Chapter 298: Faith

Two priests arrived—one older, one younger—both dressed similarly.

They wore cloaks like ancient clergy: loose shawls, long gown-like robes with simple waists, adorned with mysterious patterns and ornaments, and most importantly, hoods.

They walked barefoot on the clean floor that reflected their faces, leaving dusty footprints with each step, though they seemed indifferent—there was something distinctive about them.

“Mr. Lynch, do you believe in gods?”

The older priest looked at Lynch with cloudy eyes that somehow held an indescribable power. “Do you believe in our gods?”

Both priests fixed their gaze on Lynch, much like Mishehaye testing the police chief’s attitude—they wanted to know Lynch’s view on Nagaryll’s religion and its deities.

This was an important test. Over the years, some outsiders to Nagaryll were atheists, denying any gods, which directly contradicted local doctrine—they were blasphemers.

Others believed in gods but insisted only their own gods were true, labeling others as false or evil. This was even worse—they rejected local faith and defiled the sanctity of the gods.

Such tests mattered, especially in Nagaryll—a theocratic state where the gods’ sanctity was unquestionable and beyond question.

Lynch nodded without hesitation. “I believe.”

His decisiveness stunned the priests. They had prepared arguments to persuade a nonbeliever, but now those were useless, making the atmosphere awkward.

After a silent four or five seconds, the older priest’s expression shifted. He nodded slightly. “Mr. Lynch, though you say you believe, I feel…”

“You have never experienced our religion, nor read our doctrine, and know nothing of the great gods we worship. Why do you hold such beliefs?”

His tone grew serious. “The gods are omnipotent. You may deceive me, but you cannot deceive them.”

Faith was a grave matter to certain people—some lived entirely around it.

They might overlook other issues but demanded strict sincerity in faith.

Lynch’s quick claim of belief made the priests suspicious—did he truly believe or was he deceiving them?

Faith cannot be half-hearted or deceitful—that would be sacrilege.

They would rather Lynch admit atheism than lie to them or the gods.

Compared to the older priest’s seriousness, Lynch relaxed. Sitting with his leg crossed, he countered, “How do you know I’m deceiving you? How do you know I truly don’t believe?”

“Just your suspicion?”

Before the priest could reply, Lynch cut him off. “I’m a theist who believes gods exist. I didn’t want to explain, but your words might harm me, so I must correct you.”

“Anyone capable of independent thought would understand this: every religion is a vast, complex system. Many study a single faith a lifetime and still can’t grasp it fully.”

“If there were no gods, where did these things come from?”

“They can’t just appear out of nowhere. If someone invented them, besides questioning whether humans could fabricate such intricate, consistent religious systems, why would others believe a made-up story?”

Lynch’s voice carried a sense of mystical inquiry that drew listeners in.

“If you fabricate a huge lie, people would know. Everyone living with you knows no one before you told such stories—so they’d reject it.”

“No one would pass down your lies after you die, because everyone knows they’re false. People pass on real experiences, wisdom, and insights—not lies.”

“People transmit these things because they happened, or at least they believe they did.”

“Besides, if you weren’t so narrow-minded about other pantheons, you’d see some doctrines and god-related stories aren’t unique—they’re shared and common.”

“I’m neither atheist nor devoted to any single faith, but I believe gods exist. In ancient times, when people couldn’t leave their regions, how did they travel vast distances—distances even today seem remote—and record similar events?”

“Maybe language, customs, and habits caused differences in understanding the same gods, leading to varied records and views of common origins. But that doesn’t stop me from believing in gods.”

Lynch paused, tilting his head calmly at the priests. “Do you still think I’m deceiving you?”

The older priest placed a hand on his chest, bowed slightly. “Forgive me, Mr. Lynch. I was wrong.”

Lynch generously raised a hand as if to steady him. “I forgive you. We were strangers, and suspicion is natural. Now the misunderstanding is cleared.”

The priest straightened and nodded. He glanced at the younger priest, who pulled a red velvet cloth from his sleeve. Unfolding it revealed a pristine white plaque about three inches long and two inches wide.

It looked like bone or horn from an animal, engraved with golden mysterious patterns, appearing very noble.

“This is a blessing plaque personally empowered by the High Priest,” the older priest said, handing it to Lynch. “Also, next weekend there will be a ceremony. The High Priest hopes you will attend.”

This formal invitation came only after confirming Lynch met their criteria. Otherwise, they would have just made a perfunctory visit. They would never invite an atheist or follower of other faiths to local religious events, which could cause unpredictable trouble—they had faced that before.

The plaque was made from the horn of a horned animal, symbolizing religious status in Nagaryll. The High Priest only bestowed it on special individuals to show recognition.

For example, ascetics who prove their pure faith by self-mortification—these gaunt, scruffy figures can unleash unimaginable strength.

In the history of struggles between theocracy and political power, there were moments when the theocracy nearly lost control.

It was these ascetics, gathered from all over Nagaryll, who saved the situation and restored the theocracy’s stability.

Since then, the local religion elevated ascetics’ social status. The High Priests granted them divine plaques, earning them respect.

Their children gained admission rights to schools and enjoyed privileges above ordinary citizens.

But becoming an ascetic was not easy—it required deep understanding of doctrine and strict vows.

They severed ties with family and worldly views, maintaining contact only with the gods and their representatives—the High Priests.

They then chose either contemplative or active practice—another matter entirely.

Holding this plaque was akin to belonging to a religious nobility; faithful Nagaryllians revered the holders.

After thanking the priests repeatedly, Lynch watched them leave. Closing the door, he glanced at the plaque on the coffee table and toyed with it for a while.

Lynch did have faith—a real one. He believed in wealth, power, and mighty battleships, but he did not believe in gods.

Yet, to better fit into this society, he needed to wear the appearance of faith. Fortunately, these people were easy to fool.

After an afternoon of rest, as the sky darkened, Lynch and Asel arrived at a banquet held specially for him.

The host was Mayor Mishehaye, who invited local elites and wealthy merchants, even the provincial governor was on the guest list.

It wasn’t really his event—it was the governor’s, using the mayor’s name.

At 5:30, a convoy of luxury cars arrived at the hotel. Seeing such opulence in this backward place was hard to imagine, but Lynch understood—it was the power of wealth and authority.

Sitting in the car, watching policemen on bicycles or on foot whip and drive the crowd aside to clear the way, Lynch saw the hatred and anger in their eyes—and felt a rush of satisfaction.

He even hummed a traditional victory tune from the Baylor Federation.