Reborn As Noble - Chapter 263

Chapter 263: The Price of Belief ( 262 )
The priests of the Saint of Three Gods stood outside the Armand border gate, their voices ringing with fiery zeal.

“The Armand region has fallen into darkness!” one priest bellowed. “They reject the light of the Three Gods and embrace heresy!”

Another raised his hands dramatically. “They harbor witches and blasphemers! Their lands are filled with those who forsake divine judgment!”

“They refuse to pay proper tithe to the Church!” another priest added, outrage lacing his voice. “The people of Armand live without true faith, refusing to devote their wealth and labor to the glory of the gods!”

“They consort with unholy creatures! Beasts and monsters roam their lands, treated as equals rather than being slain as abominations!”

“And they welcome demons! They have dealings with the cursed ones, those who should be purged from this world!”

The Armand priests, clad in deep blue robes embroidered with silver sigils, stood firm, unfazed by the accusations.

One of them, an elderly priest with a composed expression, stepped forward. “You shout loudly, yet your words hold no truth. The people of Armand live freely, worship as they choose, and are not bound by forced devotion.”

Another Armand priest crossed his arms. “You call us heretics, yet it is you who burn villages and murder innocents in the name of your so-called gods.”

A younger Armand priest smile. “Perhaps it’s jealousy. After all, unlike your regions, our people do not starve under heavy taxation disguised as faith.”

The cult priests fumed, their faces red with anger.

“You dare mock the true faith?!”

The lead Armand priest simply gestured toward the towering walls behind him. “We do not need to mock. Our lands speak for themselves.”

The guards at the gate tightened their grips on their weapons, anticipating the inevitable escalation.

The lead Armand priest remained calm, his voice steady as he addressed the cultists. “Our faith has never forced anyone to pay tithe, nor have we demanded offerings to fill our coffers,” he said, his gaze sharp. “Unlike your so-called holy order, which demands payment for ‘divine blessings’ and forces the poor to surrender their meager earnings just to be considered faithful.”

Another Armand priest stepped forward, his arms crossed. “You build grand temples with golden altars while your followers starve, demanding loyalty through fear rather than faith.”

“You call yourselves holy, yet you burn villages and slaughter those who do not submit,” the younger priest added. “You force people into your doctrine, threatening their homes and families if they refuse. That is not faith—that is tyranny.”

The cult priest scoffed, stepping forward defiantly. “We spread the true faith of the Three Gods! It is our duty to purge the wicked and guide the lost!”

The elderly Armand priest narrowed his eyes. “Guide the lost? Or enslave them? Tell me, when did faith become a chain rather than a choice?”

The guards at the gate stood firm, gripping their weapons tightly. Citizens gathered behind the priests, murmuring in agreement.

“We built our place of worship not with gold, but with trust,” another priest said. “Our halls are open to all who seek peace, with no demands, no forced devotion, no tithe. Just a place to pray in silence, without fear of judgment.”

The cultists fumed, their faces twisting in frustration. They had come expecting fear, resistance, or compromise. Instead, they were met with unwavering defiance.

“You will regret this!” one priest snarled. “The Three Gods will punish those who reject their light!”

The lead Armand priest merely smirked. “If your gods are so mighty, let them come themselves. We do not fear men who pretend to speak for them.”

The crowd behind him roared in approval, while the cultists trembled with barely contained rage.

The Armand priest stepped forward, his voice filled with conviction.

“And you call yourselves holy while living off the backs of the poor?” he scoffed. “You take tithe, calling it ‘divine tribute.’ You demand offerings, branding them as ‘acts of faith.’ And when the people suffer, you take even more, claiming it’s ‘a test of devotion.'”

He gestured toward the crowd behind him. “Look at them! See the faces of those who live freely, unburdened by forced faith! We do not take a single coin from them. Our expenses, our homes, the maintenance of our places of worship, the cost of healing, purification, and all that we do—it is all provided by our lord, Count Garius.”

The cultists flinched at the name, their expressions twisting in frustration.

“Unlike you,” the priest continued, “we do not demand payment for salvation. We do not treat faith as a business, nor do we see the people as cattle to be milked dry. Our hands are clean, our intentions clear. Can you say the same?”

One of the cult priests clenched his fists. “Blasphemy! You reject the divine order! A noble should not dictate faith!”

The Armand priest smirked. “A noble should not exploit his people, either. But tell me, where is your great Marquis Billoton when your followers starve? Does he share his wealth with them? Or does he build more golden halls while demanding even greater tithes?”

The crowd murmured in agreement, their anger rising.

“You claim to serve the gods,” the priest said, stepping even closer. “But in truth, you serve only yourselves.”

“The people of Armand don’t want that cult here!” one of the citizens shouted, his voice rising above the crowd. Others quickly joined in, their frustration boiling over.

“Go away with your false faith! Get out!”

The crowd grew louder, their voices a thunderous roar of defiance. Men, women, and even children stood together, determination etched on their faces. Some waved farming tools in the air, while others clenched their fists, ready to defend their home.

“You’re not welcome here!” a woman yelled, her voice sharp and unwavering.

“Take your lies and leave our region!” another man added, his tone fierce.

The cult priests, standing at the edge of the gathering, looked visibly shaken but tried to maintain their composure. They clutched their holy symbols tightly, their faces pale as the sea of angry citizens closed in around them.

The Armand High Priest raised his hand, signaling for calm. His presence alone quieted the uproar, though the anger in the eyes of the citizens remained.

“Brothers and sisters,” the High Priest spoke, his voice steady and commanding, “we are not like them. We do not need to shout or hurl insults. Our actions speak louder than their falsehoods.”

He turned to the cult priests, his expression cold. “You stand here, shouting slander at my people, calling us heretics, yet it is you who come uninvited, demanding entry into a land that has already rejected your ways.”

One of the cult priests sneered. “You fear the truth! You fear the will of the Three Gods!”

The High Priest’s lips curved into a smirk. “Fear? No. We do not fear your gods, nor do we fear you. We reject you because we know what you are.”

He gestured toward the people. “Armand does not starve. Armand does not suffer under the weight of false faith. We do not need your salvation, for our people are already free. We will not kneel to your so-called divine rule.”

The citizens cheered, their voices drowning out the cultists’ protests.

“You are not welcome here,” the High Priest declared. “And if you attempt to force your way in—” He turned to the guards. “—our Lord’s command is clear. You will be removed.”

The Armand guards stepped forward, swords and crossbows at the ready.

“Leave,” the High Priest ordered. “Or be thrown out.”

( End of Chapter )