“Stop!” Just as the woman’s clothes were about to be torn to shreds, a shout rang out from the doorway like a divine decree.
They turned.
They saw Giovanni, dressed in a black friar’s habit, walking in surrounded by Luca and several other monks.
In his hand, he held only a Bible.
Wherever he went, the crowd parted to both sides.
People lowered their heads, not daring to meet his eyes.
Unconsciously, they lowered the weapons in their hands.
A moment ago, they had been a mob of lawless rioters; now they reverted into a flock of docile lambs.
Giovanni walked straight up to the mother and son.
He took off his outer robe and gently draped it over the semi-nude woman.
Then he knelt down and looked at the child, whose eyes were hollow and lifeless.
He reached out, wanting to pat his head.
But the boy recoiled sharply like a startled rabbit.
Giovanni’s hand paused in midair.
Sighing, he stood up and turned to face the villagers bowing their heads before him.
“The Lord’s punishment is complete.” “Bartolo, that sinner blinded by greed, has washed away his sins with his own blood.” “But you—what are you doing?” “The Lord brought you here to execute judgment, not to commit atrocities!” “Raising weapons against a helpless woman and a terrified child is not the will of the Lord!
It is the work of the devil!” “Your anger is being used by the devil!
You are turning from judges into sinners just like him!” The villagers lowered their heads even further.
Some even dropped their hoes to the ground.
Terror seized them.
Not fear of Bartolo.
It was fear of God—fear that the crimes they had just committed might incur His wrath.
“Father Superior…
we were wrong…” Mario the blacksmith was the first to drop to his knees.
He cast aside the heavy sledgehammer smeared with Bartolo’s brain matter.
“We…
we were tempted by the devil…” The moment he knelt, everyone else collapsed to their knees after him in a clattering wave.
The entire room was filled with kneeling people.
Like children who had done wrong, they waited for their parent’s punishment.
At this moment, Giovanni’s authority reached an unprecedented peak.
A single word from him could decide the life or death of everyone present.
A single word from him could judge and quell this raging fire that he himself had ignited.
He looked down at the people kneeling at his feet.
He knew that from this moment on, Santa Lucia Village belonged completely to him.
He cleared his throat, preparing to deliver his “sentence” upon them.
He raised the Bible in his hand.
“Bartolo’s sins have been washed clean by blood.
But his wealth—that fortune amassed through exploitation and usury—remains defiled.” “They are the fruits of sin.
The devil’s bait.” The villagers’ hearts leapt into their throats.
They assumed Father Superior was going to make them hand over everything they had plundered.
However, what Giovanni said next stunned everyone.
“However, the Lord is merciful.” “He knows that your actions tonight were born not of greed, but of righteous indignation against sin.” “You are the scourge of the Lord’s wrath.
The sword of His judgment.” “Therefore,” he paused, speaking slowly in a tone of bestowed favor, “I, in the name of the Lord’s representative on earth, absolve you of your violent deeds tonight.” “As for these defiled riches,” he gestured to the gold and silver clutched in their arms and stashed in their pockets, “consider them ‘graciously granted’ to you by the Lord, through my hands.” “Take them and divide them among yourselves.
Use them to make up for the losses you once suffered, and to start a new life.” “May the Lord forgive you!” A dead silence fell over the room.
Everyone stared at Giovanni in utter disbelief.
Had they heard correctly?
Father Superior had not only pardoned their sins, but also “graciously granted” them the looted wealth?
Was this…
was this real?
After a brief moment of silence, a cheer erupted—crazier and more deafening than anything before.
“Long live Father Superior!” “Praise the Lord!
Praise Father Superior!” They wept.
They laughed.
They kowtowed frantically before Giovanni.
To them, Giovanni was no mere saint.
He was God.
A living god who alone could bring them bread and forgive their sins.
Their worship of him transcended faith, morphing into a fanaticism capable of consuming all else.
Giovanni stood amid the carnage and corpses, amidst the cheering and bowing masses.
On his face remained that saintly smile of compassionate sorrow.
His eyes fell upon the traumatized widow clutching her child, and upon the orphan whose hollow gaze looked as though his soul had been ripped away.