Chapter Eight: Merely a Humble Priest

“Hahaha! Saga, aren’t you supposed to be stubborn? Show me that stubbornness now! I’d like to see just how tough you really are!” Jack laughed menacingly, gripping Yuna by the chin and lifting her up as he pointed at Saga. “Little girl, watch closely. See how your useless brother gets beaten to a cripple by us. And once we’re done with him, I’ll sell you to the slave traders. With that delicate skin and tender flesh, I might get a good price for you. Hahaha!”

Hearing this, Yuna was overcome with terror and panic, her frail body trembling uncontrollably. Though Saga was still being beaten, Jack’s words reached his ears and his fury exploded. “You bastard! If you’ve got a problem, come at me! Don’t you dare touch my sister—mmph…” Saga couldn’t finish his sentence, as one of the thugs landed a punch squarely on his face, knocking him to the ground.

Witnessing this, Yuna let out a muffled cry, struggling to break free, but how could someone so weak escape Jack’s grasp? Jack only laughed more wildly, while the other thugs, emboldened by his example, revealed their own vicious grins.

“Father above, you lot are truly discordant. Father Link always said, when you meet troublemakers, you must find a way to remove them.” At that moment, a peculiar and ill-timed voice sounded behind Jack. Before he could turn, a hand seized him by the neck, tossing him aside like garbage. Yuna, still in his grip, was flung through the air as well.

Yet she didn’t hit the cold ground. Instead, strong arms caught her. Still shaken, Yuna looked up in confusion and found herself face-to-face with a gentle, familiar smile—the smile of Link himself.

He removed the cloth from Yuna’s face and untied her bonds, speaking softly, “Little Yuna, don’t worry. It’s all over now.”

For a moment, Yuna stared at Link in stunned disbelief before bursting into tears of relief and joy, throwing her arms around him. Link gently patted her head with affection.

Meanwhile, the previously rowdy courtyard fell into silence. All eyes turned to Link. Even the thugs beating Saga stopped, watching him warily. Whether it was his priestly robes or the ease with which he’d thrown Jack, they were now on guard, not daring to act rashly.

“Who are you?” demanded a middle-aged man, apparently respected among the ruffians. He signaled for others to check on Jack, who had struck his head against the wall and passed out cold after being thrown.

Link merely smiled. “Father above, as you can see, I am but a humble priest. Nothing to worry about. — You there, would you please come and look after little Yuna?” The last part was addressed to a pauper hiding in the corner—the very one who’d led Link here and immediately tried to blend into the shadows.

Called out by name, the pauper knew he couldn’t hide any longer. Bracing himself, he stepped forward. “Father, my name is Saul Doni.”

“Very well, Saul. I’ll leave little Yuna in your care.” Smiling, Link handed Yuna over. Saul nodded vigorously and reached out, but Yuna clung desperately to Link, refusing to let go. Seeing her frightened face, Link offered a kindly smile. “Little Yuna, don’t worry. I promise nothing will happen to you or your brother. Just wait here with Saul until we return, all right?”

Yuna gazed at Link, then, reassured by his gentle expression, nodded slightly. Her voice still trembled as she said, “Father, please take care of my brother.”

Link smiled and patted her head once more, then turned to face the gang of thugs. To them, his behavior was the height of arrogance, and anger twisted their faces.

One of them, a giant nearly two meters tall, clenched his fists and strode forward. “So you’re a priest? You’re pretty strong for a priest. How about you fight me, old man?”

Hearing this, Link glanced up to size the man. From the other side, Saga called out anxiously, “Father, be careful! He’s a mid-tier first-rank warrior!”

Link’s eyebrows rose. So this was what Saul meant by a first-rank warrior. In Chinko City, that was no small feat. Any ranked warrior possessed battle aura—true proof of rank. Though the battle aura of this world wasn’t as colorful as in those novels, it still granted immense explosive power.

A mid-tier first-rank warrior could easily lift a hundred pounds with one hand.

“One hundred pounds single-handedly—so at least two hundred with both arms? That’s about where I am now. Looks like I can take on a first-rank warrior myself,” Link mused, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. The triple-layered Nine Yang Divine Art allowed him to lift nearly two hundred pounds, which was how he’d so easily hurled the hefty Jack. He’d dared to walk into the enemy stronghold alone because he was confident in his own strength.

What? You say Link has strength but no combat experience or technique? Please. The only one here lacking in experience is Neal. Back in his student days, Link was always getting into fights, and he’d practiced Wing Chun boxing for a while—though only superficially. But with the Nine Yang Divine Art as his foundation, he had nothing to fear from a rabble like this.

Most importantly, these skills were meant for self-defense; he saw himself as a dignified preacher, not someone who would brawl with thugs and lower himself. He had other means to deal with them.

With these calculations in mind, Link gave a sanctimonious smile. “May I ask your name?”

“Your granddaddy’s name is Bal Black. Remember it. I don’t want to beat someone up only for them not to know who did it.” With a sinister grin, Bal threw a punch at Link.

As Bal’s huge, iron-like fist shot forward, Saga, Yuna, and Saul all held their breath and cried out in alarm. Yet when the result became clear, everyone stared in stunned disbelief.

Bal’s massive fist met Link’s right hand, which he raised in a relaxed, almost amiable gesture. The two hands collided, and Bal’s fist stopped dead, as if it had struck a steel wall, unable to advance an inch. Link barely trembled; his entire right arm was as steady as a rock.

Bal’s punch had been blocked—by this small, frail-looking priest!

Impossible! That punch carried at least a hundred pounds of force!

The faces of the thugs turned pale. They couldn’t believe what they saw. The man they considered invincible—Bal—had been stopped cold by a scrawny priest. Since when did priests abandon faith for brute strength? Ridiculous! There were warrior priests, true, but they were all over six feet tall and built like iron golems. Link’s slender frame showed no sign of muscle—he looked every bit an ordinary priest!

They were shaken. This defied all reason. In the world of Solacon, any real warrior trained their body until it was packed with muscle. Even a first-rank warrior was clearly different from an ordinary man—battle aura changed one’s very constitution.

Yet Link shattered that stereotype. He could withstand a first-rank warrior’s attack, but appeared utterly “frail,” showing none of a true warrior’s bearing.

“Could he have managed it with some special spell or magical equipment?” Many wondered, but quickly dismissed the idea. Such equipment was fabulously expensive, and from Link’s plain attire, he clearly couldn’t afford it. It had to be some unique spell.

At once, many started shouting advice to Bal. Bal, however, showed no reaction; he seemed to hold their “explanation” in contempt. As a ranked warrior, he could sense the magical aura in the air, and during that exchange, Link had released none at all. It was clearly not magic.

Realizing this, a grave look came over Bal’s face. He asked in a deep voice, “Who are you, really?”

Link smiled faintly, affecting a mystical air. “I am Neal Night, the earthly representative of Father Link, nothing more than a humble priest.”

“Neal Night? Father Link? Never heard of them. Is this some new church?” Bal raised an eyebrow, then said gruffly, “Never mind, kid. I don’t care who you are. Since you’re here, you’ll be leaving on a stretcher. Let’s see how many of my punches you can take.”

With that, Bal summoned his battle aura and attacked with far greater force than before.

Link knew Bal was serious now; this attack could shatter stone. Though he’d blocked the previous blow with inner power, he didn’t dare meet this one head-on.

In fact, he had no intention of doing so. His expression grew stern as he spoke in a commanding voice: “Bal Black, do you admit your guilt?”

His words were not loud, but to Bal they crashed like thunder. In Bal’s eyes, a dazzling golden light burst from above Link’s head, suffusing him with an aura of divinity as if a god had descended to earth. Bal stared in shock and awe.

That holy light seemed to penetrate Bal’s eyes and reach into his mind, awakening the conscience and sense of guilt buried deep within. Guided by a force beyond words, Bal remembered deeds he’d long forgotten—his many past wrongs.

One memory after another flooded back, overwhelming his conscience with guilt, remorse, and self-reproach. In the next instant, he fell to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, and began to confess every wicked thing he’d ever done.

“I am guilty, I am not a man, I deserve death. When I was five, I spied on my sister bathing. At ten, I forced my mother into prostitution. At fourteen, I raped my sister. At fifteen, I killed a man. At sixteen, I abused countless innocent girls…”