TWD - Chapter 553: Judgment and Purification (Patreon)

The next morning, sunlight slipped through a crack in the door and struck Cyrus full in the face, stinging his eyelids like a needle.

He blinked awake and shot upright. Today. It was happening at noon today!

The cafeteria was busy. Around twenty men sat along both sides of the long table, heads bent over their porridge. Every now and then, one looked up to say something before returning to his bowl.

Three of The Pope’s staunchest loyalists occupied their usual seats, whispering together. One burst into laughter, and another gave him a shove that nearly sent him off his chair.

Xavier sat alone in a corner, arms crossed above an untouched bowl of porridge, his face full of cruel anticipation.

Cyrus carried his tray straight toward him. The nearby men glanced up but said nothing as he boldly sat beside Xavier.

Xavier gave him a puzzled look. Cyrus bent over his porridge and took two spoonfuls before looking up. “What time are they doing it?”

Xavier’s mouth twitched. “Twelve sharp. What, can’t wait? I thought you two were close.”

Cyrus took another spoonful. “I just want to know when I get to watch that bastard burn.”

Xavier smiled with satisfaction. He reached out and patted Cyrus on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’ll be soon.”

The hand weighed on Cyrus’s shoulder like a stone. He went on eating without changing his expression.

He chewed, tasting nothing. The miserable porridge was bland even on a good day, but today he couldn’t taste a thing.

He scanned the cafeteria. A few men at a nearby table were speaking quietly. He couldn’t hear them, but their faces showed little enthusiasm.

One kept his head lowered, eating without looking at anyone. Another kept glancing toward Xavier and then looking away.

Mika sat in the far corner, staring into a bowl of porridge he hadn’t touched.

Cyrus looked away and swallowed another couple of mouthfuls. Someone at the next table said, “...Have you heard? It’s happening at noon today.”

“I heard. They’re going to burn Victor.”

“Do you think he’s really gone crazy?”

“I don’t know, but Xavier says he killed Douglas.”

“Douglas? That can’t be true, can it?”

“Xavier said so, so it must be true.”

“But Douglas... he never seemed like someone who went looking for trouble!”

“Who knows? Anyway, Victor confessed to it himself.”

Cyrus finished his porridge slowly and rose. Xavier glanced over. “Leaving already?”

Cyrus nodded. “I’m full. I’m going back to lie down for a bit.”

Xavier smiled. “Why lie down? Let’s wait and see the show.”

Cyrus smiled too. “Sure.”

So everyone was waiting to see the show, huh? Well, let’s see whose performance turns out to be more entertaining!

He held his tray steadily as he walked to the return station, set down his bowl, and headed for the exit.

As he passed by Mika’s table, he didn’t pause at all, but out of the corner of his eye, Cyrus saw Mika look up and glance at him.

Cyrus gave no response. He stepped out into the blazing sunlight and squinted.

A few people were standing at the workshop entrance. When they saw Cyrus, they nodded. Cyrus walked past them and turned toward the back of the workshop.

The massive iron post stood ahead, sunlight glinting off its rust.

In the fire pit at the base of the iron pillar, someone was adding firewood, cursing as he did so, while another person stood nearby helping him.

“...Fuck, this wood’s soaked. It’ll barely burn. When we light it, we’ll get nothing but smoke.”

“Just make do with it. It’s not like we’re barbecuing.”

“We’re burning a person. What’s the difference?”

Both men burst out laughing at the same time, making Cyrus’s stomach churn.

He casually walked around the fire pit and over to the pile of scrap metal. He crouched down, pretending to tie his shoelaces, and glanced into the heap.

The gap was still there. It was too dark to see inside, but he knew the walkie-talkie was hidden within.

...

At 11:30, the sun was nearing its zenith, its rays beating down directly and heating the massive iron pillar until it was scorching hot.

More than twenty people gradually gathered around the fire pit, forming a broad circle. Nobody spoke. Only footsteps and occasional coughs broke the silence.

The Pope stood motionless beneath the iron post, silhouetted by the sunlight behind him.

The priest stood beside The Pope with a Bible in his hands. His black robe and gentle, compassionate expression gave him an air of solemnity.

Mika stood in the middle of the crowd, his face deathly pale, his lips pressed tightly together.

The people Cyrus knew less well showed a mixture of excitement, numbness, and indifference. A few, he noticed, looked openly distressed.

Cyrus made a mental note of every reaction.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps came from the direction of the workshop, accompanied by shouts of, “Here they come! Here they come!”

The crowd stirred. Cyrus’s heart skipped a beat as Xavier and several men appeared around the workshop corner, dragging Victor between them.

Victor’s face was a mangled, bloody mess. Part of his rib cage had caved in where Xavier had broken his ribs. He hung limp between the men supporting him.

Xavier dragged him to the fire pit and shoved him down. Victor’s face struck the cinders, drawing a muffled groan.

Xavier crouched, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and forced him to look toward the fire pit. “Victor, take a good look!”

Countless victims had already burned in that pit. The smell of charred flesh still lingered in the air. Victor looked at it with disgust and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva into the ashes.

Xavier’s face twisted. He drove Victor’s head into the cinders again, then stood and took a sheet of paper from his pocket.

He cleared his throat and glanced at The Pope. After receiving a nod, he began to read aloud. “Victor is a traitor in our midst. He has betrayed the Lord, The Pope, and every one of his brothers. He murdered Douglas! The evidence is undeniable, and God has sentenced him to...”

Xavier paused and swept his gaze over the crowd. “Purification!”

After reading the final word, he crumpled the paper and threw it into the fire pit.

The Pope took a step forward, standing before Victor, and looked down at his bloodied, mangled face.

The sun behind The Pope cast his whole figure into shadow, like a statue risen from hell.

“Victor.” The Pope’s voice was low and deep. Victor slowly raised his battered face toward the man standing over him. “Is there anything else you wish to say?”