Only God
Chapter 564 - 483: The Weary Traveler Known as Redemption

Chapter 564: Chapter 483: The Weary Traveler Known as Redemption

As they entered the Holy Land, the old Believer looked increasingly frail, but his gaze remained fixed firmly ahead, as if the tension in his heart would not ease until he reached the sacred grounds.

Watching the Godfather in such a state, Veldor couldn’t help but recall his words, that he would die in the Holy Land, and the thought brought wave after wave of melancholic feelings.

"Are you alright?"

After dinner, Veldor took the initiative to ask.

The old Believer sat in a chair, splayed out like a dried-out hide, and with great effort, he opened his eyes and said:

"Whatever happens, it doesn’t matter."

Veldor said,

"Hey, don’t talk like that, we haven’t reached the Holy Land yet, have we?"

The old Believer nodded weakly.

The hardships of the journey had nearly drained the little life he had left, so much so that even his voice during prayers had grown quieter, and his figure wavered, always in need of Veldor’s support.

The weakness of the old Believer reflected in Veldor’s eyes, and he fell silent, unsure of what to say.

But perhaps nothing needed to be said.

As they continued on, the members of the Sect marveled at the scenery of the Ancient Elf Kingdom, pointing out various wonders like Logos learning to speak, undoubtedly, this leg near the Holy Land was the most relaxing part of their pilgrimage.

Veldor, however, was always afraid that he would lose the old Believer along the way if he wasn’t careful.

He had heard that sometimes old people, in the most tense moments, don’t succumb, but once they unwind and let go of their concerns, they close their eyes and never wake up again.

The Dwarf youth was on edge all the time and dared only to sleep lightly, even deep into the night.

"After going to the Holy Land, where else shall we go? To Nus? To see the Kingdom built by King Dertulian, I’ve heard the Elves there are always friendly."

Another night fell as the Sect stopped in a town.

They were now very close to what was once the Royal Capital, and it wouldn’t be long before they truly set foot on the Holy Land.

"There’s no need to go to so many places."

The old Believer spoke.

Veldor asked,

"Is reaching the Holy Land enough? After such perilous travels to get here..."

The ancient face of the old Believer squeezed out a smile,

"For me, reaching the Holy Land is enough."

The Dwarf had grown very old, often gasping for breath after walking just a short distance, his gray-white beard as brittle as dead wheat straw.

Upon hearing these words, Veldor fell silent again, his heart ached, and the corners of his eyes were sore, but he said nothing and just kept quiet.

"Do you remember that story?"

At that moment, the old Believer suddenly asked.

"What story?"

Veldor lifted his head and asked.

"The one about Xilan."

Veldor, of course, remembered the story.

Xilan, a Disciple of the Prophet, had once wavered on his mission, doubting himself and the purpose he bore, until at last, he realized that God had always been with him, walking by his side.

And in the end, when he prayed in prison and the miracle appeared, he vanished without a trace.

"Do you know the most exquisite part of that story?"

After saying this, the old Believer coughed several times, his body shaking.

Veldor shook his head and said:

"I don’t know..."

The old Believer took a deep breath and said slowly:

"After the miracle appeared, Xilan vanished."

Veldor was puzzled as he looked at the old Believer, seeking a clear explanation from the Priest, but the old Believer said nothing, closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and then steady breathing followed.

The young Dwarf looked at his slumbering father, bowed his head, brought his hands together, and couldn’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks, sobbing silently in the night, as if he had a premonition of something.

On the third day at dusk, the Sects at last arrived at the once Royal City.

Raising their heads, they could all see the towering Holy Mountain, its silverclad majesty reflecting the endless radiance of the heavens, and the sensation of sanctity instantly pervading their souls.

"The Holy Land, the Holy Land!"

"The mountain that Prophet Al once climbed, that Prophet Noen also climbed!"

"Lord, we have finally arrived!"

Overwhelmed with a tremendous shock, the crowd couldn’t help but kneel down; they trembled lightly, their hands naturally coming together in prayer, and together they chanted verses from the Scriptures. After a long while, they stood again and approached the high mountain.

At this moment, the Sects were even more agitated than when they had first stepped foot into the Ancient Kingdom days ago. Veldor noticed that even the usually composed old Believers were now breathing rapidly.

The Sects hurried their steps, so quickly that the Elf Priests who came to meet them could barely keep up. They reached the foot of the mountain and, looking up, saw an endless Pattern Garden of golden wheat.

"The Pattern Garden... The Pattern Garden where Al once lingered, the first one ever established by him in the world!"

At first glance, the sight did not seem magnificent, but as thousands upon thousands of wheat stalks bowed in the wind, the full heads of grain gleaming in the brilliant light, a divine touch again stirred the soul.

True Believers had walked on every piece of land in the world, and where a grain of wheat fell, a Pattern Garden would instantly spring up, countless heads of wheat like bowed heads in prayer, accompanying the rhythm of the Scriptures, praising the beauty of life, the Divine’s grace.

"In the Holy Land, people gather together to seek the path of redemption," the Priest couldn’t help but sigh.

The old Believer slowly entered the wheat-filled Pattern Garden, and looking up, he could see the shimmering glow on the mountain.

He stretched out his hand, murmuring:

"We have finally arrived, the light on that mountain is God’s radiance; there lies the City of Heaven."

Veldor hurried to the old Believer’s side.

"Veldor, do you see it?"

asked the old Believer.

"The light on the mountain? I see it."

The old Believer nodded contentedly, slowly knelt down, and tenderly kissed the wheat before him.

"On that mountainside is God’s altar, and the mural of Prophet Al, established by King Yarlessto, depicting the earliest history of the Logos people. Would you like to see it? Let’s go together."

Veldor pointed to the mountainside, his voice a bit rushed—he didn’t know why he was in such a hurry.

So hurried, as if he was about to lose something.

The old Believer didn’t stand up, though; he remained kneeling, his head bowed, his breathing sounding fainter and fainter.

"Just like that,"

his voice so feeble.

Veldor turned around abruptly, disbelievingly looking at the old Believer.

The sky darkened with dusk; throughout this pilgrimage, how many hardships he had endured, how many sunsets had crossed that aged face, and whatever had been, all drifted away with the wind.

"All our lives... striving to find redemption."

The old Believer didn’t raise his head, as if he had no strength left,

"And now, Veldor,

the time has come, the days are fulfilled."

After he spoke, the old Believer’s body slowly collapsed onto the wheat-filled garden, his breathing so faint it ceased altogether, and when Veldor rushed over, the old man would never wake again.

Veldor trembled all over, panic rising around him; they called to the old Believer, crowding over, but no one could disturb the peace and tranquility of the old man.

"After the Divine manifestation, Xilan disappeared..."

Embracing the Godfather, Veldor remembered last night’s conversation; tears cascaded down,

"Yes... disappeared, and now you’ve disappeared too!"

People live in this world,

all their lives running to find redemption.

And when they find redemption, they need wander no more.

A gentle breeze swept through the first Pattern Garden in the world, and the full heads of wheat bowed deeply, the mountain’s radiance standing tall in the distance. True Believers knelt down, bowing their heads, performing sacred rites, praying to God, consoling the old man’s departing soul.

On the plains where gods had fallen, now covered with mountain flowers, there is a weary traveler named Redemption.