Chapter 305: Numbness, Awakening, Flower Wagons, and the Saintess

“Beautiful pelts!”

Under the sunlight, Lynch couldn’t help but admire the leopard-lion carcasses. Their fur gleamed a stunning golden yellow. With some oiling and processing, they would shine brilliantly.

Beauty is human nature. Ever since people began adorning themselves with bright feathers, arrogantly believing that gods shared their aesthetics, making oneself more beautiful has become universal—and people obsess over it.

Hassana smiled at the hanging leopard-lions and said to Lynch, “I hear people from the Federation are thin like you…” He paused, “I’m not mocking you, Mr. Lynch, but you really are too skinny. Men should be stronger!”

He pointed to the pelts, “The torso fur can make coats, limbs can become gloves or bags. For the heads, I suggest making trophies. I hear your people like hanging animal heads on walls.”

It was a warning, though his tone was not friendly. Lynch glanced at him, smiling, “Mr. Hassana, the scientists I know are thin and frail. They don’t spend time enjoying life, but what they create greatly advances civilization and world peace. Do you understand?”

Hassana laughed, “Of course, I understand…” Clearly, he didn’t. Lynch’s words were subtle threats, which Hassana missed.

Natives are natives—barbaric, ignorant, and foolish.

Lynch had been here three days. On the third, from a distance, he witnessed an animal migration. It was stunning. Such majestic natural scenes often impressed natives far more than civilized people.

Because natives are foolish and ignorant, they cannot grasp nature’s mysteries. They fear the unknown. But civilized men think only of conquest.

In three days, over a hundred leopard-lion pelts had been sent to the city, where skilled tanners served the upper class for generations.

During these days, over thirty hunters died and hundreds were wounded trying to preserve the pelts. Yet Hassana still scolded his nephew.

The hunters’ clumsiness caused several leopard-lions that could have been captured alive to be maimed and had to be killed for their pelts.

This was money—shiny gold money!

So part of the hunters’ pay was deducted.

They complained briefly but dared not resist. They and their families would serve Hassana’s family for generations.

Offending Hassana meant losing status and becoming ordinary people like most.

On the way back, Hassana didn’t follow. He assigned his nephew to escort Lynch’s group and stayed behind to supervise the foolish hunters. He feared if no one watched, the live leopard-lions would be killed—and he would lose a fortune.

“Boss, I have some troubling questions. Can you help me?” Asel asked, sitting in the car with a pained look.

They spoke the international lingua franca but with a strong Baylor Federation accent—like how hello evolves into dozens of versions. Even fluent speakers struggle with all accents, and Asel was a native who barely spoke it.

Lynch nodded kindly. His gaze was gentle—perhaps an odd word, but fitting given their combined age.

“Of course, Asel, my friend. If I can answer, I will.”

Asel forced a smile. “Thank you, boss…” After a pause, he asked in a voice barely hiding disbelief and emotion, “Is there any chance for change here, boss?”

“Before you came, I was thinking about that—can anything here really change?”

His eyes grew distant, his voice vague. “In the Federation, everyone told me life is precious. No one can take it away casually. That’s how we live, and I believed it.”

“But here, in my homeland, a human life might not be worth a banknote. The powerful kill at will. Can this… change?”

His gaze sharpened and fixed on Lynch, urgency creeping in. “Even if it can’t become the Federation, at least not this way.”

Lynch studied him curiously, as if inspecting new food. “I never knew you were the type to ponder such heavy questions.”

Asel blinked, embarrassed, lowering his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Since I returned, everything feels unbearable. I feel sick.”

Lynch raised his arm, pointing at him. “You’re not sick. You just see this society clearly.”

“You think the rulers are cruel. But it’s not them—it’s the people living in despair.”

“It’s those people retreating step by step that let the rulers close in. They fall into an abyss while rulers look down from the cliff.”

“If someone stood up to fight their fate—even if he died—the rulers would have to listen to the majority’s demands.”

“Even if fake, they’d start caring, improving lives, opening upward paths.”

“But they don’t. They retreat more before harsher oppression, so rulers believe their limits aren’t reached and things worsen.”

Asel struggled with this. He’d thought the rulers caused it all, but Lynch’s words hurt more.

People killed their own hope—what’s crueler?

He fell silent, chest heaving, then laughed bitterly. “I shouldn’t think like this. I’m just ordinary, and it hurts to see this fate.”

“Sorry, boss, I shouldn’t have said that. I disturbed your mood.”

Lynch waved it off. “Not at all. You asked something I haven’t answered. The way to change all this is simple—by awakening society through death and blood.”

“No peaceful revolution can bring real change. Only death and blood wipe away false peace, reveal dark truths, and revive numb souls.”

“Asel, you’re not that person. But one day, someone will open a stairway to heaven for all trapped in this hell.”

The rest of the trip was quiet. Asel pondered Lynch’s words. Lynch did too.

When the convoy reached the city center, their plan to take Lynch to a hotel delayed briefly.

They encountered two flower wagons. Drivers stopped at the roadside, waiting for the flower wagons to pass.

The flower wagons carried many young women, their faces oddly flushed and eyes dull.

Each moved lazily, as if without bones.

“What is this?” Lynch asked, curious about everything here.

Asel looked away, then quietly said, “Flower wagons and the Saintess…” His words trailed off. Seeing Lynch watch him, he focused and seriously explained.

In Nagaryll, clergy, priests, high priests, and other religious officials are allowed to marry and have children. No rules forbid it—that would be absurd.

For those in the lower tiers of society, trying to cling to the rulers was utterly hopeless. The rulers looked down on their backgrounds and families, giving them no chance.

So they turned their sights to the priests and clergy, who were more accessible.

When a family had a pretty girl, they would dress her up and send her to the temple as a candidate for the Saintess to serve the gods.

The gods would descend upon priests or clergy anytime, anywhere, enjoying the service of these girls who fulfilled their sacred duties.

If a girl became pregnant and her child received the gods’ acknowledgment, that child—after training—would become a new priest or even a clergy member.

The girl and her family’s social status would rise significantly. They could access public services, send their children to school, and their entire lives would change drastically.

Of course, not every girl was so lucky. Most were sent back at seventeen, eighteen, or nineteen, because the temple couldn’t support so many. Their attention would shift to a new batch of Saintesses.

These Saintesses, having endured prolonged physical and mental trials, would change—especially mentally.

The girls on these flower wagons had been returned. In their innocence, they had given their best to the gods, but now faced the most tragic fate.