Chapter 76: Short Poem

There were numerous deities on Ephara Continent, with much overlap in their domains.

Unless one belonged to those groups that had received higher education or were very interested in related theological knowledge.

Ordinary people could basically hardly name every deity and their corresponding divine offices.

Therefore, to distinguish different deities in the most concise and clear way, facilitating the direction and transmission of faith, and also enhancing their influence.

Holy symbols came into being.

Like the 【Maiden of Pain】 Loviatar's "nine-tailed whip with blood," the 【Lord of Storms】 Talos's "three scattered bolts of lightning striking down"...

Every deity had a holy symbol pattern belonging to themselves that could to a certain extent manifest the dominion they held.

And engraved on the cover of the strange leather book, that white human skull represented—

【Lord of Bones】, 【Reaper】, 【King of the Dead】

"Myrkul."

The halfling's eyes carried a trace of disgust as he muttered.

As one of the "Dark Gods," a powerful deity holding dominion over "the dead," "decay," "twilight" and many other domains.

Myrkul was malicious and cold, passionate about spreading fear to every corner of the continent.

Almost every adult had at least once in their memories had nightmares related to "skeletons holding scythes and wearing pitch-black hoods" or "undead on desolate wastelands."

This also made his followers often commit extreme, cruel acts, making people respect and fear death, thereby enhancing the church's influence.

Gloomy and evil doctrines, the power of undeath that corrupted minds, made him the master worshipped by a large number of "cultists."

Clearly, the gravedigger before everyone was one of them.

"I've spent my entire life in the cemetery, personally watching countless deceased go to His divine kingdom, and the most merciful and powerful Lord also left a gift for his most devout servant on that dim moonlit night."

The gravedigger's withered, gaunt face was filled with fanaticism, as if even his severed right hand no longer hurt.

"Just this book?" The sheriff frowned and asked him.

"And a bone whistle containing divine power."

The gravedigger's gaze suddenly looked at the deformed, twisted palm bone in my hand.

Hearing this, although my expression still maintained calm, my heart couldn't help trembling twice.

Really?

I'd thought it was just ordinary spoils of war—the origin was actually so significant?

As if sensing my thoughts, Alton beside me stood on tiptoe, reaching out to pat my shoulder consolingly:

"Relax. With this old man's level, he can't even count as the lowest tier cultist."

"Didn't even need torture—just grabbed his two arms and he confessed everything. Can't count as devout at all—how could he possibly receive a gift personally transmitted by a deity?"

"Feel free to keep it. Go sell it in the city later—won't be a problem at all."

As soon as he finished speaking, the gravedigger instantly became agitated.

"You, how dare you! How dare you belittle my faith in the Lord!?"

His face flushed red, his body kneeling on the ground leaned forward, as if the halfling said one more sentence, he'd rush up to fight him desperately.

"Shut up!"

Ingram rebuked.

The two guards beside appropriately grabbed, seizing his shoulders.

The gravedigger immediately lowered his head, becoming obedient like a quail.

"See, I told you."

The halfling curled his lip at me with an 'I already predicted it' expression.

On the other side, Ingram standing before the gravedigger flipped through the leather book in his hand without any hesitation.

Believing in the sun god "Amaunator," with holy light surging in his body, he naturally didn't care about this ordinary power of undeath.

His hand movements suddenly paused.

Using his fingertips to pinch the spine, he held the book toward the gravedigger:

"These few pages, how were they torn out?"

"Sir, I truly don't know! That night I heard knocking at the door. When I picked it up on the ground at the entrance, it was already like this."

His voice became hollow and trembling again, his thin body also started shaking anew.

The force gripping his shoulders from the guards grew heavier. The bandage on his right hand's severed end had been completely stained red, making the gravedigger not dare to be mysterious anymore, instead speaking in plain language with a pleading tone.

The strangely textured leather book, with several pages torn out, seemed to be precisely the most critical parts.

The remaining pages only had vague and faint handwriting, intermittently writing a short poem with chaotic structure and no rhythm:

"Moonlight pale, maiden lying still;

The prostitute jealous of her beauty, removed the ring; the staggering sailor, removed leather shoes;

The pickpocket stole the bracelet in the night, on the merchant's scale lay her anklet; the gambler's fingertips stained with greed, the pendant silently rolled away; the deficient old man cloaked in twilight, cut off her long hair;

The heretic in the wasteland dug new earth, buried her with both hands;

Sinking into darkness, sleeping eternally."

The verses were shallow, without any particular meaning.

But the strong directionality in the words made Ingram, who had already completely immersed his mind in the case, instantly react.

"Prostitute, sailor, thief, merchant..."

Weren't these precisely the identities of the victims who'd been attacked consecutively during this recent period?

Even the accessories corresponding to the verses all matched one-to-one with the body parts the victims had lost.

"So Tim followed this order?" A guard who'd heard the sheriff's thoughts asked aloud.

"Not necessarily." Ingram's expression was thoughtful. "But we can be certain he'll definitely target the remaining types of people in the poem next."

First was "gambler."

Full Money Bag tavern had so many people coming and going every day. Each customer, to a certain extent, fit this identity.

He couldn't possibly protect everyone who'd been to the tavern. Being able to send a few guards to stand watch near the tavern was already the limit of what he could do.

Troublesome.

Then was "heretic."

Even harder to handle.

On this continent with countless deities, randomly pulling a beggar from the roadside might be some deity's casual believer.

Completely impossible to determine the target.

As for finally, the deficient old man cloaked in twilight...

"Isn't there one right here?"

I glanced toward the gravedigger's direction and said casually.

"Twilight"—fit his identity as gravedigger who'd touched the power of undeath;

"Deficient"—I'd cut off half his arm, completely fitting;

"Old man"—naturally needless to say.

Hearing me say this, the sheriff's expression suddenly paused, looking at me with some surprise.

As if he hadn't expected I could discover an object fitting the identity characteristics so quickly.

After slight hesitation, he still spoke:

"Now that you mention it, he really does fit the description in the verses."

"But..."

"What I had in mind was someone else."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.