Lord: I have built a witch's sanctuary.

Chapter 28 Cathedral and Chapel

The snowstorm in Frostwolf City was fiercer than in previous years, as if it were trying to bury the city completely.

In the outer city, on the gloomy slum streets, the snow was already ankle-deep.

The cold wind howled through the cracks in the dilapidated wooden house, making a wailing sound like the wailing of ghosts.

Mary was wrapped tightly in a thin linen scarf, holding her one-month-old baby in her arms.

Her face was blue from the cold, and a fine layer of frost covered her eyelashes, but her eyes were terrifyingly empty, as if her soul had been emptied by the news she had just received.

Just two hours ago, bad news came from the front lines.

The second-tier living snow swarm attacked Frostwolf City's defenses.

To protect the most fortified and sacred section of the Great Church's wall.

Her husband, that honest, simple man who always smiled and said, "I'll buy you a new headscarf when I get this paycheck."

He was drafted to the front lines.

He was just an ordinary person, without magic or fine armor, only a rusty spear.

My fellow workers told me that a group of second-tier living snowmen had rushed up the wall.

To cover the magic cannon position behind them, her husband charged forward with the rusty spear, only to be swallowed up by the red, living snowstorm.

They were blown to ashes.

There was no body, no last words, and not even a complete piece of clothing was found.

Mary had no idea how she got to the entrance of the Radiant Cathedral.

This magnificent building is made of pure white marble, with its spire reaching into the sky, and huge stained-glass windows that let in a warm and sacred golden light through the wind and snow.

That was the warmest place in the entire Frostwolf City, and the place her husband protected with his life.

She knocked tremblingly on the intricately carved oak door.

The door was opened by a young deacon dressed in a thick velvet robe.

His face was ruddy, he held a steaming cup of black tea in his hand, and he exuded an expensive fragrance.

Upon seeing Mary's tattered clothes, soaked with snow, he subconsciously frowned and took a half-step back, as if it were some kind of contagious plague.

"The clergy are doing their midday prayers. If you're here to beg, please line up at the relief station in the back alley." The deacon's voice was cold and distant.

"No... sir, I'm here... I'm here to inquire about the compensation." Mary's voice was hoarse, as if she had swallowed a handful of sand.

"My husband, Tom, died this morning while guarding the church walls..."

The deacon raised an eyebrow, pulled a thick roster from his pocket, and casually flipped through a few pages: "Tom? That temporary conscript from the outer city?"

"Oh, there's a record here. Missing."

"Missing?" Mary's eyes widened in disbelief as she exclaimed, "No! His fellow workers saw him being killed by a live snowball..."

"No body means missing."

The deacon closed the register, interrupting her, his tone carrying an unquestionable bureaucratic air.

"The church's pensions are only distributed to the families of those confirmed as heroes who have sacrificed themselves for God. If everyone came to say that their missing relatives had died, the church's coffers would be empty long ago."

"Maybe he just ran away? This kind of thing is common among the lower classes."

"He didn't run away! He did it to protect you..."

Mary's tears finally welled up, and the baby in her arms seemed to sense her mother's sadness and cold, and began to cry weakly.

"Please watch your words, ma'am."

The deacon glanced at the pocket watch with some impatience. "This is God's will. If there's nothing else, please leave."

Mary stared in despair at the door that was about to close.

The baby in her arms cried weaker and weaker; it was from hunger.

The family's food supplies were almost gone, and she hadn't had a proper meal in days, so she had no breast milk at all.

"Please... sir."

Mary fell to her knees with a thud, her knees hitting the hard ice with a dull thud.

"I don't even ask for compensation... Please, just give me a can of milk powder, even half a can would be fine... My child is starving. My husband, he died protecting the church!"

The deacon looked down at the woman kneeling in the snow, his disgust growing even stronger.

He waved his hand lightly, as if shooing away a fly:

"You haven't paid your 15th-day contribution yet, have you?"

"The church's resources are for offering to God and for helping devout believers, not for giving alms to just anyone."

"If you are devout enough, God will naturally bestow His blessings without the help of us, His servants."

"Bang!"

The heavy oak door slammed shut in front of Mary.

In that instant, the last ray of golden light shining through the crack in the door was also cut off.

Mary knelt in the wind and snow, looking at the cold door, feeling as if her whole world had collapsed.

Is this the result her husband paid with his life? Is this what they call divine grace?

A human life can't even be exchanged for a can of baby formula?

She didn't know how long she had been kneeling in the snow until the crying of the child in her arms gradually subsided and turned into faint sobs.

She stood up like a walking corpse, mechanically turned around, and walked towards the outer city area.

The road home was so long it was agonizing.

The wind and snow grew stronger, and visibility became increasingly poor.

As she passed through a dilapidated alley, she saw a low, run-down little church.

A crooked wooden cross hangs at the entrance of the courtyard, its paint all peeled off, revealing gray-black wood shavings.

But it is also a church.

This is the small chapel where the old pastor Andrew sits.

But compared to that magnificent cathedral, this church looked like a latrine in a slum.

This is the chapel of the old pastor Andrew.

Normally only the poorest laborers come here to pray, because tithes are not required here.

Mary stood at the door, hesitating.

She thought that maybe they would be willing to give her some baby formula here.

If even the Radiant Church is so heartless and stingy, what could this impoverished little place possibly have?

Would you be willing to help her?

But the baby in my arms suddenly twitched.

Mary gritted her teeth and pushed open the creaking, rotten wooden door.

The room was dark.

There was no ever-burning light, only a few cheap candles that were almost burned out, emitting an oily smell.

An old man wearing a faded robe was kneeling in front of the statue, wiping the floor.

The statue was even missing an ear.

Hearing the noise, the old man turned around.

His face was covered in wrinkles, but his eyes were bright.

"child?"

Old Pastor Andrew stood up, his knee making a sharp cracking sound.

He saw the baby in Mary's arms, and his expression immediately changed.

"Quick! Come in quickly!"

There was no nonsense, no questioning.

The old pastor practically dragged Mary to the fireplace—which was actually just a broken iron barrel with a few pieces of rotten wood burning inside.

"How did you get so cold..."

Mary opened her mouth, but before she could speak, tears streamed down her face: "Father... my child... there's nothing to eat..."

Without a word, the old pastor placed the child by the fireplace to warm him, then turned to rummage through the old cabinet.

The cabinet was completely empty.

There were only a few bags of moldy flour and a few shriveled potatoes.

The old pastor's hand stiffened for a moment.

Mary's heart sank to the bottom.

"No...?" she murmured, tears streaming down her face again.

"have."

The old pastor's voice was firm.

He bent down and pulled out a tin can from a hidden compartment at the bottom of the cabinet.

That was the last ration he had saved for himself.

A can of goat milk powder that has never been opened.

"Take it."

The old pastor put the jar into Mary's hand and poured her a cup of hot water.

"Quickly, get some for the child."

Mary held the can of milk powder, feeling as if it weighed a ton.

"Father...this is you..."

"God said, love your neighbor as yourself."

The old pastor smiled, his wrinkles smoothing out, looking even more benevolent than the icons in that cathedral.

"Children are our future. Survival is more important than anything else."

Mary cried as she breastfed her child.

Watching her child greedily suckle, her pale face finally regained some color, and she felt as if her soul had finally returned to her body.

Before leaving, she wanted to kowtow to the old pastor.

The old pastor stopped her.

"Hurry home, the blizzard is about to get even worse." The old pastor sighed and made the sign of the cross.

May God forgive this cruel world.