy lowered his head, "But you poured the oil on us with your own hands."
"It wasn't a sacrifice," the woman said confessing, "It was just to kill you all. Mommy had no choice, for you are the sins that the devil sent into the world through Mommy's womb. Mama loves you in her heart, but you should not have been born."
The last vestige of Drusus' anxiety was dispelled. There was no mistaking the outcome of the trial; it was exactly the kind of thing that only one or two deranged witches would say, with not even affection left in her eyes, but only obedience to the laws of evil. But she was still so beautiful, like a serpent or scorpion biting the body of an angel and borrowing their shell.
The boy was silent for a long time, "I'm sorry you're mad mom." He turned back to Drusus, "I have delayed you, I have finished what I was going to ask."
Drusus touched the top of the boy's head and unveiled the black box, a wide array of instruments reflected the full moon, a hideous cold light flowing from the hooked blades. The woman's eyes widened and she hissed, "What is that thing? What are you doing?"
Drusus rubbed the instruments of torture with holy water with an expressionless face, like a sculptor preparing his own carving knife, "The trial resulted in a fiery death, to be carried out this night. It will not be painful, I have mixed a trace of anesthetic into both the holy water and the medicine to stop the bleeding. I don't know who arranged this for you, but the intention of transferring me here was not torture, but extra-legal grace. In your position, you haven't seen anyone killed by fire, have you? Each wreckage looks like it's been simmered in purgatory, the bones twisted beyond belief, and that's not something an ordinary man can endure. What I can do is use a torture device to isolate your tendons and vital nerves, so that you'll have less pain during the execution and won't break your neck from the extreme spasms of your muscles."
He slipped his hands around the crescent-shaped hooks, "This is used to hook your collarbone to the cross, for example."
"Roll! Get away! You devil!" The woman yelled.
"The crime has been pronounced, ma'am, and it is too late to repent, let alone roar." Drusus said softly, "The pain of the fire is ten times greater than that, and sinners always care not to inflict pain on others for their evil desires, but fear and plead as they face the penalty themselves."
"No don't, please don't" large tears rolled from the woman's eyes. Just a moment ago she had been the hissing, evil woman, but at this moment she had suddenly turned into a pathetic, weak woman. Despite being a woman who had already given birth to two children, that incomparable beauty submerged in tears still made people not see her as a girl, her devilishly delicate body slightly twisted, as if she had felt the pain of the fire torture in advance, with a seductive charm that made people tremble with fear.
Drusus surrendered both betel hooks in his left hand and opened his right hand to the woman, yelling, "Quiet! Devil!"
His hand was tattooed in magic with angels holding flaming swords, with the gods written above them in ancient script, as if divine power had literally rushed out of his palm to envelop the woman, who was ashen-faced and trembling. Her compelling features dimmed, and the full moon was obscured by the floating clouds behind her. Drusus slowly unbuttoned the cowl of his clerical garb, stripped off his arms, fastened the sleeves at the waist, and peeled off the tattered shirt from his body. The woman screamed in horror. As Drusus tensed his muscles and his bare chest and back, the angels and demons fighting the black flames seemed to awaken, their faces twisted in rage.
"Put away your beauty, it is useless." Drusus slowly approached the woman.
The woman's beautiful eyes glowed a desperate gray as she realized that Drusus' approach was the approach of death. The execution had already begun, she would be nailed to the cross by these strange instruments of torture, and then turned into charcoal inch by inch in the flames, her flesh and blood drying up and then burning up, and the end of every nerve feeling like it was being torn by a poisonous snake with fiery fangs. The pain was enough to destroy anyone's soul.
"Living, true, and eternal God, we offer you everything." Two of Drusus' hooks ran through the woman's shoulders and nailed into the cross, blood blooming like flowers. The woman hissed and screamed, and Drusus immediately pressed cotton gauze with as much hemostatic medicine as he could into her wounds.
Burning at the stake was the harshest punishment in the Heretic's Bureau, as the flames were believed to banish all evil, forcibly stripping the evil from the heretic. Every execution priest is highly trained to make sure that the heretic is either set on fire, and they must pay the price for what they have done by receiving the unparalleled agony of the fire.
The woman writhed at the stake, like a woman in labor who could not endure the pain, the chains sinking deep into her beautiful body.
"David and Hebra testify; the earth will melt in flames, and that day will be the day of the wrath of God, and how I will tremble when the Judge comes in the future, when all things will be questioned in detail, and scrupulously liquidated!" Drusus pinched up two curved thin blades and thrust them down the sides of the woman's neck.
"If it is too much to bear, turn away." Drusus turned back.
The scene was too brutal for a child of seven or eight, even if it was a stranger who was being executed. But to Drusus' surprise the boy stood closer instead. He watched the woman being tortured in silence, his eyes no longer showing any pity or sadness, empty of anything.
"What's the use of turning away? It would just be an escape. The torture device will still go through her, and I still know she's in pain." The boy said softly, teardrops sliding across his face, his pupils clear as water.
Drusus was silent for a moment, driving the thin, three-pronged spike between the woman's wrist bones, striking it with a cross-hammer amidst the woman's wailing, "When I would do good, there is evil with me. Who will deliver me from this body that takes death?"
"Everyone has the right to escape; there is no need to force yourself to be brave." He finished reciting the words of the Mass and turned his head to the boy.
"The weak, in the end, are useless." The boy said in one word.
Drusus' heart fluttered, "Want to hammer yourself into a weapon? Child."
"Have you not also hammered yourself into a torture device? Father."
Drusus sighed wordlessly, "All hard things ... eventually break."
"Brothers and sisters! I urge you by the mercy of God to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God; it is only right that you should serve in this way." He grabbed the curved spikes like gill bones and stabbed the woman at two points just below her sternum, the woman could no longer wail, she was wincing in pain, her whole body was drained of strength by the pain, and if she had not been bound to the cross in death, she would have collapsed to the ground as if her spine had been jerked out of her body.
"None of this is pain compared to the fire torture." Drusus said softly.
"Sizzle! Sizer! Please Father, don't do this ... I confess! I have sinned!" The woman screamed hoarsely at the boy, "Don't ... don't burn me at the stake, can you use a knife? Cut my throat with a knife!"
For the first time, Drusus knew the boy's name was Sizer.
"I'm sorry, pyromaniacs can't be executed any other way, the flames are God's way of purifying you." Drusus said, "You shall suffer severe pain."
"Sizer ... Sizer, I can't take it anymore, I can't take it anymore! Save mommy, save mommy will you?" The beautiful pupils of the woman's eyes were full of pleading.
"Is it okay to hurry, Father?" Sizer looked up at Drusus.
"What?"
"I'll hold her for you." Sizer said, "It will be easier for you, it will be faster, and she will be in less pain.
"Is it all right to be an accomplice to the executioner in order to ease your mother's pain?"
"But that's all I can do. What's the use of running away? What's the point of crying?" Sizer wiped away the tears on his face, "The weak, after all, are useless."
After a long silence, Drusus sighed softly, "How stubborn ..."
Sizer walked over to the woman and gently took her into his arms, the woman trembled with exhaustion and rested her chin on the boy's shoulder, panting hard.
"Sizzle ... Sizzle, is mommy going to die?"
Sizzle didn't answer, struggling to bar his mother in a tight hug, gently stroking her long silky hair. For a seven or eight year old child he can only do so much, the next descends on the woman's body of the pain no one can bear for her, that pain can be a person for the happiness of all the beliefs of the good crushed. He could only warm the woman with his own body, and this was the woman's last happy memory in this world.
This is the so-called farewell, right? People will also have this step, and will be as powerless as the fox that is about to freeze to death, all the wealth and power come to nothing, and what can be passed to each other is only that little bit of warmth.
"These are days of agony, when the dead shall rise from the dust, and sinners shall be condemned. Yet O Lord of Heaven! Pray for forgiveness. Lord! Grant them rest. Amen!" Drusus finished reciting the final Mass text and grasped the instruments of torture all in his hands. After these silver instruments were fully inserted into the woman's body, she would never be able to move again, between life and death, before being doused with kerosene and ignited into a grand blaze.
But he suddenly realized that a thin silver sword was missing, which turned out to be used to seal the pyromaniac's two knees.
"Sizer, you are my son ... It is so good." The woman wept as if she had just awakened from a nightmare, "You were with your mother until the end ... together ..."
Drusus jerked his head up and touched the woman's surprised eyes. Great horror exploded in his mind. It was never the look of a mother seeing her child, but the, hungry rapture of a beast seeing its flock.
"To hell together!" The woman hissed shrilly. The angelic features transformed into the twisted face of a devil; one moment her beauty was brittle and thin like thin ice on a spring stream, the next moment it was completely taken over by hideousness, hatred, and bloodlust. She opened her mouth and viciously bit into the boy's carotid artery.
One moment she was dying, the next she rose up like a lioness and bit down viciously on Sizer. It was all camouflage, she was not weakened to the point of immobility at all, she had always carefully hidden a strength that she used to bite her son to death.
She craved her son's fresh arteries like a bloodthirsty she-wolf.
"Heretic! You shall be damned to hell!" Drusus roared with open palms. It was too late for him to swoop in and free himself, the only hope at the moment was to put his hopes in his years of austerity. He was different from all the other priests, he hadn't attended a seminary, hadn't been instructed by any teachers, he had spent ten years in the depths of the desert where there was almost no human presence, using his ascetic band to leave countless scars on his body to hone his spirit and hone himself into a set of torture instruments to punish the devil. Every tattoo on his body seemed like holy words, and the devil dared not approach.
But then he felt the raging fury come over him, with a strong scent of blood, destroying his roar and his confidence. The aura that struck from the witch in this instant was as supremely evil and fierce as the Burial Grounds.
No wonder the Heresy Judgment Bureau had arranged so many knights to surround this place like an iron barrel. Without the Sanctuary's suppression, this witch might not have been chained up at all.
The woman's white teeth bit down hard on Sizer's artery. Sizer remained still, holding the woman as blood splattered all over his white clothes, slithering like a small snake through the folds of the silk. Moonlight poured down on the mother and child from a gap in the clouds, and if it weren't for the shocking red color, the scene would have been as quiet as a mother and child snuggling into sleep.
Sizzle eased the dagger out of his mother's heart, a foot-long blade of pure silver, the same thin sword that Drusus couldn't find, and a full force thrust was enough to pierce the heart. A great deal of blood gushed out of the wound and splashed onto Sizzle's face. The woman shuddered slightly, the blow through her heart had completely dislodged her. A hazy hint of a smile rose to her lips as her teeth slowly disengaged from the boy's neck. She bit down really hard, leaving deep teeth marks. With only the last ounce of strength left, life and death were turned upside down in an instant.
Drusus had seen all sorts of heretics before, and before they were executed some of them were so mad they dared not look back, but never had he felt as if the soul in his shell had been shaken as this one. There was something about him that couldn't tell the difference between truth and falsehood, between the warmth in his face and the viciousness in his heart, so intimately that he couldn't tell the difference, in a child so small and a mother so beautiful.
He maneuvered mechanically, like a craftsman repeatedly punching holes in leather. The boy's every movement was precise and forceful, without a trace of ferocious violence, just blood.
The pupils of the woman's eyes regained their purity, all that madness and harshness disappeared, as if with the blood a demon had flowed out of her body. She kissed the boy's cheek with blood-stained lips, leaving a blood-red lip mark.
Sizzle let go of the woman and took a step back, carrying the blood soaked short sword, "That's all I can do for you ..."
"Thank you, child, though you are a devil." The woman's head hung slowly.
Sizzle threw down the thin, bloodied sword and silently turned, brushing past Drusus. There was no explanation, nor did he need any.
He had come here to kill this woman. He was silent and meek, yet strong as steel, for he had simply thought of everything.
"Pour kerosene on it and burn her." Cesaire said softly, "Mass is over, it's time for the execution by fire."
"But she's already dead." Drusus stared at the incredulous teenager, "You used me, you've been using me from the beginning, it was all a trick you constructed.
"I'm a child. What can you do but use people? I couldn't bring a weapon here." Sizzle bowed his head, "She's my mother, she's just crazy, how can I watch her die at the stake? That pain is not humanly tolerable."
You're a crazy person."
"Maybe, I don't know, but crazy is better than weak. Weaklings, after all, are useless." Sizzle and the Inquisitor rubbed shoulders.
The Inquisitor was startled and ran up to the execution terrace, but it was too late.
"Ceezer, is this your answer to me?" The Inquisitor asked softly.
"Yes, Father." Cizer slowly walked down the spiral staircase.
"My Lord Cardinal, this is my only failure." Drusus looked at the Inquisitor.
"You have guessed my identity?" The Inquisitor nodded slightly, "It is my grief and my family's shame, and I must erase this sin with my own hands. Now let us carry out the execution by fire." He picked up the iron bucket containing the kerosene and walked over to the woman, drenching her all over as if he were baptizing her. Drusus watched all this and thought the woman was as beautiful as if she had been bathed in water.
The inquisitor fished out the fire sealed in a copper tube from under his black robe and threw it at the pyre.
A roaring fire blazed up from the top of the church.
The knights in charge of the guard fired their guns into the air at the same time, the deafening sound of the shots a tribute to God. At last a mighty demon was crushed by the light of the deep and buried in flames. The entire night they had been on full alert, and at this moment they could finally put their hearts down.
But at that very moment, the black iron gate opened up, the shaft of the gate made a piercing rubbing sound, and in an instant, all the knights were under the illusion that some fierce, angry, and grim air current was running away from that darkness.
It was like millions of swords spraying in all directions.
They unanimously tried to load their bullets, but looked at each other in disbelief when they saw it. Walking out of the church was the boy in red and white, facing hundreds of muskets with dry barrels, he walked softly down the steps, his clear pupils reflecting the starry sky.