33 Have I Become a Substitute? (Please Follow!)

"Things are looking rather grim."

Under the scrutiny of the gathered crowd, Herbert felt a slight tightening in his back and pursed his lips. Suspicion, conjecture, and even outright hostility—he bore the weight of this collective malice alone.

Regarding the current situation where he was being treated as a pariah, Herbert could actually understand their behavior—at least from a rational standpoint. As a newcomer who had arrived only a month ago and had yet to fully integrate into the Monastery of Mists, he was an outsider in their eyes. Worse, he was a member of the kingdom’s nobility, an aloof character who kept to himself.

In such a situation, with a murder having taken place, who was the most obvious suspect in the eyes of the crowd?

Ha, it really was him!

So, Herbert understood their suspicion and hostility. But... that was all it was: understanding. Emotionally, he could not accept the injustice of being treated as a suspect. Because he hadn't done it.

*It wasn't me, so why should I be treated like this? By what right?*

Furthermore, he had been forced to come here precisely because of a false imprisonment. He had been through this once already; did he really have to go through it a second time?

Moreover, while Herbert understood the importance of cooperating with an investigation, he could not be naive enough to trust the others. In the kingdom, it had been one thing—even though he was framed and imprisoned, no one dared to use torture on him. But here? The "Art of Forced Confession" wasn't exclusive to his past life; beating someone into a false confession had always been a time-honored tradition across the world.

What kind of decent people could there be in an Inquisition? Would these angry inquisitors really care about his noble status? No. These people would rather execute the innocent than let a single culprit slip through the cracks, offering nothing more than top-tier restorative healing afterward—but what the hell was the use of that? Being restored to one's former state didn't mean the pain endured could simply be brushed aside. Wounds might eventually heal, but the scars left behind never truly fade.

Some "gentle" college student he knew of had been tortured into a white-haired shell of his former self, his entire personality twisted beyond recognition. Herbert was already a "white-haired" soul now; he had no desire to walk that path himself.

Therefore, Herbert absolutely could not show weakness at this moment, nor could he proactively cooperate with their "investigation."

Having made up his mind, Herbert’s expression shifted, and he let out a faint scoff.

"Hmph."

His expression became as calm as water, his eyes filled with disdain, and his lips curled slightly upward. He met the gazes of the crowd with an air of dignified defiance. Yet, Herbert did not initiate the questioning. He waited. He knew he didn't need to be the one to start; someone would inevitably lose their patience and attack him, the "suspect."

Sure enough. Before long, an angry voice shattered the silence of the great hall.

"What are you all waiting for!?"

A tall, bald nun stepped out from the crowd, glaring at Herbert with clenched fists, teeth gritted. "Why haven't you seized this murderer yet!"

All eyes turned to her. Some seemed tempted, but they hesitated when they saw the middle-aged disciplinary nun remain motionless.

The disciplinary nun did not immediately heed the bald nun’s call to action. Instead, she asked slowly, "Why do you believe he is the murderer? I do not think he possesses the strength to harm Frank."

Hearing this, some of the monks frowned slightly. That was true; based on his strength... it didn't seem possible at all.

"Because he is a defiler!" The bald nun, steadfast in her conviction, threw caution to the wind. "That day, I saw him coming out of the kitchen! He must have done something to those grass carp!"

*Grass carp?* Herbert blinked, feeling that the situation was taking a bizarre turn. *Wait, have I become the scapegoat for a fish murder!?*

"My dear, I really didn't do that!"

Before Herbert could explain, another monk’s expression changed upon hearing "grass carp." He hesitated, then raised his hand and said slowly, "Well... I once found traces of defilement near the Well of Mourning. That day... he had passed by there as well."

Both of them had vaguely discovered signs of "defilement," but because they lacked concrete evidence and feared startling the culprit, they had kept it to themselves. And, quite coincidentally, Herbert had an alibi for those times.

*Damn it.* It was becoming impossible to explain.

Just as Herbert prepared to speak, his pupils contracted sharply. A massive wave of malice surged toward him, even more intense than before! Once the label of "defiler" was uttered, the monks, who had shown signs of calming down, instantly tore away their masks, revealing their ferocious, bloodthirsty fangs.

Countless piercing gazes fixed upon him from all corners of the hall, as if they were ready to rush forward at any second to judge and purify him. Just as Herbert had initially judged, these ascetic monks felt no burden in extinguishing a potential heretic—even if that "heretic" was a boy who had lived and eaten with them for an entire month and knew all their names.

Heretics were to be executed without mercy.

The priority of purging a heretic even surpassed that of hunting down a murderer!

"..."

The chaotic, swelling malice nearly swallowed Herbert. One wrong step would send him into the abyss, yet at this moment, he was unexpectedly calm. Now that he had composed himself, he almost wanted to laugh.

Herbert made no move. He simply stood in silence, scanning his surroundings, meeting the monks' eyes with a steady gaze. Some met his look, while others instinctively looked away.

"Hmph."

After surveying the room, he looked at the leading disciplinary nun, noting that her expression remained calm. Seeing him look her way, she asked, "Herbert, do you have anything to explain?"

Herbert nodded, then shook his head.

He didn't explain anything to the disciplinary nun. Instead, he turned to the two monks who had "reported" him and asked in a tone of extreme calm:

"Sister Ivanka, Brother Jeffs, may I assume that what you just said... is a challenge to my purity?"

Explain? Explain what?

*[Rule of Debating #1: Do not attempt to prove your innocence; do not be led into the opponent's rhythm.]*

Without waiting for their reply, Herbert unwound the bandage on his left hand and raised it high, his hand still stained with blood that had not yet fully dried.

The next instant, a brilliant golden light erupted from the back of his hand. The dazzling Stigma pierced the eyes of everyone present like a holy sword.

That was—the Stigma of Purity!?

Only then did some of the monks realize what kind of oath Herbert had actually taken. The Oath of Purity. If Herbert were a defiler, then what was this authentic Stigma? It couldn't possibly be a hallucination, could it?

Amidst the uproar, everyone heard Herbert's second question. He said:

"So, are you questioning the deity who bestowed this blessing upon me?"

*[Rule of Debating #2: Attack, never defend; matchless under heaven!]*