Goblin Dependency Chapter 753 - 377: Blood and Honey (Part 2)

"You must rember, sotis, for the sake of the Church and the goddess, individual sacrifice is inevitable."

At that mont, I looked at the wall behind him, at the holy image of the goddess "compassionate towards the world," and felt a wave of dizziness.

The great being I serve, and the "goddess" he speaks of, are they really the sa thing?

I have learned to communicate the Holy Light and guide Divine Power, yet the distance between and Her seems to grow ever farther.

The goddess has not manifested for a long ti.

I realized with fear that I seed to have long since ceased to expect Her appearance.

This filled with fear and helplessness.

I couldn’t help but voice my doubt in my mind:

Why allow all this?

Or... do You not care at all?

Sotis I even question whether the Miracle at the age of thirteen was rely a feverish dream.

But every year when the oranges are sent from my hotown, the fragrance when peeling them and the sweetness of the pulp remind that it all did happen.

The closest place to the goddess seems to also be the farthest from Her.

...

When news of the blight in my hotown ca again, I had made so connections within the Church.

By wielding a bit of influence, the Church sent technical personnel and the finest Holy Water.

In less than two weeks, the disaster was brought under control.

I decided to return ho for a visit.

The carriage rolled down familiar roads, with orchards lining both sides, yet the vast lands around were now enclosed with stone walls with "Private Property" wooden signs on them.

Occasionally, I saw a few unfamiliar fruit farrs who all treated with great respect, addressing as "Master."

The old house had been expanded beyond recognition, the marble pillars at the entrance glinting in the sunlight.

The one who entertained was the current manager of the family enterprise, my nephew.

He spoke with enthusiasm and pride about how he utilized the once "Miraculous Appearance" reputation and my connections in the Church to monopolize most of the local orchards, making other farrs "voluntarily" give up their land to beco laborers for our family.

His words were filled with a craving for wealth and power, yet lacked any reverence for the Miracle itself, for the orange tree that rose from the dead.

Just like those Big Shots I had seen in the Church, sitting high above.

"Thanks to you, Uncle! As soon as the Church’s Holy Water was spread, the blight vanished imdiately!" His plump face, as though it could squeeze out oil, was all smiles. "It was not a bad thing, really; due to this blight, the last few fruit farrs nearby also sold their land to us."

I asked him to take to see the Miracle tree.

As a testant to the blessing of Divine Grace, they had built a lavish small temple for it, not large in scale, but with decorations more expensive and exquisite than the town’s church.

The old orange tree was encircled right in the center of the altar in the temple, like those elaborately mourned mummies in the western deserts.

Upon closer inspection, I found its branches were bare, lacking any leaves, let alone fruit.

"It hasn’t borne fruit for many years," my nephew said.

"But it’s okay, we’ve grafted many new trees with its branches, and we reap bountifully every year," he smiled aningfully.

I gently touched the tree trunk, and my mind couldn’t help but recall the days and nights years ago when I knelt beneath it in prayer.

Suddenly, a twig broke off and fell into my hand, very light.

That night, I sat alone in the church for a long, long ti, missing the ritual for the first ti.

The goddess’s gift may initially have been Her blessing.

But when it fell to the mortal realm, it beca a tempting "poison apple."

Myself, my family, and even the whole Church, swallowed it without hesitation, and wilted because of it.

Boom—

An inaudible loud noise bood in my heart, like the broken branch falling.

My faith in the goddess remained, but after returning to the Church, I submitted my application to resign from all core positions.

Amidst confusion and anticipated glee, I packed my things, bringing only the necessary holy texts and a few pieces of frequently worn clothing.

I carved that fallen twig into a wooden dagger.

It’s short, just enough to grip in the hand; not sharp at all, even sowhat rough.

Holding it, I could rember my original self.

...

Sheep Horn Town is a remote little place; I beca the Priest here.

Over the years, I tried my best to do everything a Priest should do.

Presiding over weddings and funerals for the townsfolk, listening to their concerns, occasionally treating minor injuries and illnesses; helping farrs improve farming thods, caring for the sick during epidemics, opening literacy classes for poor but ambitious children.

The tangible labor, along with the respect and gratitude from the townsfolk, gradually made stop longing for Miracles in those unforgettable tis.

The townsfolk respected ; no one knew my past. They rely saw as an ordinary, elderly Priest transferred here from the big city.

Sotis, on quiet nights, I would take out that wooden dagger and reflect on my life.

Recollecting how pure faith was corroded by the poison apple, yet how it survived in a simple and ordinary life.

I began writing so articles, docunting thoughts on faith and life, not expecting anyone to read them, only using them to organize my thoughts.

I still led the services, preached the doctrine, and the townsfolk all said I was a truly devout practitioner of the goddess’s teachings on earth.

But only I knew that when I led them in chanting the hymns loudly, my heart was empty.