(There are those who have exchanged a single coin for drunkenness, for fleshly intimacy, for garments dyed in dazzling colors.)
Oxeiburt ran swiftly through the bustling crowd, his expression urgent, almost frantic.
"Hah—move aside!"
He begged and shoved his way through people who cursed at him, until he finally reached the central area where the parade was to begin, waiting impatiently for it to start.
And just one minute later, the church bells rang.
With them came the procession, marching down the city's main road.
At the very center of the first column stood a carriage bearing a crimson butterfly crest—radiant with nobility and ostentation.
Ignoring the crowd entirely, Oxeiburt charged straight through them, sprinting toward the carriage.
"Curse!"
He uttered a single word.
The soldiers who tried to stop him collapsed instantly, clutching their throats as if scorched from within.
Hatred filled their eyes as they stared at Oxeiburt—though they themselves did not know why. Yet their pupils shimmered faintly with light.
Oxeiburt paid them no mind.
Ignoring the fallen soldiers and the chaos he had caused, he rushed straight toward the butterfly emblem and began chanting an incantation.
Words like chains spilled from his mouth, binding around Oxeiburt's own head—four shackles in total, coiling around his neck, eyes, ears, and mouth.
(They indulge day and night—sleeping, then playing; playing, then eating; eating, then sleeping.They disregard all arrogance in the world, caring only for today and for themselves.)
Oxeiburt stomped madly over the fallen soldiers, throwing himself at the carriage—
—and then his eyes lit up with a golden glow.
BOOM!
…
That was a very long time ago.
Back then, Oxeiburt was merely a young man in his twenties.
He was almost a prodigy—a shining example for those who sought power through religion.
At the age of twenty-five, he had already attained the rank of priest—exceptionally young by any standard.
Yet becoming a bishop was difficult, for he bore a flaw.
Cursed mana.
A mark left by years of abuse from his devout father, who beat him relentlessly in the name of "purification" and "atonement."
Even so, Oxeiburt did not hate the church entirely.
Because within those walls, there had been a girl who grew up alongside him.
Sophile.
She was the only one who ever held his scarred back in her arms.
The one he loved with all his heart, but perhaps his love for power outweighed even that.
At twenty-seven, he struck a deal with the church.
Illegal substances were smuggled into the village.
Drugs.
The church claimed it was to later "eradicate" the problem, to strengthen faith by creating a disaster and then resolving it.
Heroic, wasn't it?
That same year, Oxeiburt was elevated to bishop.
He attended grand banquets.
He had the woman he loved—Sophile.
He owned a large house in the village.
All of it, earned through nothing more than a few stamps on blank sheets of paper.
Then—
At some point, Sophile became addicted to drugs.
At some point, the purge of the "Children of the Devil" began.
At some point, Sophile gave birth to a child that was not his.
At some point, flowers were placed upon her final home.
At some point, he began purchasing slaves who resembled Sophile, and raped them.
At some point, he killed them.
…
Oxeiburt did not raise Sophile's child.
He handed the infant over to the church.
He was not the father.
He was not Sophile's husband.
And besides—a bishop was permitted no love other than God.
But he never knew where the child ended up after that.
…
Oxeiburt tore open the carriage door in a frenzy—
—but it was empty.
The chains wrapped around his neck stretched outward, lashing violently in all directions, striking the figures attempting to ambush him from behind.
Seeing the butterfly emblem on their clothing, he attacked them with madness.
…
(They wish to abandon everything except themselves.For pleasure exists only in reality, only in the present.Why concern oneself with anything else?Pleasure is what everyone waits to feel—is it not?)
Sophia stood at a distance.
She alone remained still amid a crowd fleeing in panic.
Dressed in luxurious attire, she watched the battle calmly.
She slowly raised her hand—her ring finger and middle finger.
Snap.
Crimson-pink threads coiled around her fingers, spreading outward.
In an instant, everyone around her stopped.
From the hearts of all people—no, from every soul in the city—grew a red-pink thread, rising above their heads and intertwining.
All of them connected to the two threads on Sophia's fingers.
Then—
Everyone returned to where they had been.
They cheered once more.
They welcomed the parade as if nothing had happened.
Lust and love cloud the eyes of mankind.
(Yet they do not understand:The pleasure of lust is the opposite of love.One is the pinnacle of bodily ecstasy.The other, the pinnacle of spiritual happiness.They are both one—and utterly alien to each other.)
Only then did she turn her gaze back to the battlefield.
Oxeiburt was struck, slammed into someone by the roadside, and fell into the crowd.
Oxeiburt muttered softly, but his voice was drowned out by thousands of others.
His voice could no longer be heard by anyone.
A/N:I do not discriminate against religion. In fact, I greatly admire the story of Jesus Christ.However, I do not like the Church very much—there are many reasons for that, on many levels.
Still, thank you for reading. ^^