Chapter 533 - 8: Original Sin
"M-My... Lord..."
Ron squeezed the two dry words from his throat, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, almost to the point of breaking through his ribs.
’Calm?’
’How could I possibly be calm?!’
The boy had clearly been escorted away just moments ago, but now, he had reappeared right under his nose!
"Ron!" Uncle Scar’s pupils contracted in shock at the sight, but he was a veteran who had struggled at the bottom for years. His resolve was far stronger than Ron’s.
"Sir, you... weren’t you taken away by Grove and his men?"
Hearing this, the boy’s figure passed through the bed like a phantom and stepped out completely from the shadows beside it.
Under the dim light of the oil lamp, his long black robe was spotless, a stark contrast to the blood-stained, chaotic surroundings.
"That’s right," the boy nodded. "I did leave."
Uncle Scar froze, clearly not expecting such an answer.
"But..." Uncle Scar began instinctively, glancing at the door and then back at the boy. "But... you were taken away..."
The boy explained, "Because there are two of me."
...
In a sewer corridor reeking of all kinds of foul odors.
The ground underfoot was slick and rotten, the cracks filled with black sludge.
A dimly lit, yellow lamp hung at long intervals, barely illuminating a small patch of the area.
Carlos clutched a handkerchief, pressing it tightly over his nose and mouth. His brow was furrowed into a knot, and he took each step with extreme caution, as if terrified the filthy flagstones would sully his polished boots.
Yet his pace was quick. He walked at the very front, almost at a fugitive’s speed, desperate to escape this suffocating, squalid place as quickly as possible.
Old Viper Grove, meanwhile, kept a tight grip on the boy in the black robe, following close behind.
The further they went, the wider the passage became, but the environment didn’t improve. On the contrary, it grew more chaotic as they neared the surface.
Figures began to appear, huddled in the corners along both sides of the passage. They were wrapped in rags; some moaned softly, while others were completely still, like discarded trash.
Their exposed skin had an unhealthy ashen or sallow hue, covered in dark spots of varying shades and festering sores. Plump, white maggots even wriggled on their bodies from time to time.
Some even had strange, keratinized growths or twisted tumors on their faces and arms.
The smell permeating the air also grew more complex. Besides the original stench of mold and excrement, it was mixed with the odors of cheap tobacco, sour sweat, blood, and an indescribable scent of decay.
Carlos turned his face away in disgust, pressing the handkerchief even tighter and quickening his pace, nearly breaking into a run to get through the area.
Even so, his expensive boots inevitably stepped in the filth on the ground, making a faint SQUISH sound that caused the muscles in his face to twitch.
"Get out of the way! Don’t block the path!" Grove was far cruder. He roared at a few vagrants blocking their way, brandishing his free fist with a ferocious expression.
The vagrants clearly recognized this Old Viper. Fear flickered in their eyes as they cringed and scrambled away, clearing the path.
But through it all, no one noticed that wherever the black cloth shoes of the boy in Grove’s firm grasp passed, the sewage, the sludge, and even the suspicious stains on the ground seemed to be held back by an invisible barrier.
No, to be precise, it passed right through him, leaving him utterly spotless.
The boy’s calm gaze swept over the people they passed, who were like walking corpses. Suddenly, he spoke.
"Why have they become like this?"
Carlos, walking ahead, paused for a fraction of a second but didn’t turn back or show any intention of answering. Instead, he walked even faster, as if even an extra glance or another word would defile him.
Grove, holding the boy, heard the question. The muscles on his coarse face twitched, and he glanced at the zombie-like people with a flicker of disgust. But he too kept his mouth shut and didn’t answer.
The boy received no response but seemed neither surprised nor discouraged. He continued calmly.
"What causes the sores and growths on their bodies?"
Silence again.
No one answered.
But just then, Carlos, who was in the lead, stopped abruptly and spun around.
His pale face was flushed with an unnatural red from his hurried pace.
"Grove!" Carlos’s voice, muffled by the handkerchief, was nonetheless piercingly cold. "His ’Excellency’ is asking you a question! Are you deaf, or are you mute!"
Stunned by the sudden rebuke, Grove’s coarse features quivered, a flash of humiliation and confusion crossing his face.
’Didn’t Lord Carlos always treat this boy as mere cargo?’
’Why is he suddenly using a title like "Excellency"?’
’And scolding me for his sake?’
Before Grove could figure it out, Carlos’s contemptuous words lashed out like a whip:
"You imbecile! Don’t you get it yet?! Even fallen to this state, the blood in His Excellency’s veins, the knowledge he might possess... that is all something you could never touch in this life, your next, or the one after that! He is a being from the clouds. Even if he’s temporarily fallen into the mire, the dust on him is from the heavens—not something that scum like you, festering in a sewer, can compare to!"
"Our relationship with him is our business! It’s for those from the clouds to decide how to deal with a fallen star! Whether to remold him into a fine piece of art or dismantle him for his precious parts! Is there any room for a maggot from the gutter like you to show disrespect?!"
Grove’s face instantly turned crimson. He quickly lowered his gaze, avoiding Carlos’s icy stare. "Yes, Lord Carlos."
After speaking, Carlos didn’t spare him another glance and turned to walk on, as if spending another second there would be a desecration of his very being.
Grove took a deep breath and said to the boy:
"They didn’t take their Nightmare Pills on time."
He paused for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts.
"If you don’t take them for a short while, you feel awful, weak, like you’re sick. If it goes on for a long time, you slowly turn into... this. Your skin rots, things start to grow on you, your mind breaks, and in the end, you just rot to death in here, like a pile of unwanted garbage."
The boy turned his calm, dark eyes to him and continued to ask, "Why don’t they take them?"
"Why else?" Grove’s voice carried a tone of stating the obvious. "They run out of money."
"Why do they run out of money?" the boy pressed.
The question made Grove pause. "Because they’re weak. They’re useless. They can’t work anymore, can’t perform, so naturally they can’t earn money. If they can’t earn money, they can’t afford the pills. And if they can’t afford the pills, they must suffer Oriane’s punishment. That’s the rule."
"Punishment?" A hint of a question entered the boy’s voice. "Isn’t Oriane supposed to bring people happiness? Why use punishment?"
At this, Grove’s face showed extreme astonishment, as if the boy had asked a question as self-evident as "Why does the Sun rise in the east?"
"You... you don’t know the Holy Scripture? Oriane created the perfect world. It was the great Father God who gave us everything, including the air we breathe and the land we walk on. But we are born imperfect, our souls tainted with an innate turbidity. It is this turbidity that leads to the suffering, aging, and death of the real world."
"Oriane, in His mercy for the world, sent down the Nightmare as a trial and a purifying fire. Only by taking the Nightmare Potion or Nightmare Pills on time can the soul be tempered in that fire, its turbidity lessened, bringing it closer to happiness. To resist this gift is to refuse purification. It is to allow the soul’s filth to spread in reality, inviting punishment, causing the body to rot, and the soul to be damned to Hell for eternity... I-Isn’t this just common sense?"
The boy listened quietly, his dark eyes fixed on Grove. After a moment, he spoke slowly.
"So, according to this logic, their decay and death are not because they can’t afford the pills, but because their souls were born more turbid than yours? And your health is not because you take the pills on time, but because your souls are purer than theirs?"
Hearing this, Grove first nodded instinctively, but then he realized the boy’s summary was far more refined and incisive than his own understanding.
A feeling mixed with awe and inadequacy rose within him.
’As expected of one with noble blood. Even if his perception is warped by a high degree of Nightmare Transformation, his perspective and ability to summarize are far beyond what a crude man like me could ever match.’
Thus, a look of sincere reverence appeared on his face, and his tone became much more respectful. "Your Excellency’s understanding is sound. That is precisely it. Their suffering stems from their own turbidity, and our health is because..."
"Wrong," the boy said, calmly shaking his head.
"You have the cause and effect reversed."
He raised his hand and pointed to a person in the corner who was scratching their neck with a festering arm, making guttural, wheezing sounds.
"What I see is this: because he has no money, he cannot get the potion. His body therefore rots, his mind becomes addled, and he cannot work, which leaves him with even less money. Then, you use a doctrine about the turbidity and purity of the soul to explain his and his companions’ suffering, attributing the root of their misery to themselves and calling it punishment and purification."
"Meanwhile, those of you who can get the potion on time maintain relative health and lucidity, allowing you to work and thus obtain more potions and resources. You then interpret this outcome as proof of your own souls’ relative purity, a manifestation of a divine gift."
"This logic perfectly attributes the injustice and suffering of reality to the original sin of the victims, while providing a sacred legitimacy for the status of the vested interests."
"It creates a closed loop: suffering is because the soul is sinful; health and well-being are because the soul is pure. Suffering is purification, well-being is a gift. Resisting purification is depravity, and accepting everything is salvation."
"In this way, any questioning of the status quo can be easily dismissed as ’disrespect toward God’ or a ’manifestation of a sullied soul.’ Exploitation becomes a trial, oppression becomes purification, and inequality becomes part of a sacred order."
The boy paused here, looking at Grove, whose expression had shifted from reverence to ashen-faced horror, and asked his final question:
"So, tell me. The being that created this logic and made it the foundation of your world—whether it’s a God, some kind of power, or something else—what, exactly, is its purpose?"