Free Web NovelChapter 369: Chapter 78: A Wish of 300 Years
"Very good." The Great Shepherd Leader’s voice betrayed no emotion. "The pieces are in place, the board is set. Now... I must return to my slumber. I have stood watch for so long, and I need to gather my last reserves of strength before the true ’Promised Day.’ Wake me... when that time comes."
"As you command, Holy Throne." Valken bowed deeply. "May the starlight and the chill winds of the Northern Lands guard your slumber."
From within the shadows, a pair of deep-set eyes gave Valken one last look, then slowly closed.
The tall silhouette seemed to merge completely with the shadows of the hall, its aura rapidly fading until all that remained was a sense of ancient, silent nothingness.
The Valkendu Metropolitan Bishop remained bowed, holding his posture until the final trace of the Great Shepherd Leader’s unique presence had completely dissipated.
Only then did he slowly straighten, his ice-blue eyes regaining their signature coldness, devoid of any warmth.
He turned and, with steady steps, walked out of the grand and frigid hall.
Outside the hall lay the endless, snow-covered wastelands and rolling mountain ranges of the Rosenia Kingdom.
The sky was a high, leaden gray, like a heavy velvet curtain.
He stood alone on the stone steps before the hall, letting the biting early spring wind of the Northern Lands whip at the corners of his deep blue robes.
After a long while, a whisper, like a sigh, blended into the howling wind:
"Three hundred years..."
...
「Glamorgan Territory.」
"Rejected?"
Count Raymond’s voice trembled with disbelief, the eagerness and anticipation on his face instantly freezing over.
He leaned forward, repeating the word almost unconsciously, his eyes locked on Murphy as if searching that calm face for any hint of a joke or a test.
"Wh-why?" His voice was as hoarse as sandpaper. "My lord, you just... you just affirmed our efforts, understood the Holy Throne’s ideals, and even pointed out the thorns and obstacles on the Path... You obviously see it all more clearly and with more foresight than we do! Why..."
The tear tracks on Father Anderson’s face had yet to dry. His joy, before it could even spread, was replaced by shock and bewilderment.
He understood the finality in Murphy’s words more quickly than the Count.
It was not hesitation, not an excuse, but a decisive, unequivocal denial.
"My lord," the Priest’s voice was softer and lower than the Count’s. "If it is because our attempts are too insignificant to earn your favor, we would never dare to insist. But... you clearly said that we were ’doing’ something, rather than ’doing nothing.’ You clearly said that seeing the thorns is for the sake of a better climb..."
He took half a step forward, his hands unconsciously clasped before his chest. His posture wasn’t that of a clergyman accustomed to hearing confessions. He looked more like a supplicant who, having finally seen a glimmer of light in the darkness, was now being told that the light was not for him.
"Since you approve of this direction, and since the Monte Territory itself is, to some extent, practicing similar ideals, why... why are you unwilling to offer even a sliver of support?"
"We are not asking you to publicly take a side, my lord!" Count Raymond finally added urgently, his tone almost pleading. "We understand the risks involved and would never drag you into any potential vortex. We just... we just need a little faith, a little bit of affirmation—even the faintest—from a pioneer like yourself!"
"Glamorgan Territory is too small, and my voice is too weak. Without the support of a stronger conviction, without a guiding star from a higher place, I... I’m afraid that I myself will one day waver in the face of the surrounding doubt and practical difficulties. I’m afraid I’ll let the Priest’s years of hard work, and that little spark of hope just kindled in our people... all be for naught!"
His words were filled with sincere apprehension and a deep awareness of his own inadequacy.
He was no blindly confident fanatic. Precisely because he could see the hardships of the path ahead, he craved support—even if only spiritual—from someone with power.
Aurora watched this scene quietly, her hand resting lightly on the armrest of Murphy’s wheelchair, her fingertips feeling the slight chill of the wood grain.
Eleanor, however, furrowed her brow slightly, her dark eyes shifting between the agitated and baffled Count, the lost and confused Priest, and her ever-calm father.
Murphy endured their searing, pained gazes, his face still showing little expression.
His gaze first fell on Count Raymond’s face, flushed red with agitation, then moved to Father Anderson’s gray-blue eyes, which were filled with incomprehension and hurt.
"I approve of your attitude of ’action,’ and I approve of the ’actions’ you are taking. I understand the ’direction’ indicated by Fuer II’s ideals," Murphy said slowly, his voice steady to the point of coldness. "But that does not mean I support you."
"Aurora, Eleanor," Murphy turned his head, no longer looking at the two hosts who seemed to be nailed to the spot. "We’re leaving."
Aurora didn’t hesitate for a moment. She replied softly, "Yes," and took a firm hold of the wheelchair’s handles.
Eleanor immediately walked to her mother’s side. Her dark eyes took one last look at the crestfallen Count and Priest, then she followed her parents.
The wheels of the wheelchair rolled over the simple stone floor, making a soft but clear sound that was exceptionally jarring in the pin-drop silence of the room.
Count Raymond and Father Anderson stood frozen in place, like two puppets that had suddenly lost their Magic Power, able only to watch as Murphy’s family moved toward the door.
The Count’s lips moved, but he could no longer produce any meaningful sound.
The Priest’s gaze went completely vacant, as if the last ounce of strength supporting him had been drained away.
Incomprehension, confusion, and a dazed sense of having their ideals utterly rejected completely overwhelmed them.
The wheelchair slowly passed by them, about to exit through the open door and into the slightly glaring afternoon sun outside.
Just as the front wheels of the wheelchair were about to cross the threshold, Murphy’s voice sounded again.
He didn’t turn back, and his voice wasn’t loud:
"There has never been any Savior, nor any gods or emperors."
The wheelchair paused for a moment.
"To create happiness for humanity, one must rely entirely on humanity itself."
As his voice faded, the wheelchair continued on without pause, rolling smoothly out the door. Behind it, it left the afternoon sun of Glamorgan Territory and the whisper of wind across the fields, along with the two figures, now completely frozen, inside the room.
