Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 455

Chapter 455: Opening up Chapter 455: Opening up Elios stood tall before the gathered faithful.

Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting golden beams upon the wooden and rather simple carvings of the gods that adorned the stone walls.

Elios raised his arms, his deep voice resonating like rolling thunder, filling every corner of the sacred space.

“Brothers and sisters,” he began, his tone both warm and unyielding, “there is no greater pleasure than that found in the honesty of work.

No joy more fulfilling than the sweat upon one’s brow, the ache in one’s hands, the fatigue in one’s bones after a day spent shaping, building, crafting, or tilling.

It is in toil that we are closest to the divine, for the gods themselves labored to carve the world from the void.

And so too must we labor to carve meaning from our own lives.” His gaze swept across the gathered crowd farmers with calloused hands, artisans bearing the marks of their craft, and soldiers with blades at their sides.

Each face, each pair of eyes, was drawn to him, captivated by the weight of his words.

“But,” he continued, his voice lowering, sharpening like a blade being drawn from its sheath, “there are those who do not share in this sacred toil.

There are those who feast not from their own labor, but from the sweat of others.

The usurer, who grows fat on coin he never earned.

The thief, who takes what he never bled for.

The deceiver, who twists words and peddles falsehoods for his gain, spinning lies as a spider weaves its web, waiting for the honest man to stumble into his trap.” A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of agreement and unease.

Some nodded fervently, their hands tightening on the hilts of their blades.

Others looked downward, their faces shadowed with reflection.

Elios let the moment linger, the silence heavy with the weight of truth.

“Work,” he declared, his voice rising like a flame, “is the heartbeat of the world!

It is the great forge in which civilization is hammered into shape.

A farmer’s calloused hands are worth more than a merchant’s silken robes!

A blacksmith’s sweat is holier than the golden coins of a moneychanger!

A builder who lays brick upon brick gives more to this world than a dozen lords who have never lifted anything heavier than their own indulgence!” He paused, his chest rising and falling with the force of his words, his staff striking the stone floor with a resounding crack.

The sound echoed through the hall, a punctuation mark to his sermon.

The crowd leaned forward, their breaths held, their eyes fixed on him.

“But the leeches of the world?” His voice darkened now, low and filled with quiet fury.

“They cling to the honest, draining them, taking and taking, yet never giving.

They do not create, only consume.

They do not sow, only reap.

And what is a man who feasts without labor?

A parasite!

And what happens to a body riddled with parasites?” “It dies,” a voice called out from the crowd, low and grim.

Elios’s eyes flashed, his lips curling into a grim smile.

“Yes,” he said, his voice a whisper that carried like a blade.

“It dies.

And so too will our world, if we allow these parasites to thrive.

But we are not helpless.

We are not weak.

We are the hands that shape the earth, the backs that bear its weight, the hearts that give it life.

And together, we will cast out the leeches.

Together, we will reclaim what is ours.” Elios nodded gravely.

“A nation that allows such men to flourish will find its roots withered, its harvest stolen, its soul poisoned.

It will crumble, not from the swords of its enemies, but from the rot festering within.” He stepped forward, his expression softening but his intensity never waning.

“But we-those who work, those who build, those who give-are the cure.

We are the fire that burns away the rot.

We are the flood that drowns the filth.

It is through honest labor that we find not only prosperity but purpose!

The man who toils knows the true taste of his bread.

The woman who sews feels the warmth of her cloth not just upon her skin but in her soul.” He lifted his hands high, his voice rising like a prayer.

“Rejoice in your labor!

Rejoice in your sweat!

For every drop shed in honest work is a hymn sung to the gods!

And curse those who would seek to grow fat upon the work of others, for they are the enemy of righteousness, the enemy of the gods, the enemy of mankind itself!” The temple erupted in agreement-cheers, shouts, fervent prayers filling the air.

Elios stood at the altar, his eyes ablaze, knowing that his words had planted something deep within their hearts.

A seed of truth.

A fire that, once kindled, could never be extinguished.

As the sermon concluded, the temple began to empty.

 The grand hall of the temple, so recently filled with passion and righteous conviction, grew quieter with every departing soul.

Robert remained behind, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes lingering on the grand carvings of the gods as he waited.

A small group of farmers had gathered around Elios, their faces earnest, their hands still dirt-streaked from the fields.

They spoke in hushed but urgent tones, gesturing as they explained their troubles-perhaps a dispute over land, or a plea for aid in securing better seed for the coming season.

Elios, with his usual patience, listened intently, nodding along, offering words of counsel and comfort in return.

Robert exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, waiting as the last of the farmers left, their shoulders lighter than when they had arrived.

Only then did he step forward.

The moment Elios caught sight of him, a wide, beaming smile spread across the priest’s face.

“Ah, Robert!” he greeted warmly, his voice brimming with genuine delight.

“What a pleasant sight it is to see you here!” Robert gave a small nod in return.

“Father Elios.” The priest clasped his hands together, his expression alight with enthusiasm.

“I have heard much of your deeds of late, my friend.

They say you fought nobly and valiantly in cleansing these lands of the bandits that plagued them.” His smile faltered for a brief moment, a shadow of sorrow crossing his face.

“It pains me to hear how deeply their presence had sunk its claws into the villages, how much suffering they inflicted on the innocent.” But then, with a renewed brightness in his eyes, he continued, “And yet, I rejoice in knowing they shall spill no more innocent blood.

The people of these lands can sleep with lighter hearts, and that,is no small thing.” Robert said nothing at first, merely letting the words hang in the air between them.

Then, after a pause, he let out a low hum, neither agreement nor dispute, but something in between.

“Aye,” he finally said, his voice calm, measured.

“They won’t be hurting anyone anymore.” Elios studied him for a moment, his sharp eyes searching Robert’s face.

Whatever he found there made his smile soften, his voice turning a touch quieter.

“And you?

Do you rejoice in it?” Robert’s lips pressed into a thin line.

He did not answer right away.

Robert exhaled, his gaze drifting toward the altar before he spoke.

“I didn’t find anything in it,” he admitted.

His voice was steady, but there was no weight behind it, no sense of pride or satisfaction.

“No great sense of purpose, no glory, no peace.

Just another fight.

Another pile of bodies left to the crows.” He rubbed his jaw absentmindedly.

“Perhaps-perhaps there’s some reassurance in knowing I was fighting for something better this time.

Maybe.

I don’t know.” Elios let out a quiet sigh through his nose, watching him with a knowing look.

After a moment, his lips curled into something just shy of a smirk.

“Well, it seems someone has found you a pleasurable companion, at least.” Robert arched a brow, unimpressed.

“If you mean the girl, she just follows me around,” he muttered.

Elios chuckled lightly, though his expression quickly grew somber.

“She is a poor little thing.

She’s seen too much in too little time, suffered things no child should endure, only to be refused by her own kin in the end.” He shook his head, his voice heavy with sorrow.

“She has a hard road ahead of her.” Robert said nothing, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

Elios watched him closely, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

“You’re a nobleman, Robert,” he said finally.

“Perhaps you could employ her as your servant.” He spread his hands in a simple, reasonable gesture.

“You have a small home here, do you not?I believe some farmers built it for you….

I’m sure she could manage to look after it.” Robert stared at him, he exhaled, glancing away as if the answer was somewhere in the flickering candlelight of the temple.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally, his voice even but noncommittal.

It was neither a refusal nor an acceptance, just a thought left to linger in the air.

Elios nodded, as if expecting that response.

A silence stretched between them before the priest tilted his head slightly, his expression turning inquisitive.

“And your dreams?” he asked.

“Have they troubled you still?” Robert let out a slow breath.

“No,” he admitted.

“Not since then.” He folded his arms, his gaze lowering in thought.

“I’ve actually started sleeping more soundly.” At that, Elios smiled, a genuine warmth in his features.

“That is a good thing,” he said with quiet certainty.

“At the very least, it seems the gods have chosen not to punish you further.” Robert wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or wary at that notion, but he said nothing.

Elios’ smile, however, did not last long.

He let out a sigh, rubbing his temple as if he could chase away whatever troubled him.

“I only wish I could say the same for myself,” he admitted.

His voice, usually so steady and full of conviction, now carried a weariness Robert had rarely heard from him.

“In recent days, I’ve been plagued by ugly nightmares.” Robert studied him, frowning slightly.

“What kind of nightmares?” he asked.

Elios’ eyes darkened, his thoughts seemingly drifting elsewhere.

“The kind that do not fade with the morning light,” he murmured.

Elios tilted his head back, his gaze lifting toward the wooden beams of the temple’s roof as if searching for answers carved into the old timbers.

The candlelight flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows that made him look older, more burdened than Robert had ever seen him.

“I fear a great storm is coming,” he said at last, his voice quiet but weighted, as if each word carried the heaviness of an unspoken truth.

“Not one of wind or rain, but something far worse-something unseen yet inevitable.” His fingers drummed against the wooden podium beside him, a restless movement betraying his unease.

“And I do not know what will emerge from it,” he continued, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to peer through a fog that had yet to descend.  His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening.

“Only that it is coming.And we cannot do anything to stop it from reaching us…”