The crowd had been set ablaze, burning brighter than a dry brush pile.
The first to start running were a few of Nio’s cousins.
They were poor, honest folk, the kind who usually trembled like mice whenever they crossed paths with Bartolo.
Today, the mice found their courage.
Their eyes bloodshot, they didn’t utter a word as they turned and sprinted toward their homes to fetch things.
Not tools for earning a living—tools for killing.
Next was Giotto the baker.
He felt that his life’s craft and pride had been ruined by that demon Bartolo.
He was going too; he wanted to drag all the flour out of Bartolo’s house and see if it refused to rise, too.
Then there was Mario the blacksmith, a man built like a bear.
His wife, Maria, was one of the most devout women in the village.
For days, she had been muttering at home that Bartolo was a demon, and that if they didn’t burn him alive, their entire family would go to hell with him.
Mario hadn’t really believed it before—he believed in the hammer in his hand.
Now, he believed it.
Because the Abbot had spoken.
The Abbot’s words carried more weight than his heavy iron hammer.
He ran the fastest, heading home to grab his heavy sledgehammer.
One, two, ten, a hundred.
The crowd dispersed from the hillside, pouring back into the village like an ebbing tide.
Soon, they surged together again like a rising flood.
This time, they were no longer empty-handed spectators.
They carried weapons of every description.
Hoes, which had been turning soil in the fields just days ago.
Now, they were going to turn human flesh.
Sickles, which had been harvesting wheat just yesterday.
Now, they were going to harvest throats.
Pitchforks, normally used to feed hay to cattle.
Now, they were going to pierce Bartolo’s heart.
Axes, clubs, and butcher knives.
Torches were lit, hundreds of them converging into a winding snake of fire through the village.
This dragon of fire had only one destination: Bartolo’s manor.
“Purify him!” “Burn the demon!” “Take back what’s ours!” Giovanni stood on the hillside, with Luca and several other friars standing behind him.
They watched the roaring dragon of fire below as it charged toward the manor, which was already bathed in a bloody crimson light.
Luca’s face flickered under the firelight.
His lips were trembling—not out of fear, but out of sheer excitement.
He felt he was witnessing history.
A holy, magnificent trial.
“Abbot, sir…” he asked, his voice shaking, “are…
are we not going?” Giovanni watched the unstoppable torrent below and said softly, “No rush.” “The lambs need a little time for their feast.” “We are shepherds.
And shepherds always clean the dining table at the very end.” … The front gate of Bartolo’s manor was made of thick oak and reinforced with iron plates.
It was extraordinarily sturdy.
In normal times, this gate was the symbol of Bartolo’s authority.
Any tenant farmer who walked up to it had to bow his head.
Today, however, it was nothing.
It was merely a piece of wood blocking their path.
Dozens of burly men rushed forward carrying a log they had just felled from the woods.
“One!
Two!
Three!
Ram!” *BOOM!* The log slammed violently into the iron-plated gate.
The hinges groaned in agony, and the iron plate caved in significantly.
Behind the gate, several of Bartolo’s servants were using their bodies to hold it shut.
Their faces were deathly pale with terror.
They could hear the mountain-shaking roars outside, and with every strike, they felt a tremor that seemed to shake the very earth.
The butler, a middle-aged man whom Bartolo had berated just days before, shouted, “Hold it!
Hold it down!
The master said he’ll break the legs of anyone who lets them in!” Yet he himself had already begun quietly shuffling backward.
“One!
Two!
Three!
Ram!” *BOOM!* A fissure split across the wooden planks of the gate.
Firelight and a sea of twisted faces seeped through the crack from outside.
“We can’t hold it!
Butler!
We can’t hold it!” a young servant screamed, weeping.
*BOOM!* The third strike.
The entire gate, along with its frame, collapsed inward.
Several servants holding the gate were crushed beneath the heavy wooden door, going instantly still.
The butler was fast enough to escape being crushed.
Scrambling on all fours, he scurried to the side and watched as the mob, brandishing torches and farm tools, flooded into the courtyard like a tidal wave.
*It’s over.* That was the only thought left in the butler’s mind.
One of the leading villagers, Mario the blacksmith, spotted the butler cowering in the corner and raised his sledgehammer.
Terrified out of his wits, the butler dropped to his knees, banging his head frantically against the ground.
“Don’t kill me!
Don’t kill me!
I’m not Bartolo’s man!
I was oppressed by him too!” “I know where the treasure is!
I know where he hid all his gold!” To save his own skin, he sold out his master without a second thought.
Mario’s hammer paused in midair.
A flash of greed flickered across his anger-inflamed eyes.
“Lead the way!” As if granted a reprieve, the butler scrambled up from the ground.
Stooping low, he ran ahead, looking like a dog that had just found a new master.
“This way!
Masters, this way!
That old bastard Bartolo’s treasure room is on the second floor of the main building!” Thus, a portion of the mob followed the butler and rushed toward the main building.
The rest scattered across the manor, charging into servant quarters, kitchens, and stables.
They looted everything they saw and killed every living creature in sight.
A stablehand who attempted to resist was pinned to the wall by three or four farmers with pitchforks, dying with his eyes wide open.
Another maid tried to run while clutching a bundle of silver dinnerware, but she was caught by several men; the silver was snatched away, and she was dragged off into a dark corner.