Chapter 285 – Holy Spirit Faith, Council of the Dead

The Industrial Zone — Ornn Steelworks.

As one of the largest steel plants in the Orland Industrial District, the Ornn Steelworks produced one-fifth of the kingdom’s entire steel output, making it one of the vital arteries of national industry.

Yet at this very moment, the massive plant was shrouded in an unusual atmosphere.

Where once the air was filled only with the roar of machinery and the chants of laborers, the dormitory area was now densely packed with workers. Their buzzing discussions were like a swarm of bees, easily drowning out the mechanical rumble from the distant factory buildings.

The steelworks boss—a plump man dressed decently but with his collar skewed—stood at the edge of the crowd, forehead slick with sweat.

He waved his arms frantically, trying to drive off the crowd with a voice that had long lost its former authority.

“What the hell are you all crowding around for? Got nothing better to do? Get back to work!” he shouted, his voice sharp with anxiety and hollow bluster.

The crowd stirred faintly, like a field of wheat swaying in the wind, but no one dispersed.

Someone muttered in the crowd, “Boss, it’s not time to clock in yet.”

That small rebuttal seemed to bolster everyone’s confidence. The hesitant workers planted their feet firmly and kept their curious, slightly fearful gazes fixed on the gray dormitory building.

No matter how loudly the boss yelled or shoved, no one budged—instead, they pressed in even closer.

The boss’s heart thudded in panic. He was practically a cat on hot bricks.

Something had gone wrong. Seriously wrong.

Three workers had died in the dormitory, and their deaths were bizarre beyond belief.

In the past, he wouldn’t have batted an eye if even thirty workers died, let alone three.

Backed by royal authority, he could easily make up an excuse, throw a few coins at the families, and call it a day.

Sometimes he didn’t even bother compensating them—what could these bottom-rung workers do about it?

As for these gawkers? One roar was enough to send them scrambling like scared rabbits. Who would dare say otherwise?

But times had changed.

That damned Workers’ Union had spread like a plague, and even the lofty nobles—hell, even the royal family—were now voluntarily bringing their factories into the union.

Worker rights were more protected than ever before. His power as a boss had been drastically curbed.

Three unexplained deaths and such a bizarre scene—if this blew up and the union seized upon it, he’d be the first scapegoat thrown to the wolves.

Losing some money was nothing, but if the union used him as an example and revoked his factory license as punishment, the consequences would be disastrous.

He knew it all too well: those noble lords would gladly sacrifice a small factory owner like him just to win favor with the union and keep the peace.

Just as he was about to start physically dragging workers away, a disturbance rippled through the edge of the crowd.

With the sound of firm footsteps and sharp commands, the police finally pushed through the throng and arrived at the scene.

Leading them was Officer Slate. His expression was grim, his old uniform neat but worn. He shoved through the workers, barking, “Move aside! Police business!”

Several officers followed behind, carving a path through the sea of bodies.

Slate staggered forward, finally stopping before the ominous dormitory entrance. His sharp gaze swept inside—and what he saw instantly sent chills down the spine of every officer present.

Inside, three corpses lay on their beds, eyes wide open in frozen terror.

Each worker was stiff and cold, their eyes bulging in the same expression of unspeakable horror.

Three bodies, three identical death poses, laid out neatly in that cramped dorm. The entire scene gave off a ritualistic eeriness that made one’s scalp crawl.

“Cult activity?” Slate’s face turned pale. As a veteran cop in the slums, this was the first thing that came to mind.

Cases like these were often the work of deranged cultists.

He almost reflexively prepared to report the case directly to the church, which handled such matters.

“Wait, Slate.”

A firm, aged hand pressed down on his arm.

It was an old, white-haired officer. He frowned deeply, eyes locked on the corpses. “Look closely. These bodies are identical to that case at the textile mill three days ago.”

Slate’s heart skipped a beat. The old man’s words split his thoughts like lightning.

He remembered now. Just three days ago, in the East District textile factory, over a dozen workers had died in their dorms overnight in nearly identical fashion—frozen in terror on their beds.

The incident had caused an uproar, but after reports were filed, the case had mysteriously disappeared from public record.

No explanation was given. No results were announced.

Meanwhile, rumors among the workers ran wild.

Some claimed the dead had been bullies and thugs who abused the weak. Their deaths, they said, were divine retribution from the Holy Spirit—judgment for the wicked.

Hearing the old officer say the same, Slate now realized this was no ordinary murder case. Something deeper lurked behind it.

But whatever it was, the silence from above made it clear this wasn’t something a mere precinct officer could handle.

As Slate sank into thought, he didn’t notice the curious workers at the doorway peeking in.

“I saw this… I saw this scene!”

A shrill scream erupted from the crowd, shattering the tense silence.

Slate snapped his head around, locking eyes on the worker who had shouted.

“Where did you see it?” he demanded.

The young man stammered in fear, “I—I saw it… in my dream last night…”

“Nonsense!”

The steelworks boss shoved his way over and exploded with rage. “Dreams? You call that evidence? What kind of crap are you spouting?”

But what happened next stunned everyone.

One by one, other workers began to echo the claim:

“I saw it too! Exactly like this!”

“I dreamed of them lying in bed, eyes wide open!”

“They were bad people! Bullies! The Holy Spirit punished them!”

“It was real! The Holy Spirit is watching over us!”

“The Holy Spirit brought us equality and safer work conditions. But these people abused their power, ruined the peace. That’s why they were judged!”

“Praise the Holy Spirit!”

The crowd’s mood suddenly ignited. Fear, awe, and a fervent sort of faith intermingled. The buzz of conversation returned, this time tinged with reverence.

Slate and the old officer exchanged a look—shock and confusion in both their eyes.

The case had taken a completely unexpected turn.

Yet not everyone was focused on the horror in the dorm or the rising tide of faith.

At the edge of the crowd, a late-arriving officer stood quietly, observing with a gaze that felt utterly out of place.

His eyes were sharp, sweeping over the fearful or devoted faces, then settling on the three corpses. A flicker of greed flashed deep in his pupils.

As the factory whistle blew, signaling the start of the workday, the workers finally began to disperse.

Though reverence for the Holy Spirit and curiosity about the deaths lingered, most still had to work to survive. They trickled off toward their stations.

The frightened steelworks boss finally breathed a sigh of relief when Officer Slate declared the incident an unfortunate accident, with no initial signs pointing to management negligence or warranting union intervention.

Smiling with newfound confidence, the boss quickly fished out several gold notes, stuffing them into the hands of Slate and his officers while thanking them profusely.

He asked for help with transporting the bodies and coordinating the official story.

As for what had really caused the workers’ deaths?

He didn’t care. As long as trouble didn’t fall on his shoulders, the truth was irrelevant.

As daylight faded and night fell like a black curtain over the city, silence descended.

Inside a cold morgue at the Industrial District’s police station, the officer who had earlier shown greed now stood alone before a steel examination table.

He deftly lifted the white sheet covering one of the corpses.

The pale, rigid face beneath was as terrifying as before—its bulging eyes frozen in eternal terror.

Without emotion, the officer raised his right hand and dragged a fingernail across his fingertip, drawing a thin line of blood.

He let the blood drip onto the corpse’s chest.

Rather than spreading, the blood seemed to move of its own accord, tracing strange lines over the corpse’s skin.

Within seconds, a complex crimson sigil had formed.

It glowed briefly, then vanished.

The next moment, something deeply disturbing occurred.

With a faint creak, the long-dead corpse sat up like a puppet.

“Who killed you?” the officer asked in a voice cold and inhuman.

“Who is this ‘Holy Spirit’? Why go to such lengths to spread faith through dreams?”

The corpse stared blankly. Its mouth moved, throat rasping softly, but no sound came out.

“No soul?” the officer frowned.

“In just one day, the soul is completely gone? Not even a fragment left behind?”

He immediately understood the significance.

Without soul remnants, standard necromancy couldn’t retrieve any memories.

But for the Council of the Dead, this was a mere inconvenience.

His eyes glinted. Without hesitation, he thrust his fingers into the corpse’s eye sockets.

With a soft ripping sound, he gouged out both eyeballs.

They didn’t fall. Instead, they squirmed in his palm, splitting open into rows of razor-sharp teeth.

The eyes had become grotesque, chattering mouths.

From them came a layered whispering, like hundreds of voices murmuring at once—madness and chaos swirling in the air.

The officer pressed the eyes to his ears, listening intently.

After a while, the whispers ceased. The eyeballs shriveled into ash and drifted from his fingers.

The corpse’s face was now marked by two deep, empty pits.

The officer opened his eyes, now alight with twisted ecstasy.

“Haha… so that’s it. This ‘Holy Spirit’ is just a Sequence Eight who can infiltrate dreams and strip souls?”

He sneered, eyes gleaming with hunger.

“A mere insect dares claim divine power and spread faith?”

“This must be reported to the Council immediately!”

His tone turned feverish. “Capture her, use her as a conduit—we’ll steal the workers’ newfound faith far faster than we ever could with trickery.”

Unable to contain his excitement, he tossed the sheet back over the corpse’s face and strode quickly from the morgue.

But as his figure vanished down the corridor, something rippled in the morgue’s icy walls.

A translucent, glowing wraith silently phased through the wall into the room.

It floated in place, gazing quietly at the eyeless corpse.

It made no move, no sound—merely watching.

As if recording everything that had just transpired.

(End of Chapter)