As dusk approached, the sky, which had stopped raining, gathered storm clouds once more, with faint thunder rolling in from afar.
Walking on the slightly dry mountain path, all weapons and items carried by Jilo and the others were confiscated.
They walked barefoot, wearing only a thin shirt, their hands bound with hemp rope, slowly moving forward.
Behind them, about a step away, the young soldiers of the Child Soldiers stood tall with raised spears, following closely, ready to pierce their chests at any moment.
Jilo looked at the ground, showing a bitter smile; he had said he couldn’t be a Demon Hunter, but fate wouldn’t give up on granting him a position.
Emerging from the nearly shoulder-high shrubs and wild grass, a settlement surrounding a central wooden house appeared before Jilo’s eyes.
There were about sixty to seventy huts, forming six long serpentine lines encircling the wooden house in the center.
Each line had five rows, with each row having two opposite huts, and a path between the huts that had been cleared of weeds and compacted.
These huts were mostly made of mud and planks, square-shaped, all facing north to south.
In front of the wooden house were several long grass shelters and an obvious open space.
In the camp arranged like a six-petal plum blossom, villagers young and old, carrying baskets on their backs and shouldering firewood, walked orderly under the lead of several energetic villagers.
In the shelter, an elderly woman, with arms thicker than legs, held a half-human-height wooden spoon, continuously stirring a large pot.
Beside the shelter, more than twenty youngsters were loudly singing hymns.
Following the person in front, Jilo walked and stopped, observing the scene thoroughly.
He gradually noticed something was off.
These villagers were definitely not the ones he knew, where the usual mischief, shirkers, and cluelessness were absent; instead, these dull villagers displayed unprecedented efficiency.
They even hummed cheerful tunes while working, rather than the usual complaining.
Under the command of several Ten Households Leaders, the villagers gathered at the open space in front of the wooden house like flowing water.
Perhaps in Horn’s view, this crooked row was far from neat, but to Jilo, it was as orderly as the Night Guard.
Jilo couldn’t help but suspect if there was indeed a mind-manipulating Witch among them; otherwise, why would these people be so obedient?
As one who had traveled far and wide as a Demon Hunter, he knew how difficult these ignorant villagers were to deal with.
Show a bit of kindness, and they turn to bully you; be fierce, and they speak ill, causing trouble on purpose.
According to Jilo, without whipping them with copper-headed belts until they fly, they wouldn’t be so compliant.
But if there were such a Witch, they wouldn’t be here, nor would there be a need for interrogation.
So, ruling out all other causes, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
This small Red Mill Village and its villagers were all part of the Secret Faction.
What was thought to be a small thief turned out to be an entire den.
However, Jilo wasn’t afraid; now that he knew they were the Secret Faction, things would be easy.
A few words would soon have them treat him politely, unbinding him willingly.
"I was wrong, I was wrong, I’m not the demon—"
Suddenly, Jilo heard a shrill cry, like a pig being slaughtered; following the sound, he found it was the Armed Farmers previously known as "Everyone hold on."
He was being tied hand and foot by several villagers, hoisted like a pig on a wooden pole.
"Stop making excuses, demon; do you think everyone’s deaf and blind?"
"I accuse! It’s him; it’s because of him that we didn’t rescue in time!"
"Weak faith, equals strong disbelief!"
Several refugees and Public Register Farmers from the same Ten Households shouted loudly.
In the open space in front of the wooden house, villagers, having completed the pre-dinner hymns, didn’t start dinner as usual but gathered together.
They whispered among themselves, pointing at the Armed Farmers who were hoisted.
"You all heard, since everyone says so, a public trial is naturally owed to you." Suppressing the venom in his eyes, Horn held back from seeing the Armed Farmer’s wailing.
With an open-handed gesture, he calmed the crowd’s shouting.
"I’m not a cold-hearted person." Horn rubbed his bloodshot eyes, "Everyone present is the Holy Father’s chosen ones; the Holy Father’s will be expressed through you and naturally... Cough, cough..."
Just as he was being dragged away, perhaps some dust or grass seeds had fallen into his throat, Horn felt a tickle there.
"So, ahem, in the name of the Holy Father, fifty lashes. If he survives, it proves his sins have been redeemed; if he dies, it proves he is a devil, and his family will be exiled!"
Two strong vagrants stepped forward, holding sticks as thick as an arm. They had previously been laborers and tenant farmers for this Armed Farmer household.
"Strike with purpose." Glancing aside, Horn said in a somewhat hoarse voice.
The "smack" sound of the stick hitting flesh echoed instantly in the small open space.
As time passed, dark clouds gradually gathered, and the cries grew weaker and weaker, while blood steadily stained the top of the stick red.
When the white bones were exposed, many timid villagers had already broken into sobs.
The farmers’ wives covered their children’s eyes, preventing them from seeing the cruel scene.
Through the soaring bloodlight, looking again at the upright, impassive Master Horn, the original divine light seemed further shrouded by a red veil of fear.
If betrayal comes without cost, then loyalty is meaningless.
He didn’t want today’s events to happen again.
Facing the man with only a layer of skin connecting his lower body, Horn turned expressionlessly: "The Holy Father declares him dead, his whole family exiled."
After two seconds of silence, the villagers raised their hands in fearful, frenzied cheer.
The Armed Farmer’s wife and two children were pushed along by members of the same ten-household group towards the riverbank.
They knelt on the ground, begging for mercy, kowtowing to Horn, but it was of no use.
Driven by the wooden sticks of other youths from the same ten-household, they eventually fell into the water.
Seeing the family flounder in the water, Jeanne’s brows flickered with a trace of compassion.
She turned her head away, refusing to look at them.
Priest Kosse stood out hesitantly once more: "Lord Saint Grandson, permit Old Kosse to speak candidly, there’s no precedent, implicating isn’t the rule..."
"My rule is the rule!" with a low growl, Horn felt a wave of dizziness, an unnatural flush crossing his face, "You want to defend him?"
Priest Kosse looked around but found no support, other people’s eyes were even colder.
Cold sweat immediately ran down his forehead: "No no no, I didn’t mean that, Lord Saint Grandson’s words embody holy justice, too fair!"
The family tried to get back ashore but were driven with sticks by members of the same ten-household, forcing them back into the water repeatedly.
They cried and cursed, loudly berating other members of the ten-household, hopelessly pleading with Horn.
Standing on the shore, Busak shouted to the Armed Farmers: "You better swim to the nearby hills soon, it’s going to rain, the holy decree has been made, further delay may cost your lives."
Seeing the approaching downpour, the Armed Farmer’s family finally clasped onto a floating log, swimming towards the other side.
Covering his mouth, Horn coughed violently for a good while before spitting out a mouthful of yellow-green phlegm.
He shouted to the well-fed Child Soldiers: "Let’s go, follow me to interrogate the Demon Hunter and Monk."
If I want to escape, and hope to follow formal channels for success, then this matter absolutely cannot go unaddressed.
Especially with a "Saintess" here, attracting high attention could have unimaginable consequences.
He had to know the specific situation, why did Priest Hedge send people? Where exactly was the error?
Before he had walked two steps, Horn felt an unbearable itch in his nose, and impulsively, he sneezed.
Like igniting a fuse, Horn sneezed seven or eight times consecutively, and Jeanne immediately stepped forward to support Horn’s arm.
"Brother, you seem sick..." Jeanne put her hand on Horn’s forehead, "It’s a bit feverish, maybe rest first, and go after dinner."
"No, let’s go now." Horn shrugged off Jeanne’s arm, still intending to proceed with the interrogation amidst the surrounding Child Soldiers.
As Jeanne hesitated on whether to use forceful means and carry Saint’s Grandson back directly, she saw Hezi rushing over, face full of panic.
"Master, Lord Saint Grandson, the Monk, that Monk has escaped!"
The voice wasn’t loud, but Horn felt a ringing in his ears.