The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He?-Chapter 355 - The Broken Faith and Silent Goddess (2)
The bells rang at noon.
Not in celebration.
Not in mourning.
But in command.
Their deep, reverberating toll rolled across the Holy Kingdom of Solaria like an unavoidable decree, echoing through alabaster streets, over golden rooftops, and into the hearts of tens of thousands who had gathered beneath the open sky.
The day of execution had come.
The plaza before the Grand Cathedral had been transformed.
Where once pilgrims gathered to pray, now rose a towering scaffold of white stone and gold-inlaid iron, elevated above the crowd so that none could miss what was about to happen. Runes of purification glowed faintly along its base, etched with divine authority. Thick chains hung from its central pillar, each link engraved with holy scripture meant to suppress magic, will, and resistance.
At the very back of the platform loomed the statue of the Goddess.
She stood carved in radiant marble, hands outstretched, eyes lowered in eternal mercy. Sunlight struck her halo just right, scattering gold across the square like falling dust. Beneath her gaze, justice would be carried out.
Or so the priests claimed.
Rows upon rows of white-clad Divine Guards formed a perimeter around the platform—helms polished to a mirror sheen, spears planted into the stone in perfect formation. Their armor shimmered with consecrated sigils, each soldier a living testament to the Church’s power.
Above them, on a raised dais draped in silk and holy banners, sat the clergy.
Bishops in layered robes of gold and ivory. High Priests clutching scripture-staves. And at the center—
The Pope’s throne.
A massive seat carved from sacred stone, elevated higher than all others. From there, judgment would be pronounced.
The crowd had come early.
Too early.
They packed the square shoulder to shoulder, filling every stairway, balcony, and open space. Some stood in silence, faces pale. Others whispered fervently, eyes burning with conviction. Merchants sold bread and prayer tokens. Children clutched their parents’ sleeves, too young to understand, yet old enough to feel the tension.
The air was thick.
Not just with heat or incense.
But with expectation.
Murmurs rippled constantly through the mass of people.
"Is it true... the Saintess herself?"
"They say she betrayed the Goddess."
"No, no—she saved my son once. I saw it with my own eyes."
"But the bishops wouldn’t lie, would they?"
"I heard she consorted with cultists."
"They say she let one touch her... that’s why the Goddess turned away."
"That’s blasphemy—"
"Then why else would she be executed?"
"Shh—don’t say that too loudly."
Voices overlapped, collided, dissolved into noise.
Some wept openly.
Some spat curses.
Some watched with barely concealed anticipation.
At the edges of the square, cloaked figures stood silently, eyes hidden, bodies tense. Guards kept a close watch on them, hands never straying far from their weapons.
High above, banners snapped in the wind—white, gold, and crimson—bearing the holy sigils of Solaria.
The sun climbed.
Slow.
Unforgiving.
Then—
A horn sounded.
Once.
Twice.
The crowd quieted, breath held collectively.
From the far side of the cathedral steps, a procession emerged.
Priests first. Then knights. Then...
Her.
Chains wrapped around her wrists, glowing faintly with suppression runes. Her steps were slow, uneven—not from resistance, but exhaustion. Silver-lavender hair fell loose around her shoulders, dull and tangled, catching the light like fading starlight.
The Saintess.
She was thinner than before.
Paler.
But she stood upright.
Eyes forward.
Unbroken.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Some gasped.
Some looked away.
Others leaned forward hungrily.
"She doesn’t look guilty..."
"Why isn’t she crying?"
"Look at her—she’s defiant."
"Goddess forgive her..."
As she was guided onto the platform, her gaze lifted.
For just a moment.
Not toward the Pope.
Not toward the crowd.
But toward the statue of the Goddess towering behind her.
Her expression didn’t change.
The chains locked into place.
The execution ground was ready.
Above her, the clergy took their seats.
The Pope had not yet risen.
The air felt tight—like the world itself was holding its breath.
And somewhere beyond the edge of the square...
Something was moving.
Waiting.
The bells rang once more.
Louder.
Heavier.
Final.
And the execution of the Saintess of Solaria was about to begin.
***
The bishop stood with his hands folded neatly before him, posture impeccable, expression composed in the way only decades of practiced sanctity could perfect.
From where he stood—just below the raised dais, close enough to be seen but far enough to appear humble—he had a clear view of everything.
The platform.
The chains.
The Saintess.
His lips curved ever so slightly.
Not enough for anyone to notice.
Not enough to be improper.
But inside—
So this is how it ends.
His eyes lingered on her figure as she was guided into position. The crowd had quieted, the way people always did when something irreversible was about to happen. He could almost feel their anticipation vibrating through the stone beneath his feet.
You never belonged here.
He adjusted the cuff of his robe, slow and deliberate.
I never liked you. Not from the moment they dragged you in from the slums with those wide, frightened eyes. Saints aren’t supposed to look like that. They’re supposed to inspire awe... not pity.
His gaze narrowed slightly.
And yet everyone adored you.
The memory stung.
The murmurs. The way people flocked to her blessings instead of attending sermons. The way even the lower priests spoke her name with reverence.
You stole the light without even trying.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying himself as the sun glinted off the chains binding her wrists.
But look at you now.
The bishop’s fingers tightened together briefly before relaxing again.
Powerless. Exposed. Broken.
A faint warmth spread through his chest.
Satisfaction.
And to think... they hesitated.
His eyes flicked toward the elevated seats where the Pope and high clergy sat. He remembered those meetings vividly—long nights filled with arguments, uncertainty, hesitation.
"Perhaps we should investigate further."
"She has served faithfully."
"The people may react poorly."
Idiots.
They’d wavered.
They’d doubted.
They’d almost let her go.
The bishop’s lips twitched.
If not for me, she’d still be standing there pretending to be holy.
He had spoken calmly.
Logically.
He had reminded them of the rumors. The inconsistencies. The danger of appearing weak.
"What happens if we let a fallen Saintess walk free?" he had asked.
"What does that say about divine authority?"
And when that hadn’t been enough—
—who would protect the Church if she truly was tainted?
He’d watched doubt turn to fear.
Fear turn to resolve.
And finally, resolve into a verdict.
Execution.
I was the one who tipped the scales.
His gaze returned to her face.
She wasn’t crying.
That annoyed him more than it should have.
Still pretending to be righteous to the end.
The bishop inhaled deeply, savoring the moment.
You lost your power. You lost your title. And now, you’ll lose your life.
Who would risk offending a bishop for the sake of a broken Saintess?
No one had.
Not the clergy.
Not the people.
Not even the Goddess, it seemed.
The bishop clasped his hands together, bowing his head slightly in a gesture that looked like prayer to anyone watching.
But his thoughts were anything but.
This is justice.
This is order.
This is how the world is meant to be.
The wind stirred.
The banners snapped.
And as the executioner stepped forward, the bishop’s calm smile deepened—just a fraction.
The final act was about to begin.
***
The square had fallen unnaturally quiet.
Thousands stood packed together beneath the towering spires of Solaria’s execution plaza, yet not a single voice rose above a whisper. Even the banners hanging from marble pillars barely stirred, as if the air itself feared to disturb what was about to unfold.
Chains clinked.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade.
Two divine guards stepped forward, their armor gleaming beneath the sun, grips firm as they dragged the Saintess toward the center of the platform. Her bare feet scraped against cold stone, leaving faint streaks of dust in their wake.
She did not resist.
Her head was lowered, silver-lavender hair falling messily over her face, but her posture—though weary—was not broken. Each step she took was her own.
The crowd leaned forward.
Some watched with pity.
Some with hunger.
Some with satisfaction.
"—That’s her..." "—She doesn’t look like a criminal..." "—They say she betrayed the Goddess—" "—No, no, I heard she consorted with cultists—" "—Hush! Don’t say that aloud—"
The murmurs rippled outward like waves.
The platform loomed ahead—raised, circular, carved with holy inscriptions meant to "purify" those who stood upon it. At its center stood the execution pillar, etched with runes that glowed faintly in anticipation.
The Saintess was brought to a stop.
The chains were pulled taut.
She lifted her head.
For the first time, the crowd truly saw her face.
Pale.
Exhausted.
But unbowed.
The executioner stepped forward.
He was a broad man clad in ceremonial armor, helm tucked beneath his arm. His expression was rigid, eyes trained forward, voice echoing as it carried across the square.
"You," he intoned, each word ringing with practiced authority,
"former Saintess of the Holy Kingdom of Solaria..."
The crowd stirred.
"...stand accused of heresy, corruption of divine authority."
A pause.
The executioner turned to face her fully.
"Do you accept your crimes?"
The wind swept across the platform.
Banners fluttered.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone gasped.
The Saintess remained still.
Her eyes lifted—slowly—toward the sky above the cathedral spires, where sunlight pierced the clouds like distant fire.
And for a moment—
The entire world seemed to wait for her answer.
