The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He?-Chapter 356 - The Broken Faith and Silent Goddess (3)
The executioner’s voice echoed across the square.
The words hung in the air.
The Saintess did not answer.
She did not bow her head.
She did not tremble.
She did not plead.
She simply lifted her gaze past the executioner, past the clergy, past the sea of faces—and looked toward the far horizon, where the sky met the distant mountains in a pale line of light.
As if waiting.
The silence stretched.
Seconds passed.
Then murmurs began to ripple through the crowd.
"Why isn’t she speaking...?" "Is she... praying?" "Does she still think she’ll be saved?"
The executioner shifted uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, preparing to repeat the question—
When a voice broke through the tension.
"—Wait!"
Old. Cracked. Trembling.
A man stumbled forward from the crowd.
Guards moved instantly, spears lowering—but hesitated when they saw him.
He was old. Too old to be a threat. His back was bent, his hands shaking as he leaned heavily on a wooden cane. His clothes were patched and worn, the kind of garments only the poorest citizens wore.
Tears streamed freely down his face.
"Please—please listen," he choked out, breath hitching. "You can’t do this. You can’t—!"
The crowd murmured, startled.
A guard reached for him, but the man shook his head violently and fell to his knees before the platform with a wet, hollow sound.
"I was dying," he cried. "My body was rotting from the inside. The healers said I had days—days!"
His hands trembled as he pressed them to his chest.
"She came to me," he sobbed, pointing toward the chained figure. "She didn’t ask for payment. She didn’t ask for praise. She just knelt beside my bed and prayed. And when I woke up—when I woke up—I could breathe again!"
His voice broke completely.
"She saved me. Gave me back my life. How can someone like that be a blasphemer?"
He bowed his head to the stone, forehead striking the ground.
"She is no criminal," he whispered. "She is the reason I’m alive."
For a moment—
Just a moment—
The square wavered.
People shifted uneasily. Some lowered their heads. Others stared at the old man, lips pressed thin.
A woman near the front clasped her hands together. "I... I remember her," she whispered. "She healed my sister once..."
But not everyone wavered.
From the raised platform, a bishop let out a soft, amused chuckle.
It cut through the tension like a blade.
"How touching," he said lightly.
His voice carried easily, smooth and dismissive. "A single healed man, begging for mercy. How very... dramatic."
He tilted his head, eyes cold.
"Are we to overturn divine judgment based on sentiment?"
Some in the crowd nodded uncertainly.
Others frowned.
The old man lifted his head, eyes red and desperate. "Please—please, she’s innocent—!"
A guard moved to pull him away.
Then—
"Wait!"
A small voice rang out.
High. Unsteady.
A child broke free from the crowd.
A boy no older than eight, his face pale with fear but burning with determination. His parents shouted after him, reaching desperately, but he slipped through their grasp and ran forward.
"Stop him!" someone cried.
But he was already at the front.
He stumbled, nearly falling, then stood upright before the platform, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"She helped my mama," he said, voice trembling but loud. "And my papa too."
The crowd went silent.
"They were sick," the boy continued, eyes shining with unshed tears. "They couldn’t get up. They couldn’t eat. Everyone said they were gonna die."
His parents had reached the edge of the crowd now, hands clasped over their mouths, horror and pride battling on their faces.
"But she came," the boy said, pointing at the Saintess. "She smiled at me. She told me to be brave. And then... and then my mama stood up again."
His voice cracked.
"You can’t kill her," he whispered. "She’s good. She’s kind. She wouldn’t hurt anyone."
His parents dropped to their knees behind him, tears streaming freely as they bowed toward the platform.
"Please," the mother sobbed. "She saved our family."
The square trembled with whispers.
Some faces softened. Some turned away. Some clenched their jaws in conflict.
And above it all—
The bishops watched.
One of them scoffed quietly.
Another sighed in annoyance.
The bishop who had orchestrated this all folded his hands neatly and smiled thinly.
"Emotional appeals," he murmured. "How predictable."
He leaned toward the executioner and spoke just loudly enough to be heard.
"The Goddess does not judge by sentiment. Proceed."
The executioner hesitated.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then he raised his hand.
The chains tightened with a metallic clink.
And still—
The Saintess did not speak.
She simply closed her eyes.
As if listening for something far beyond the cathedral walls.
As if waiting for an answer the world had not yet given.
And in the crowd, somewhere unseen—
The air shifted.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
But unmistakably.
Something had begun to move.
The square trembled.
Not from magic.
Not from force.
But from voices.
At first it was only a murmur—uncertain, hesitant, like people afraid to give shape to thoughts they had buried for too long.
"She healed my daughter..." "She saved my brother..." "I saw her pray for the sick without asking anything in return..." "She never once turned anyone away..."
The words overlapped, rising in waves.
A woman stepped forward, clutching a prayer scarf to her chest.
"She stayed with my husband through the night when the fever wouldn’t break."
A merchant shouted from the back, his voice cracking.
"My son was cursed—no healer would touch him! She did!"
Another voice followed. Then another.
"She fed the poor!" "She gave blessings even when she collapsed afterward!" "She never acted like she was above us!"
The crowd began to stir—not chaotically, but with emotion swelling like a tide finally breaking through a dam.
Even some of the lower clergy shifted uneasily.
A young priest swallowed hard, glancing between the platform and the people.
"This... this doesn’t feel right..."
Another clenched his staff, whispering, "If the Goddess truly condemned her... why would so many be saved by her hands?"
The noise grew louder.
Unruly.
Alive.
The Saintess still said nothing.
But her fingers trembled ever so slightly.
And then—
A sharp sound cut through everything.
A single clap.
Slow. Deliberate.
The bishop stepped forward.
His expression had changed.
The calm façade was gone, replaced by something rigid and cold. His jaw was clenched, eyes burning with restrained fury as he surveyed the crowd.
"Enough."
His voice cracked through the square, amplified by divine enchantment.
Silence fell instantly.
The bishop raised his arms, sleeves billowing, his presence suddenly overwhelming.
"What do you people know?" he snapped. "You speak of miracles and kindness as if that alone defines righteousness!"
His voice rose, sharp and cutting.
"She broke her faith!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"She defied divine order," he continued. "She acted without permission, without restraint, without reverence for the authority of the Holy Kingdom!"
He pointed toward the bound Saintess.
"That is the gravest sin of all!"
His eyes swept across the people like a blade.
"Faith is not emotion," he thundered. "It is obedience. Discipline. Submission to the will of the Goddess as interpreted by her chosen servants!"
The crowd faltered.
Doubt crept back in.
Fear.
"You call her kind?" the bishop sneered. "Then you are blind! She is a danger to this kingdom. A corrupt influence. A false light that leads others astray!"
He took a step forward, voice booming.
"She is the villain here."
Silence.
Heavy.
Oppressive.
And then—
A small voice cut through it.
"You’re wrong."
Everyone froze.
The child stood there, fists clenched, eyes wet but burning with defiance.
"You’re wrong," he repeated, louder now. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖
The bishop turned slowly.
The boy pointed at him, hand shaking but unwavering.
"You’re the bad person," he said. "Not her."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The bishop’s face darkened.
"She helped people," the boy cried. "You didn’t! You just talk and tell people what to do!"
His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.
"She held my mama’s hand when she thought she was going to die. You weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere!"
Tears streamed down his face now.
"She’s not a villain," he shouted. "You are!"
The square went dead silent.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
The bishop stared at the child, face unreadable.
For a long, dangerous moment—
No one moved.
The bishop’s lips twitched.
Just once.
Then they curled upward into a thin, unsettling smile.
"Good," he said softly.
The word echoed strangely in the open square.
"Good," he repeated, louder now, his voice carrying with divine amplification. "It seems all of you have forgotten yourselves."
His gaze swept over the crowd—over the trembling old man, the crying child, the murmuring masses who only moments ago had dared to question him.
"And in doing so," he continued, tone sharpening, "you have committed blasphemy."
A ripple of fear spread like wildfire.
The bishop raised one hand.
"Divine Guards," he commanded calmly, "seize them."
Gasps erupted.
"Punish them for their insolence."
His eyes locked onto the boy.
"One hundred lashes."
The square exploded into chaos.
"No—!" "You can’t—!" "He’s just a child!"
People surged forward instinctively, only to be forced back as spears were lowered and holy sigils flared to life. The air crackled with oppressive power.
The Divine Guards hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Their helmets turned slightly toward one another. A flicker of doubt passed between them—uncertainty, discomfort, hesitation.
One of them stepped forward.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
His gauntleted hand tightened around his spear, knuckles whitening beneath the metal. He looked at the child. Then at the bishop.
His jaw clenched.
"I..." he began, voice strained.
And then—
A laugh echoed through the plaza.
Low.
Cold.
Mocking.
"Hahahahah..."
The sound slithered through the air like frost creeping across glass.
Every head snapped up.
The laughter did not come from the platform.
It did not come from the crowd.
It came from everywhere.
"I had long heard of the Holy Kingdom’s law..."
The voice was calm.
Amused.
Sharp with disdain.
"And now," it continued, "I have truly seen it."
A chill ran through the square.
Even the bishop stiffened.
The divine banners fluttered violently though there was no wind. The runes carved into the execution platform flickered—just for a second—as if something had passed through them.
The voice spoke again, clearer now.
"To think that mercy is punished."
A pause.
"That compassion is heresy."
Another pause.
"And that faith is nothing more than obedience to those in power."
The air grew heavy.
Oppressive.
Suffocating.
Then—
"Tell me," the voice said softly, "is this the justice of your Goddess... or merely the cowardice of men hiding behind her name?"
