Extraordinary Pedigree.

Chapter 989 Checking the Water Meter

Peaceful Kingdom - Far East Fortress

High in the sky, the day-night sphere slowly rotates, and the boundary between light and darkness draws a line in the sky that divides the world.

There is no dusk, no dawn; daylight falls in an instant, like a candle flame being snapped by an invisible hand; the next moment, the whole world sinks into the pitch-black night.

Henry de Montfort stood in the shadow of the city road, watching as the dividing line swallowed the last rays of sunlight.

Darkness, without transition, surged in like a tidal wave, covering the streets, rooftops, and distant towers.

Almost simultaneously, magic lamps lit up one by one in the city, and the runes on the floating stone pillars and eaves emitted a soft glow, outlining the entire city from the darkness.

But the light did not dispel his sense of oppression.

On the contrary, Monford felt as if the weight of the entire city was a leaden brick, pressing heavily on his back, making even breathing difficult. His shadow was stretched long and thin under the lamplight, and his already inconspicuous figure appeared even smaller in the gap between light and shadow.

He walked through the quiet street, his shoes making a soft sound as they stomped on the cobblestones.

As he approached the market, his pace slowed—there stood a long-abandoned building, its mottled exterior walls resembling bones gnawed away by time, and a half-worn wooden sign hanging at the entrance, its original inscription long since obscured.

A surge of indescribable disgust welled up in Monford's throat. Even before he got close, he felt a chill seeping from the cracks in the building, creeping down his spine to the back of his neck.

He had lived for thirty years and knew this peaceful country all too well.

But this familiarity made him more uneasy than anyone else when he sensed something was wrong.

In his memory, the peaceful nation had always been a paradise woven together by countless races, groups, and orders.

Even the most ordinary plants and animals cooperate tacitly—in the mountains and forests, bronze-furred rabbits live together with glittering golden foxes, while flocks of silver-white sheep graze quietly, their fur having a metallic sheen and their eyes pure white without pupils.

They cannot speak, yet they can see through any illusion, making them the ideal watchmen.

Between the sky and the fields, there are countless intricately operating insect civilizations.

The Fomi Ants of Jawbone City are an intelligent race similar to the "Celestial Ants," who have established a hive-like city-state oriented towards ultimate order.

Under the rule of the Queen of the Fomi Ant Tribe, even ants, bees, and wasp colonies work diligently according to an ancient order, without complaint or need for prompting. They are natural-born restorers and architects of the ecosystem, willing to dedicate their lives to the "common good."

Looking further up, there were days when holy light shone—when fairies and angels would appear on festival nights.

As a child, Montfort witnessed a legion of spirits descend, radiant forms born from the unwavering souls of righteous warriors, arrayed neatly beneath the heavens like a legendary legion forged of iron and law. Angels would also occasionally descend, patrolling with a divine aura—symbols of morality and order, whose mere presence in the city was enough to command the utmost respect from all.

What sustains this peaceful kingdom are those known as the loyal souls—they may have been residents of the mortal world, or they may be spirits long since dead, but they all voluntarily stayed, shouldering the responsibility of building their home and maintaining order. They are the bricks and mortals of the city, the veins of the countryside, and the true foundation of Abelio's people.

As those who govern this plane, the loyal souls are able to use their abilities to identify the faction of every creature they encounter.

If they capture a non-lawful or non-benevolent creature, they have three possible procedures or actions to perform.

Those who are chaotic good or neutral good can be forgiven as long as they follow the laws of the utopia, while those who are completely neutral can leave after answering the routine questions from the loyal souls. As for those who have tainted any place with evil, they will be immediately and ruthlessly attacked.

The strongest among the loyal souls are called heroic warriors. They are militiamen who patrol the streets and mountains, and their presence can be found in various city-states of the peaceful kingdom.

Monford had witnessed their nighttime checks on outsiders, their methods stern yet impartial.

Anyone who deviates from the rules will be targeted; and those who break the law will be brought to trial or deported, never to set foot in Abelio again.

All of this should have been a stable and unshakeable order.

But now—Monford’s unease grows stronger—these watchmen, menders, guardians, and people he is so proud of seem to be slowly eroded by an invisible shadow.

Monford felt that the city was being swallowed up by something because, in the instant between day and night, he saw something that should not have appeared in a peaceful country.

That was the direction of the North Square—the firelight pierced the night, illuminating a row of newly erected crosses.

Bound to those dark wooden stakes were figures covered in blood, thick hemp ropes digging into their flesh. The torchlight illuminated their faces; some were wandering bards, some were merchants from afar, and some were neighbors he had seen in the market.

In the square, the judges coldly read out the charges of heresy, their voices as emotionless as the scraping of stone.

The crowd was kept outside the iron bars; some people sobbed softly, but were driven back by the knights behind them with their spears.

A middle-aged man in a black judge's robe stood before the fire, a roll of parchment in his hand, his voice cold and rigid, like the scraping of a stone slab:
"—You deceive the true believers with lies and corrupt pure souls with blasphemous words. The glory of Saint Cuthbert must not be defiled. Heretics, be purified by fire."

The crowd was kept outside the iron bars, and low sobs and suppressed curses mingled in the night wind.

An elderly woman wearing a white headscarf couldn't help but shout towards the cross, "He was just a passing bard, he did nothing!"

Immediately, a fully armed paladin turned around, his spear clattering into the ground at her feet, and coldly shouted:
"Step back! Anyone who defends heresy is considered a heretic!"

The bard shouted hoarsely to the crowd:

"But I am truly innocent! I have never seen or touched the books you speak of. I... the light I have seen is not like this. A peaceful kingdom should not be like this. Saint Cuthbert should not be a place of violence... Ah!"

Before he could finish speaking, the torch was thrown heavily at his feet, and flames instantly climbed up the wooden stake, swallowing his voice.

Beside him, a young pastor whispered to his fellow priests:

"Teacher, are these people... really guilty?"

The old pastor, with a stern face, coldly replied as if reciting a commandment:

“Saint Cuthbert is not wrong; we are merely carrying out His judgment.”

The flickering firelight illuminated their indifferent faces and revealed the clenched fists in the shadows of Montfort.

He was familiar with those who held up torches—they were once paladins and priests who served the Throne of Truth, who served Saint Cuthbert, and who were once the guardians and symbols of peace of this land. But now, their eyes were like ice, devoid of any pity, mechanically collecting, judging, and killing. As the flames engulfed the wooden stakes, their faces appeared as stiff as sculptures in the interplay of light and shadow.

As Monford gazed at the firelight, memories of Saint Cuthbert surfaced in his mind.

This deity is the symbol of justice in a peaceful kingdom—possessing reason, wisdom, and divinity bordering on human emotions.

In matters of state, philosophy, and order, Saint Cuthbert's judgment was almost considered absolute.

His image is always clearly recognizable: holding the rod of punishment made of bronze and sacred wood, and wearing the cloak of the judge.

If words are insufficient to make a sinner repent, He will personally wield the rod of punishment, engraving order into the other's soul—or body.

The faithful, along with the chartered priests, paladins, and other extremely devout believers, considered it an honor to serve him in the church throughout their lives. Whenever St. Cuthbert gave an oracle, these believers would carry it out without hesitation, even if it meant crossing wastelands or venturing deep into enemy territory.

For worship and prayer, His followers built solemn temples throughout the Kingdom of Peace, where praises echoed beneath white stone pillars and domes, seeking the wisdom and judgment of this God of Judgment.

And now, these same paladins and priests are using the same faith and oaths to put people on the cross and send them to be burned at the stake.

The screams from afar, like sharp blades shrouded in the night, pierced Monford's eardrums. In that instant, a thick shadow fell over his face, the lines between his brows so deep they seemed etched into his bones. He had once believed that justice in this land was unshakeable—but now, all he saw were shadows distorted by the firelight and silence swallowed by fear.

He wanted to straighten this gradually distorted land, but that desire now turned into a heavy sense of oppression in his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe.

As the flames flickered, he remembered someone.

That was his old friend—Erwin Glass, a lithe and eagle-eyed ranger.

In their youth, they embarked on countless adventures together: they crossed the snow line side by side to hunt frost bears in other dimensions, and they also clashed with demons in the ruins of the Evergreen War across countless worlds.

Monford is the warrior, his sword and shield forming the team's defense; Elwin is their eyes and blade, his arrows always shattering threats before they even begin.

But this very comrade ultimately died at the hands of the very country he most wanted to protect.

Memories stretched out like shadows—it was months ago when a sermon from a strange church began to circulate in the Far East Fortress.

At first, no one paid much attention, but soon, the loyal souls, heroic spirits, and paladins of Saint Cuthbert began openly hunting down anyone associated with this church. Any citizen who came into contact with them would be secretly recorded, tracked, and eventually disappear from people's sight.

Erwin was a man of justice. He sensed something was wrong and tried to investigate the origins of the church.

Monford remembers clearly that his friend stood at the long table in the pub that day and said firmly:

“If this church holds the whole truth, I will find out. Light cannot be used to create shadows.”

But after that, Erwin Glass never came back.

Until one snowy night, Monford saw a person bound to a cross in the square in the north of the city—that face etched by wind and sand and scorching sun, those eyes that remained calm even when flames were close at hand, it was Elwin.

Elwin did not shout when the flames ignited.

Flames licked at his clothes, the charred smell and crackling sounds spreading through the night. Just as the flames were close to his face, he suddenly turned his head, his gaze meeting Monford's through the crowd.

That gaze seemed to pierce through all the noise and firelight, firmly anchoring itself deep within his soul.

Monford gripped the sword hilt tightly under his cloak, his knuckles white, a surge of urge to draw his sword and charge forward welling up inside him.

But in that instant, Erwin's eyes flickered slightly, as if silently stopping him—it wasn't a cry for help, nor fear, but a cold indifference so unfamiliar it sent chills down his spine.

He was certain that the person was not the Erwin he knew.

In those eyes, there seemed to be an emptiness, as if everything had been erased and the soul had been altered.

The flames engulfed the figure, leaving only the crackling of the fire in the square. A suffocating pain shot through Montfort's chest, and at that moment, doubt and resentment took root—he had to find the truth.

After that, he began searching through every clue left by Erwin—an old map stained with coffee, a leather logbook with scrawled annotations, and a bronze coin engraved with unfamiliar symbols. The clues seemed to have been deliberately scattered throughout the city, and he followed them until he finally found his target.

He's going to meet that secret cult today and see what they really are!
……

……

At the end of the alley, a dim oil lamp casts a flickering light, illuminating a room with a sign that reads "Boyar Bookstore".

Pushing open the door, the smell of old paper wafted out. A slightly overweight middle-aged man with a goatee was sitting on a high stool behind the bookshelf, his gaze sizing him up from behind his round-framed glasses.

"Are you Erwin's friend?" the man asked in a low voice, with a hint of scrutiny.

“Yes, I think… I want to know what he was investigating in the end.” Monford lowered his voice.

Boyar did not answer immediately, but slowly took out a heavy book from the drawer—the cover had no title, only an embossed symbol, like five intersecting lines converging in a circle.

“You must read this before you enter my room,” Boyar said with an unwavering tone.

Monford frowned instinctively: "Your church... has no introductory esoteric teachings? No trials?"

The bookseller smiled, revealing neat but yellowed teeth: "We're not afraid of infiltration, nor are we afraid of those with ill intentions. After reading this book, you'll understand—those who don't understand it won't remember the content at all. Those who do understand... are already one of us."

He pushed the book in front of Monford, his eyes seeming to hold a strange light: "Read it. Then you can listen to and learn our Five-Step Perseverance Signal Method."

Monford frowned, his gaze fixed on the thick, unassuming book.

The cover was old, the pages were yellowed, yet there was no trace of magic, nor even a hint of cursed chill—it was like an old object casually placed in a corner.

A thought flashed through his mind: take it, pretend to have read it, and then come back to deal with Boyar. But just as his fingertips touched the pages, the bookseller, as if he had expected it, reached out and pressed his hand on the spine, smiling and shaking his head.

“You can’t take it,” Boyar said calmly, but with a hint of refusal to argue.

Monford's hand slowly lowered, but from an angle unseen by the other, his palm had already rested on the hilt of the short sword at his waist. The cold metallic touch gave him a sense of security—if necessary, he wouldn't mind taking the book away as quickly as possible.

As he was secretly assessing the distance and the continuity of his movements, a crisp and forceful knock came from outside the door.

"Dong - dong dong -"

Boyar frowned and turned his gaze to the doorway: "Monford, you brought friends along?"

Monford shook his head slightly, indicating that he had come alone. His hand quietly left the hilt of his sword—for some reason, the knocking had subconsciously made him abandon the idea of ​​violence.

“It doesn’t matter.” Boyar smiled, a smile like a closed folding knife, its sharpness concealed, yet harboring an unfathomable meaning. “Even if the followers of Saint Cuthbert come, it doesn’t matter. No one can do anything to me, a missionary, here… no one.”

As he spoke, he strode over to open the door.

The door hinges creaked softly, and a cold wind immediately rushed into the room.

Monford's gaze unconsciously drifted past the bookseller's shoulder to the person entering through the door.

He was a young man with a gentle smile, blond hair and golden eyes, wearing a top hat with a low brim, a black suit, and holding a silver cane.

Boyar narrowed his eyes and subconsciously asked, "What do you do? What are you doing here?"

Xia Xiu smiled slightly, his tone relaxed: "I'm here to check the water meters, so I'm here... um... you know what I mean."

"What, checking the water meter?"

Boyar frowned, seemingly annoyed by the strange term—the Peace Kingdom didn't have water meters, and most of its inhabitants knew magic, including the all-purpose water-making spell.

Therefore, he naturally regarded Xia Xiu as a stinky outsider. In the past, Boyar would not have wanted to talk to these stinky outsiders who didn't even know how to create water.

In the past, the thought of having to talk to these stinky outsiders would have made him wish the artificial wonder of the day-night sphere could transform into a defensive tower and kill them.

"Out-of-towner babbling on and on, there's no water meter here..." He paused, a hint of something—whether probing or contempt—flashing in his eyes. "But since you've come all this way, come in with us."

After saying that, he pushed open the door, letting the chilly wind and unfamiliar atmosphere rush into the room.