Summoned by the Heretics – Even in Another World, the Zealot Who Worships Death Remains an Outcast - Vol 3 Chapter 64

While Sukui headed into the village, Horo could do nothing but stand frozen at the entrance.

The corpses lying at the village gate, the eerie silence enveloping the settlement.

And the undeniable fact that Mei and her father were supposed to be there.

These realities intertwined with their faith in death, leaving Horo uncertain about the proper course of action.

The fear that every movement might lead to a fatal mistake held Horo in place.

Eventually, Sukui returned.

Yet, Horo could not discern any emotion in his expression.

Horo knew Sukui as a zealot devoted to the worship of death.

Time and again, Sukui had proven that his faith was not mere rhetoric. The idea of death as salvation was something even Horo could understand.

But at this moment, Horo could not bring himself to feel that the villagers’ deaths were something to celebrate.

No one had witnessed Sukui’s efforts to rebuild this village more closely than Horo.

And the villagers, who revered Sukui, had united their efforts to create a better community.

They had, in essence, been striving to live.

And now, without knowing why, everything they had worked for had been obliterated.

Horo had already realized it.

Among the dead were Mei and her father.

“Young master.”

Horo still could not decipher Sukui’s expression.

There was no visible sorrow for the villagers who had admired and worked alongside him, nor any trace of joy over the death of the girl who had always uplifted him since his arrival in this world.

His face looked as though something essential had been completely stripped away.

“This is…”

The horror that bound Horo was not solely the carnage before them.

It was the inability to determine whether to rejoice or to grieve.

For a believer in death, the devastation of this village should represent salvation, something to celebrate.

Indeed, it was a village built by those who worshipped death. One could even argue that this outcome was appropriate, perhaps inevitable.

Even if Horo himself could not feel that way, if Sukui saw it as such, Horo would have adjusted his own perspective to align with Sukui’s.

But from Sukui, there was neither joy nor sorrow.

“The villagers… were all slaughtered.”

Sukui spoke in a tone devoid of emotion, delivering the words with chilling indifference.

Slaughtered.

For a moment, Horo struggled to process the meaning.

But yes, the villagers had not simply died.

Someone had attacked the village and murdered them.

The wounds on their bodies made it undeniable.

The three corpses before them—all bore deep cuts inflicted by sharp blades.

This was not the work of monsters.

And the footprints left in the village.

They were not those of ordinary humans. The impressions were deep, the shape unusual, unlike any typical footwear.

Heavy, unconventional—perhaps armored boots.

And the disciplined, uniform movements—they resembled a knightly order.

It was too obvious. The evidence almost seemed deliberately left behind.

The intentions behind this were beyond Horo’s comprehension, but even understanding them would not have changed his current state of mind.

There was something far more pressing than identifying the culprits.

“So, does this mean…”

Does this mean they were saved?

Horo wanted to ask.

But he could not bring himself to speak those words.

Because he simply could not see it that way. The happiness that should have awaited them—the future they were meant to share.

It was a happiness meant to be built together—for the dead, for Sukui, for everyone.

To say it was better that it had all been destroyed—no one could truly believe such a thing.

Yet, if this massacre could also be considered salvation, Sukui would never seek vengeance.

To feel gratitude for death’s deliverance was one thing, but to label it as evil and retaliate would be to desecrate the very faith Sukui upheld.

There was no choice but to accept it.

This village, the one they had built together.

The reality that Mei’s smile would never again grace their lives—Horo could only be grateful for that.

“By the way, Horo-san.”

As Horo began walking back in despair, Sukui’s voice called out to him.

“Wasn’t there supposed to be a festival in this village today?”

“Um… yes,” Horo replied hesitantly.

Seemingly oblivious to Horo’s confusion, Sukui continued speaking.

“During the attack, it seems, the large pot prepared for the festival feast was overturned, and its contents ruined. Likely on purpose.”

He paused, as if remembering. “And now that I think about it, the fields were trampled as well.

To show no respect for food or nature—how disgraceful.”

Sukui’s voice grew quieter. “Such villains… must be saved.”

His gaze was unfocused, his eyes seeming to look nowhere.

But then, Horo noticed it—light slowly returning to Sukui’s once-empty eyes.

That’s fine, then.

Horo said nothing.

If this was what Sukui decided, then so be it.

“Then, as always, for the villains who attacked this village…”

“Yes, let’s go grant them salvation.”

A faint spark ignited within Horo.

Sukui was unstable.

Horo could not discern how Sukui truly perceived the current state of the village or the concept of death itself.

Neither his usual joy in affirming death nor the typical grief over the loss of acquaintances was present.

The only certainty was that Sukui was unlike his usual self.

Because of that, Horo knew he had to act.

If Sukui, due to his faith, could not mourn the villagers’ deaths.

If he could not even avenge them.

Then, Horo would do it for him.

This was the moment Horo made that decision.

“So, this is how it turns out, after all.”

Horo failed to notice.

He had not realized a man stood before him.

The figure was clad in oversized garments, his closed, gentle eyes the only visible feature.

A servant of the faith of love, a deacon.

It was Martir Deacon.

“I had heard you worship death as salvation,” Martir Deacon began, his tone mild. “So, I thought you might find joy in this devastation.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if pondering.

His demeanor was serene, peaceful, as if the village’s ruins were no more than a distant thought.

“Perhaps your faith isn’t as unwavering as I was led to believe,” he continued. “You should take pride in what you’ve lost.”

“Shut up.”

The voice that escaped Horo’s throat was blackened with rage, almost unrecognizable as his own.

His fury was directed entirely at Martir Deacon, a fury so intense it threatened to break his composure.

Horo understood perfectly well that the perpetrators of this carnage were the Rose Knights, led by the Priest of Love, Mistral.

But that wasn’t the source of his anger.

What Horo could not forgive was Martir Deacon’s casual, thoughtless words to the current Sukui.

“This is no killing intent befitting a sweet young girl,” Martir Deacon remarked, almost amused.

Still, he appeared entirely unfazed, slowly approaching.

Horo decided immediately.

He would kill him.

Horo had already decided. If Sukui couldn’t act, then she would move in his place.

Horo understood.

Sukui always tried to avoid putting her in situations where she’d need to kill someone.

She knew his true intentions.

“Horo-san.”

Horo prepared to turn Martir Deacon into a mangled, unrecognizable pile of flesh—a feat she had accomplished twice before.

She began channeling her magic to launch rocks at the target, but Sukui’s voice interrupted her.

“Please, just return home.”

Horo turned back at his words.

Sukui didn’t seem to notice Martir Deacon at all, his gaze fixed elsewhere—on the villagers’ corpses.

“But, young master…”

“Please.”

Sukui’s plea.

His eyes still failed to reflect either Horo or Martir Deacon.

Horo’s face twisted, her resolve faltering.

Cowardly. That’s what Horo thought.

She couldn’t refuse when Sukui begged her.

The fact that she had driven him to beg—Horo saw it as her own failure.

“From here on…”

This is not your time yet, Horo-san.

As Sukui whispered these words, Horo clenched her teeth and activated her rock magic.

By manipulating a cluster of stones to support her like wings, she could move with incredible speed.

But this time, she used it simply to leave.

It was always like this.

Sukui never shared his true thoughts with her.

His intentionally cruel words, his self-deprecating humility—it was all a façade.

He never showed his wounds, his weaknesses, or his kindness to anyone.

Horo knew it was always for someone else.

And often, it was for her.

That knowledge made her grit her teeth in frustration.

But Sukui’s words left no room for argument, and Horo knew there was nothing she could do in this moment.

Without saying another word, she left.

Martir Deacon didn’t try to stop her.

He simply watched her go, waiting until her figure vanished before finally speaking.

“I’ve been ordered to kill you.”

Martir Deacon said it with disturbing simplicity.

Sukui listened silently.

“Do you need a reason?”

“No.”

Sukui understood.

He knew the reason for the village’s destruction and the reason they wanted him dead.

That’s why he had sent Horo away.

“Well then.”

As Martir Deacon spoke, the ground beneath him began to glow.

A massive spell, the result of intricate magical tools and contracts.

Summoning magic.

In an instant, the Rose Knights appeared before Sukui.

It was expected. Martir Deacon would never have thought he could defeat the hero who had dismantled entire organizations on his own.

The arrival of the Rose Knights was well within Sukui’s calculations.

“What is this place?”

Alongside the knights appeared dozens of ordinary humans.

Their numbers far exceeded the knights—over a hundred in total.

In mere moments, the area was filled with both the Rose Knights and an inexplicable mass of civilians.

“Now then.”

At the same time as Martir Deacon whispered these words, a knife embedded itself in his neck.

Of course, it was Sukui’s thrown blade.

Without hesitation, Sukui had launched the knife through the narrow gap between the civilians and knights who had appeared before him.

It struck Martir Deacon’s throat with precision.

“Divine Realm.”

Martir Deacon chuckled, looking at the blade in his neck.

His voice, unimpeded by his injured throat, echoed clearly across the field.

Even as the knights nearest Sukui fell to the ground, bleeding from their necks, Martir Deacon remained unfazed.

“The doctrine of the Faith of Love is self-sacrifice.”

Pulling the knife from his throat without spilling a single drop of blood, Martir Deacon began to remove his oversized robe.

“Among our teachings is the principle of taking others’ suffering upon oneself.”

Beneath the robe was a simple priest’s vestment.

His body was exactly as Sukui had imagined—his ears were missing, his mouth gaped open with no tongue, and the sleeves that hung from his robe contained no arms.

“The one hundred people here—dedicated knights and ordinary civilians alike.”

He smiled faintly. “Can you kill them all to reach me?”

Before the general populace, drawn into this by the Faith of Love, could even grasp the situation, Sukui moved.

Knives flashed around him.

Of course.

Sukui had never assumed that a mere few dozen inexperienced knights could defeat him.

Nor had he underestimated the use of civilians as shields.

Even this was within Sukui’s expectations.