Frostpunk Divine Throne-Chapter 4: Rescue

Cyren awoke from bone-piercing cold. His limbs seemed beyond his control, numb and sluggish. His hand pressed against the ground transmitted waves of dull pain, and several attempts to lift it failed.
His long eyelashes were covered with ice crystals. The moment he opened his eyes, melted ice water flowed into them. Beneath his thin bishop's robe was all frozen blood.
A steel bone had pierced through Ober's wrist, wounded his side, then pierced through Ober's chest again.
That guard captain who had looked at him with displeasure had already stopped breathing. Only the corpse's residual warmth still protected him. Cyren didn't know why he had made that leap. Was it habit, loyalty, to protect him, or to protect God's will on earth?
But he could no longer answer.
Cyren opened his mouth and weakly chanted in a hoarse tone, "Jehovah... Rapha."
The warm current of divine will emerged. Golden holy light unfolded behind him into a light screen, then gathered into a flow of light enveloping his entire body.
His bodily functions were perfectly mobilized, without the slightest waste of heat or erroneous cellular operation. The wounds rapidly healed, and he gradually recovered his strength, though waves of hunger came, and his fat diminished considerably.
"Ugh..." Cyren struggled to prop himself up, crawled on the ground, and step by step climbed out of the broken carriage filled with accumulated snow.
He also found his suitcase, so he pulled out dry winter clothes from inside.
The ring of authority emitted a faint flash. Bloodstains and snow water on the robe all fell away, and then he put on an Ulster coat over it.
By this time the wind and snow outside had weakened. The earth within visible range was already covered with a thick layer of accumulated snow. Who knew how many summer lives had died beneath this cold.
The Northern Holy Seat was like a snake severed into several sections, bearing heavy scars. One red mercury carriage had somehow combusted, a raging fire burning through the sky, just like the legendary Sodom and Gomorrah.
Cyren supported his weak body, leaning on his pastoral staff, and headed toward that place burning with great fire.
It was far too cold here. Only near the fire could there possibly be survivors.
When passing the dining car, Cyren took several pieces of frozen meat and vegetables and ate them raw directly, and wrapped several loaves of bread to warm them against his chest.
[Holy Healing] wasn't healing energy from the void, but rather using the will of "divine will" to command the body, overclocking the body's mobilization. Therefore, each healing consumed calories, and Cyren was already ravenously hungry at this time.
As for the loaves of bread being warmed, they were for potential wounded.
He stumbled to the side of the great fire. By now the red mercury had gradually burned out, the fire gradually diminishing in the wind and snow, revealing the scorched black earth and steel below.
Cyren coughed and chanted with all his strength, "Holy! Holy! Holy! Lord God of Hosts!"
Seven little angels appeared, bearing flowers, halos, and trumpets, singing hymns of praise everywhere. This was the divine art [Hymn Chanting], generally used in mass ceremonies, with no function other than singing.
But they had one small characteristic, they would automatically fly to rest on the shoulder of some random nearby person, singing in that person's ear.
The seven little angels circled nearby and found their respective targets.
Cyren followed in their footsteps, searching, lifting steel frames one by one, clearing patches of accumulated snow. Unfortunately, most people had already stopped breathing. They had either frozen to death or perished in the train accident.
Suddenly, not far from the red mercury fire, in a patch of accumulated snow, Cyren discovered a human form that still had a heartbeat. It was a middle-aged man with a large beard and medium-length salt-and-pepper hair. He should be a runic craftsman heading to Spessay.
Cyren loudly chanted [Holy Healing] to stabilize his life, then dug him out from the snow pile, wrapped him in cotton clothes found in the carriage, and placed him under a steel plate sheltered from the wind.
He kept searching like this, turning up corpse after corpse, and also finding three or five living people.
Suddenly, from the distant ruins came a young woman's voice, "Bishop Delante, please give me a holy healing."
Fortunately, the voice wasn't blown away by the wind and snow. Cyren hurriedly ran over and found the first conscious survivor.
After one [Holy Healing], her voice was obviously much better, "Thank you. These steel plates have me trapped... Do you know [Halt]?"
"Of course," Cyren said.
"Please use halt to block it when I lift it up," she said, then slowly lifted the twisted steel plate trapping her. When there was an opening suitable for her to come out, Cyren used [Halt] to block the falling steel plate.
The steel plate trembled on the purely transparent wall. Cyren struggled to maintain it. After seeing the woman come out, the entire steel frame collapsed with a crash.
"Thank you." She shook hands with Cyren. "Abbess of Spessay Convent, Matilda."
She was a woman who looked very young, but the white nun's headdress and wide nun's robe covered all her characteristics. Only a pair of brown eyes were unforgettable.
Cyren saw that her thin black nun's habit was already badly damaged and quickly handed her winter clothes, "This is truly terrible."
"Within expectations," Matilda said, looking sadly at the corpse Cyren had dug out. "But it came too early. I thought the earliest would be this winter."
Cyren grabbed Matilda in surprise, "You knew all along?"
Matilda was also somewhat surprised, "You didn't know? Those at bishop level should all know about this. Even someone with an honorary title like me knew."
Abbesses were not ordained clergy, but were still very noble, generally equivalent to bishops and not subject to Church governance.
Cyren touched the back of his head, "I only became a bishop today."
"I see." Matilda smiled. "I wish our young lord bishop all the best... Two years ago, Mr. Nostradamus prophesied a devastating extreme cold disaster, so the Church and various nations have long been building shelters everywhere. The Spessay we're going to is one of them."
"I see..." Cyren nodded. Actually, this was mainly the fault of the original owner. Even if such a super-large project as building shelters was ordered to be concealed, it certainly couldn't be hidden from people, but the original owner was immersed day and night in pleasurable company, barely even holding mass, and didn't care at all about the outside situation.
Although they chatted, the work in their hands didn't stop. Matilda was also helping to search everywhere for survivors, her strength was unexpectedly great, and her movements were nimble.
This left Cyren somewhat puzzled. A female abbess was not a simple position. Most abbesses came from middle-upper class or aristocratic families, because joining the convent usually required paying a considerable "dowry," and abbesses needed good educational backgrounds, management abilities, and social skills, as well as deep theological knowledge.
Generally speaking, even if such a directly appointed female abbess wasn't a pampered young lady raised in luxury, she would be an ascetic buried in piles of books.
However, regardless, with Matilda's participation, the rescue operation progressed more smoothly.
When the last person was rescued, Cyren chanted [Holy Healing] for him again.
But this time, the light mist behind him was no longer blurry vapor, but rather displayed two small images.
One was of him conducting mass at Wendington Church, the place where he had served for the past four years, though the image was somewhat blurry and unclear.
The other was beneath wind, snow, and broken steel frames, where a thin clergyman dug out survivors from beneath accumulated snow.
The two images floated behind Cyren like drifting light mist, like oil paintings on church ceilings, and like scenes of heaven.
The instant these two images appeared, the light of [Holy Healing] suddenly burst forth. Brilliant golden light condensed like mist, permeating and traveling between the target's flesh and blood, lingering and forming whirlwinds at the wounds and places frozen blue-black.
Matilda looked at him, showing an envious expression, "A holy miracle..."