The Lord Demon King is Unfathomable!

Chapter 1669 470: The Farmer and the King (Part 4)

"Are you talking about the knife repair? It seems like it was a year or two ago... At that time, those guys weren't so crazy, they'd even pay for things."

A farmer couldn't help but shrink his neck, whispering tremblingly.

"...I suspect that guy was taken just to make up the numbers. I think I heard someone say the neighboring village has more people, so they need to kill more to make up for it."

"How many... do they need?"

"I don't know, but I heard there's a number."

"Nonsense! Killing people on the King's land, are they crazy?!" Burton couldn't help but interject, not noticing how close he was to biting his lip from trembling.

The crowd exchanged glances, and finally a young man spoke up hesitantly, whispering softly.

"I heard the King's army is also involved, and they're with them... They want to avenge Count Wivert."

This news was like a bucket of icy water, pouring from Burton's head to his feet, almost dousing his soul.

He returned home, becoming paranoid, not daring to step outside all day, not even daring to look at the sunlight, as if the light would burn him.

His wife didn't understand his overreaction, thinking he was haunted by a Ghost. Unfortunately, there was no Priest in the village, and none in the neighboring town either, so he didn't even know who to pray to.

The nightmares kept increasing.

At first, it was just during daytime naps, but then Burton was being jolted awake by nightmares all night long.

He repeatedly told himself that he was just a stableman, he hadn't killed anyone, nor had he stolen anything...

Well.

He certainly hadn't stolen, but he did help those bandits move things, even if he was forced to.

Burton could swear he never clapped and cheered at the sight of blood like those blood-crazed madmen, caring not one bit whether someone deserved to die or not.

Maybe Saint Sis heard his confession.

But He didn't forgive him.

One sunny afternoon, Burton was teaching his already nine-year-old son how to repair the beams in the house, and as he talked, he digressed to sharing tips on horse care.

He spoke chaotically, and his son listened with a confused look, his thoughts already with his friends outside the window.

Burton was anxious himself, knowing he should be addressing things one by one, knowing that educating a child is like raising a horse, both requiring patience.

Yet there was always a sense of urgency in his heart, as if a voice beyond was reminding him that if he didn't teach many things now, it would be too late.

This house needed no hero, but it needed a beam.

So did his family.

And just as he was talking about which uncle to find when a pot in the house broke, the half-closed wooden door was kicked open with a "bang".

Burton was shocked, and before he could yell, "It's not me," the flying wood chips splattered across his face, knocking him onto his son.

Or perhaps not shielding him, but from some paternal instinct, he wanted to protect his child.

Several Judges, dressed in black robes like the Grim Reaper, stood at the door, accompanied by a few soldiers clad in Armor. The glaring sunlight stretched their shadows long and thin.

The leader held a coarse sheet of paper upon which a long list of names was written in neat handwriting. It might have been the first time even the owners of these names knew how their names were written.

Their names were recorded in writing for the first time, on the Judicial Court's list. How these names ended up there didn't matter to those written on it.

Their methods of interrogation weren't as primitive and brutal as the Green Forest Army's, but they had many strategies, and every tool was forged from steel.

"Burton?"

The leading Judge coldly called out, his voice like iron coins scraping against each other.

Burton could no longer speak, he just tightly covered his son's eyes, ignoring the child's panicked struggles, his face full of despair.

"No! You've got the wrong man! He's a good person!" Burton's wife screamed, rushing forward, clinging to a soldier's leg, begging to these black-robed people, "He's just an honest stableman! Our family has worked for Count Wivert all our lives, we haven't done anything!"

The soldiers remained unmoved.

Two fragile sticks of reed couldn't stop these burly men, with just a kick, they sent the obstructing woman flying to the corner of the wall.

"Scram! None of your business." The soldier barked with a murderous air, his fist gripping the sword hilt creaked threateningly.

Better not mention Count Wivert.

Thinking of that loyal and valiant General, he was eager to chop down all those who had sold their Souls to Chaos!

The Judge said nothing, only looked indifferently at the family in the house; soon, they had to go to the next home.

If the cancer wasn't thoroughly cleansed, the tragedy would only keep repeating, not just for the peace of the Holy City, but for the people living in these remote outskirts.

Burton was ice-cold all over, his blood seemed to freeze instantly.

The defense he rehearsed countless times in his mind was like a stone lodged in his throat, not allowing a single word to escape.

In the face of absolute violence, words had lost their meaning.

He was roughly pulled back, his wrists shackled in cold chains, dragged outside the door like a beast.

He didn't struggle, he didn't shout, under the extreme fear, his body was as stiff as wood.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his son's terrified face, and that bony woman in the corner. Her lips moved as if making a silent cry, her vacant eyes devoid of light.

Maybe, he should have said goodbye.

The sunset light seemed more dazzling than in the afternoon, staining the weed-infested land blood-red, or perhaps that was blood all along.

Fortunately, the Judge found him of little value, or perhaps they had gathered enough people here.

The executing soldiers didn't torture him like the Green Forest Army did to their people; a gunshot ended his perhaps wrongful sins and humiliations.

The village was quiet all night, only after the Judicial Court left did they dare to collect the bodies.

And by collecting the bodies, it merely meant loading the pile of corpses onto a cart and dumping them in a nearby ravine.

Some cried over their loved ones, while others whispered softly—

"Those Priests were quite kind, they even offered prayers for their Souls."

Dead farmers usually received no such treatment, sometimes a Priest would pass by with a caravan, but those who could summon the Holy Light were rare indeed.

Even if they could summon the Holy Light, not every Priest, like Carian, would offer prayers for the dead without charge.

The villagers pushing the cart back murmured among themselves.

Some were grateful for having escaped calamity, some began to thank the Holy Light for sparing not a single wrongdoer, like pigs in a pen discussing weight loss tips, proud that having a straight posture didn't fear the twisting shadows, only those who sold their Souls to Chaos would fear the Holy Light.

And some felt the wrong person was killed, but feared the Judicial Court might come to their home tomorrow, so they kept their mouths shut.

The deterrent worked.

Yet no one noticed, a child waiting at the door for his father's return didn't cry, in those young eyes, a flame of hatred was burning.

Poor little Burton never did learn how to choose mules or repair beams, but he remembered those faces.

And their clothes.

He vowed—

If one day, he could become that Great Sword-wielding hero his father spoke of, he would surely kill all those who barged into his house!