An entire squad of soldiers knelt before Cyren. Seven people. The squad leader's tears slid across the sapphire ring surface, reflecting Joseph's incredulous expression.
He had observed the entire process, experiencing emotional fluctuations along with Cyren's words amid thoughts of "mmm, well said indeed." After the sermon ended, he suddenly realized with a start, Heavenly Father above! He had just convinced Rain's guards to become his own believers through words alone?
Looking at those five people's repentant expressions and the firm look in their eyes when they gazed at Cyren, they practically regarded him as a saint. Yet these were Rain's old subordinates, personal guards brought from the south! Originally there were only seventy-some people, and Cyren had just talked away one-fourteenth of them in one go.
Cyren also sighed inwardly. He had confidence in convincing these soldiers, but the devout appearance of these five people was completely beyond his expectations. One could only say that the power of faith was indeed deeply rooted in this world.
Moreover, toward the end of his speech, he had indeed brought in some personal emotion.
Attributing responsibility to superiors, comforting oneself with "following orders," willingly becoming part of a huge machine, turning oneself into gears and weapons, mass-producing death, becoming devils under systematic control, this was precisely what certain countries did during World War II.
It regarded killing and evildoing as neutral "orders," even viewing them as "necessary evils on the path to the great collective good." In anticipation of a glorious future, it suppressed the present and past, exonerating atrocities and aggression.
This dangerous ideological tendency could not exist in Spessay at all!
Cyren secretly swore in his heart.
If that Rain Hoffman he'd never met wanted such a future, then he must turn these lost sheep back to the right path one by one.
After convincing this squad of soldiers, Cyren encountered no more obstacles. Along the way they encountered two other squads of soldiers, but they only looked at this group in surprise and said nothing.
Finally, the Holy Treasury's gate appeared before them.
Different from the gates of Heaven or doors with sacred decorations that Cyren had imagined, it was just a steel gate, standing heavily at the end of a forged steel passageway.
On the gate, a line of text was engraved, "Let not the poor freeze to death in wind and snow."
Cyren looked at it, silent for a moment, then found the hole for inserting the ring of authority.
He inserted the ring, channeling divine will, and then infinite holy light gushed from within.
The sound of gears and machinery operating came from inside the forged steel door. Red liquid spread through the boiler pipes like blood. Light red steam sprayed from the door cracks, as if some ancient monster was awakening.
Amid the rumbling sound, the gate slowly opened.
The soldiers vigilantly watched behind them, ignoring the wealth that might exist in the Holy Treasury, loyally standing guard here for Cyren. Having just repented and become devout believers, they regarded money as dirt, with only the saint's safety and the teachings of scripture in their hearts.
The first thing that met the eye was rows and rows of metal shelves, but all were empty.
Cyren walked in alone, passing half the empty Holy Treasury before finally seeing stored supplies.
Thick wool coats and corduroy trousers filled ten shelves. Joseph had mentioned these things when introducing them, he had watched these supplies arrive and be stored in the Holy Treasury.
Thick wool coats were cold-resistant clothing commonly used by ordinary people in Albion, windproof and wear-resistant, even with some waterproof properties. In rural areas they were even family heirlooms passed down through generations. Corduroy was a fabric that had newly appeared in the past ten years, quite good for cold resistance.
Further in were over ten shelves of wooden crates. Cyren opened a crate and found it full of neatly arranged glass canned meat, placed in shock-absorbing straw, nine per box.
Further in, there was everything, red wine, potatoes, flour, yeast, paper, ink... mostly daily necessities.
Walking all the way to the end, just when Cyren thought there was only these things here, he saw a pile of things wrapped in black cloth.
He lifted the cloth. Brilliant golden light filled his entire vision.
It was a whole pile of gold bars and gold coins, neatly arranged, piled to about his hip height.
Behind the gold were clergy uniforms, guard armor and weapons, only piled on two shelves.
More was supposed to be transported, but obviously, those things had already fallen on the snowy plains along with the Northern Holy Seat train.
Finally, Cyren came to the very back of the Holy Treasury.
At the end was only a gray wall. There seemed to be nothing else. Cyren turned around, contemplating how much that pile of gold was worth.
But at this moment, his hand inadvertently touched an inconspicuous mechanism. The steel plates shook thunderously. Accompanied by Cyren's shocked gaze, the wall at the end slowly moved aside. Something he could hardly imagine appeared before him—
It was a suit of armor about two meters tall, or so it could be described. It was cast from heavy mysterious alloy. The golden metal emanated faint starlight, as if it had incorporated traces of starlight from the moment of its birth. The outer shell was mostly curved and arched, similar to cavalry breastplates, a structure very suitable for conducting force. Bullets hitting it would ricochet and deflect. Its joints were protected by perfect armor design, not exposing vulnerable connection points, yet allowing free rotation.
On the golden armor, black vines and thorns entwined around every part, making it appear both sacred and fierce, dignity revealing terror. Those black thorns gathered at the chest into a black Messiah cross. Crimson paint drew the symbol of a rain of fire at the heart, like an angel of judgment controlling authority and power.
The steel plates on the back enclosed a miniature Red Mercury boiler. Steel wings were folded into the backpack slots, yet even in slumber, it radiated unquestionable might, like those deities in mythology who, even in cold book pages, seemed able to penetrate time, space and worlds to wield dominion over blood and fire.
Cyren stared at it dumbfounded, standing there, at a loss.
He had read some fantasy comics before, but had never seen armor with such religious coloration that fused beauty with power, solemnity with violence. Though clearly forged from precision gears and connecting rods, it seemed like God-given armor.
"Steel Angel War Armor, B4 Type - Archangel."
An aged voice came from behind. Cyren whirled around to see Aldridge's face revealing a complex expression.
"This is..." Cyren opened his mouth but didn't know what to say.
He finally remembered that his senior brother had indeed mentioned that the kind he usually wore belonged to "light armor," and that if facing war, they would have a set of exclusive heavy armor. But those things were generally collected as secret weapons in the Church's treasury. With Cyren's level at that time, he had no opportunity to see them.
Aldridge caressed that mythical metal and armor. Runes flashed one by one with his hand, but his face was wreathed in lingering sorrow.
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