Depraved Noble: Forced To Live The Debaucherous Life Of An Evil Noble!-Chapter 519: May Joy Be Born From Misery

Even though many among the crowd could no longer bear the sight and had begun to flee the majority still remained.

Their eyes were fixed upon the woman in white standing amidst the carnage. But instead of fear, what lingered in their gazes was something far more complex.

Gratitude. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Some clasped their hands to their chests and bowed their heads. Others whispered silent prayers.

"Blessed be the sister of judgment...Blessed be her hand..."

To them, what she had done was not an act of cruelty, but of divine justice. A purging of evil that the heavens themselves had sanctioned.

This was no massacre. This was deliverance as the people understood who these men were.

Only months before, the southern plains had been struck by the worst floods in two centuries—fields drowned, villages washed away, barns emptied, families left without a single grain of rice to survive the coming winter.

In response, the royal court had dispatched vast stores of food and medicine, entrusted to these eight officials for fair distribution among the starving.

But greed had triumphed over duty.

Instead of fulfilling their charge, the men had diverted the supplies to their own trade routes, selling the rations for gold and pocketing the profits.

Barely a tenth of what was meant for the needy ever reached its destination. And because of that entire settlements withered in hunger.

Mothers buried their children. Husbands starved beside empty granaries. In some districts, the dead outnumbered the living, and whole villages became ghost towns swallowed by silence.

When their crimes were uncovered, their influence shielded them.

Connections in the bureaucracy erased records, bribes bought silence, and petitions for justice vanished into the hands of corrupt clerks.

The kingdom might have forgotten the dead—had one desperate soul not walked into a small chapel one evening.

He was a simple villager, half-mad with grief, the only survivor of his family. He fell to his knees before the altar and begged—voice hoarse, broken—for the Goddess to strike down the monsters who had taken everything from him: his wife, his son, his home.

He cried until the candles went out.

And it was not heaven that answered his prayer.

It was her.

Sister Joy, who had been praying in silence a few pews away, had heard his voice.

Within a week, she and her order of battle-trained sisters—nuns who took oaths not only of devotion but of retribution—had tracked down the culprits.

They seized their ledgers, intercepted their caravans, and uncovered every falsified report that tied their crimes to the starving lands.

By the seventh day, the evidence was so absolute that even the Royal Empress herself had signed off on the verdict.

Thus, the hammer fell not in defiance of law, but with its blessing and what the crowd had witnessed today was not a massacre.

It was judgment, sanctified by the crown and the church alike.

Their properties were also already confiscated.

Their families had been taken into custody.

And within a week, twenty-four more would hang from the gallows, and those less guilty would spend the rest of their lives toiling in labor camps, stripped of their names and wealth.

All this..because one broken man had whispered a prayer.

One plea, heard by a woman who did not believe mercy was owed to the wicked and for many who watched, Sister Joy was no mere nun.

She was the Hammer of the Goddess, the one who listened when heaven turned away.

But who was she truly?

Why would a woman who once preached compassion choose to wield execution instead?

The story did not begin with her, but with another woman entirely.

Her mother. Sister Maria.

Maria served as a nun in a small chapel nestled within the Hawthorne Estate, one of the most prosperous lands in the southern provinces.

The estate sprawled over green, rolling hills and silvery rivers, its air thick with the scent of lavender and sheep’s wool.

The young lord of the estate, Lord Reinhardt Hawthorne, was a man admired by both nobles and commoners alike.

He was diligent, intelligent, and fair in his dealings, known to personally visit the shepherds and farmers who worked under him.

His wife, Lady Helena, was equally beloved—a gentle soul who organized food drives and built orphanages, earning the admiration of every household in their domain.

Together, they were the very image of nobility and grace.

But among all the figures the people praised, none were loved more than Sister Maria.

To the villagers, she was a ray of sunlight wrapped in white linen. Her smile could calm an argument, her voice could make even the most hardened men weep with repentance. She moved through the chapel’s halls with warmth in every gesture, always offering comfort, a prayer, or a helping hand.

Thieves, widows, beggars, and soldiers alike came to her to confess their sins and somehow, all left lighter. Even the worst of men swore to change after speaking to her.

Many said she wasn’t merely serving the Goddess—she was her embodiment.

And Lord Reinhardt, though proud and strong, was still a man burdened by responsibility.

He carried the weight of an entire estate—its workers, its economy, its peace on his shoulders and on days when the strain grew unbearable, when political disputes or royal taxes pressed too heavily, he often found himself wandering toward the chapel.

And there, he would find Maria.

He never spoke of his troubles to anyone but her. Her voice had a way of softening the sharp edges of his thoughts, and every conversation left him feeling lighter, freer, as though the air itself had been cleansed.

Unknowingly, day by day, his admiration became longing.

He tried to bury it, he was a married man, and she a woman devoted to the Goddess.

But emotions, once seeded, grow like ivy in the dark.

No sermon nor prayer could stop what was taking root inside him.

And then came the night that destroyed everything.

It began with a banquet and ended in disgrace.

Lord Reinhardt had returned from a negotiation with a higher noble, a man of immense influence who had not only rejected his proposal but humiliated him publicly.

The lord’s pride was torn to shreds. Wine dulled the humiliation but not the bitterness. He drank more, and more still, until reason gave way to anger.

By the time he stumbled through the estate grounds, soaked in rain and liquor, there was only one place his broken mind sought—the chapel.

Maria was there, as she always was. She gasped softly upon seeing him enter in such a state, his coat drenched, his eyes glassy, his steps uneven.

Without hesitation, she hurried to his side, fetching a towel and a cup of warm broth.

"Please, my lord, sit. You’ll catch a chill like this." She said kindly, her tone full of concern.

Her kindness should have soothed him. But instead, it ignited something far darker.

He looked at her—truly looked—and for the first time, saw not a nun, not a servant of the divine, but a woman.

Beautiful, pure, untouchable. And in his drunken haze, his heart twisted that purity into desire.

Maria realized the danger only when he caught her wrist. His words slurred, his breath heavy with alcohol.

She tried to reason with him, to remind him of his vows, his wife, his faith. But her words fell on deaf ears.

In that moment of weakness, madness, and sin, he committed an act that could never be undone.

When the storm ended, the chapel was silent.

Lord Reinhardt stood frozen in horror at what he had done. The woman who had prayed for him now lay motionless, her face pale, her lips whispering faint prayers to the Goddess for strength.

Overwhelmed by guilt and terror, he fled into the night, cursing himself yet too afraid to face judgment.

For days he avoided the chapel, haunted by the memory. He expected her to speak out, to cry for justice, to bring ruin upon his name.

But she never did.

Maria went on as she always had.

Tending the sick, feeding the poor, smiling at the children. When the villagers noticed her paler face and tired eyes, they assumed it was exhaustion from her endless work. None guessed the truth.

Lord Reinhardt, watching from afar, could hardly comprehend it. She had said nothing. There were no whispers, no accusations. For a time, he almost convinced himself that she had forgiven him.

And she had.

Not out of fear, but out of faith.

Maria believed that hatred only bred more darkness. She prayed not for vengeance, but for his soul to the Goddess who had taught her compassion even in suffering. Her silence was not weakness, but strength beyond understanding.

And for a while, peace returned.

The estate thrived again. The chapel’s bells sang as before. The lord and the nun lived their separate lives, each pretending the past had been buried.

But the past never truly stays buried.

Nine months later, under the soft glow of dawn, a newborn’s cry echoed through the small chapel of Hawthorne Estate.

Sister Maria, pale and trembling, held the child in her arms.

A child she had not asked for, yet could not reject.

A child born from tragedy, yet innocent of all sin.

She named her Joy.

The name was chosen not from happiness, but from faith, that even in suffering, there could be light.

But peace born from silence never lasts.

Because secrets, no matter how buried, have a way of clawing back to the surface.