Endless Debt Chapter 1165 - 22: Asceticism

Upon a grave, a figure stood, arms outstretched, palms leveled. A freshly formed, blood-soaked scar materialized on his skin, the crimson fluid oozing, tracing a direct path downward to seep into the earth. It mingled with the falling rain, a confluence descending into the abyss below.

"What will you do?"

The man peered down, a peculiar curiosity towards the soil beneath him. His original intent was to hunt Olivia, but he had stumbled upon this peculiar scene instead. A simple vendetta wouldn't normally pique his interest, but York's current quandary held him utterly captivated.

Torn between his faith and the earthly laws of morality, York found himself in an irresolvable conflict. He clung to the belief in human goodness, a belief that, regrettably, was met only with malice from Gami.

The man's interest was piqued by how York would react to his offered assistance. Would he, as a devoted follower of God, embrace this divine intervention or refuse it?

To accept would surely mean betraying his faith. What then?

Would York still hold to his faith and his unwavering righteousness?

The thought brought an involuntary smile to the man's lips.

He reveled in observing the struggles of others; the exquisite agony and soul-deep sorrow were like nectar to him.

Each observation reminded him of his youth. Even as a child, he was mischievous, finding amusement in tormenting ants, tossing them into water to watch their futile struggles before they succumbed.

Now, with a twisted sense of pleasure, he eagerly awaited York's decision, feeling akin to the Devil himself, savoring the man's impending torment.

"Offer your suffering, Priest."

A sardonic grin stretched across the man's face.

"This is God's test for you."

...

Amidst the profound darkness, a sinister crimson shimmered before York's eyes. The instant he perceived it, an overwhelming aura of malevolence washed over him.

It was the palpable power of darkness.

For a fleeting moment, York was disoriented. He had envisioned reaching the Celestial Kingdom upon death, not confronting such profound wickedness. He began to fear he was descending into a dreadful Hell, yet he couldn't fathom any wrongdoing in his devout life.

He was perplexed and unable to accept this fate.

York hailed from humble beginnings. His parents succumbed to a plague in his youth, leaving him to be raised by the town's Priest. Lacking parental affection, York thrived under their benevolent care.

Profoundly influenced by the Priests' teachings of compassion from a young age, York took a vow upon reaching adulthood to dedicate his life to his faith, mirroring the Priests by spreading goodwill.

He had faithfully adhered to his vow, living an ascetic existence. Beyond the small Golden Cross adorning his chest, he owned nothing else.

With York's help, numerous lives had been transformed, finding solace and continuing onward with his blessings... He had truly believed Gami would be among those so fortunate.

"Is it because of him? Because of Gami?" York whispered.

Gami had not only defiled the dead but also committed murder. No, it was possible York wasn't the first person he had killed.

"I require his repentance."

A voice, thick with bloodlust and utterly foreign, echoed. It was not York's voice.

York faltered, the words feeling alien, yet the voice resonated as if a darker, wrathful self within him were speaking.

There was no Celestial Kingdom after death; only this ominous crimson.

An agonizing internal struggle ensnared York's soul. The once-unshakeable foundations of his faith began to fracture, and abruptly, that voice resurfaced.

"Does God truly exist in this world?"

The voice questioned him, and even York found himself succumbing to doubt.

He had lived a life of virtue, only to meet such a bewildering end, facing not heavenly gates but this cold, unending darkness.

"Why not cast aside this baseless belief? Look at what it has earned you?"

York stared ahead at the malevolent crimson glow. He recognized it as the voice of this sinister power.

"Begone, evil!"

York commanded, but the conviction in his gaze wavered almost immediately.

God had never responded to him, yet in the throes of death, evil offered a helping hand.

Could this be God's trial? To refuse and accept his own demise?

A torrent of thoughts raced through York's mind; he resolved to face death with unwavering faith. But at that precise moment, the voice spoke once more.

"I need his repentance."

This time, the voice was chillingly calm, devoid of any discernible emotion. York stood frozen, his mind blank, aware with dawning horror that the words had originated from his own lips.

York’s expression grows slightly tense, his cheeks redden lightly and his mouth falls agape, facial muscles tightening. Fine beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead, and his hands start to tremble slightly.

A surge of uncontainable anger rises in his throat, his eyebrows arching upward and his lips pressing into a thin line. His fists are clenched fiercely, his legs begin to tremble continuously, his entire body seemingly boiling with fiery rage.

"I... I need..."

York’s facial expression twists, his eyes fill with bloodshot streaks, a growl emerges from his throat, and his hands tremble incessantly, as if he is ready to shatter everything around him.