South York Poorhouse

Little George was startled by the shouting and unconsciously took a step back.

Several people curled up beside the iron fence were awakened by the noise and looked at Little George with displeasure.

"Damn it, what are you making such a racket for? I was just dreaming about eating bread, and you little brat ruined it all!"

"In the middle of the night, are you fucking trying to get beaten because we're sleeping too peacefully?"

The homeless men by the roadside, wrapped in tattered sacks, began muttering under their breaths as well.

"...Where did this little brat come from? Making noise here just to get attention."

Someone kicked a pebble beside him. It rolled to Little George's feet, as though echoing the accusations.

The actions of those around him filled Little George with a powerful sense of loss.

"Is this the place you wanted to go?"

"Are these the people you wanted to save?"

Ivan's voice reached Little George's heart, knocking on that door once again.

He clenched his fists and swept his gaze across the other homeless people in sight.

The old man near the streetlamp was curled up beside its pole, clutching a stack of handwoven cotton cloth in his hands, like merchandise he had failed to sell.

Several ragged, frail children huddled together in the corner beside a roadside building.

Farther away, two dark-skinned men lay side by side against a wall.

Their farming tools leaned crookedly against the wall. The wooden handle of the hoe had been worn smooth and shiny, while the sickle's edge was covered in rust.

There were also disabled people missing hands or feet, sprawled asleep beside trash bins at street corners.

Until tonight, Little George had been one of them.

He lowered his head, his eyes reddening slightly as he murmured.

"Great Lord, here... here are people I want to help."

Behind him, Ivan followed Little George's gaze toward those people.

Some were victims of urbanization, some were victims of broken families, and some were victims of the Industrial Revolution.

Others were simply driven by laziness.

But regardless of the reason, all of them could become important sources of faith energy for him in the future.

Ivan pondered for a moment and decided to see what Little George would choose.

"Very good, child."

"Go. Do what you want to do."

Little George abruptly raised his head.

The Lord's encouragement filled his eyes with tears, which slid down his dirty face.

Little George wiped them away with his patched sleeve. As though making up his mind, he suddenly stepped forward.

His hands gripped the iron bars again, producing an even more violent clanging sound.

"You little bastard, are you looking to die?"

The guard inside the gate came into Little George's view, illuminated by the dim yellow glow of the kerosene lamp in his hand.

His face resembled cracked tree bark, dust lodged in its crevices, and his cheekbones were so high they seemed ready to pierce his skin.

Coarse stubble covered his chin, and a scar ran from his brow to the side of his nose.

A ring of brass keys hung from his waist, while the iron rod in his other hand gleamed coldly in the light.

The guard strode impatiently toward the iron fence.

"...Sir Guard, beat him senseless!"

"...That's right, who knows where this bastard came from? Causing trouble here instead of sleeping in the middle of the night!"

Some of the awakened homeless men watched the spectacle, their filthy words brimming with glee at another's misfortune.

The guard pointed the iron rod at Little George and made a swinging motion.

Little George said nothing. He merely stiffened his shoulders and suddenly exerted force through the hand gripping the iron bars.

Ivan saw Spirituality in the air abruptly gather and surge toward the gate under Little George's command.

Screeeech—

A teeth-grating sound rang out.

Little George's slender yet rough hands forcibly tore a huge hole in the iron fence.

At the same time, masses of vines spread out from beneath his feet.

Fine cracks appeared in the ground as the vines crawled up the guard's legs and over his body.

With a clang, the iron rod fell at the guard's feet, nearly smashing his instep.

The vines extending upward sealed the guard's mouth, leaving him unable to form a complete sentence.

Only his terror-filled eyes remained, utterly devoid of their previous ferocity.

A faint stench drifted through the air as pale yellow liquid ran down the guard's trouser legs and pooled on the ground.

"Uh, Little George scared him so badly he pissed himself?"

Ivan looked at the guard with open disdain.

When the homeless men by the gate saw this, they all shut their mouths.

The others nearby began discussing it in hushed voices.

"...He tore open the Poorhouse gate with his bare hands?"

"...Gasp, and he can control vines."

"...Could he be able to use magic?"

"Everyone, wake up! Someone opened the Poorhouse gate!"

"Let's rush in together and save people—save our family and friends!"

Someone finally shouted after realizing what had happened.

The homeless people around the Poorhouse swarmed forward and yanked the keys from the guard's waist.

Ivan floated through the Poorhouse gate behind Little George.

The courtyard was no longer deathly silent. The locks on the building doors were opened one after another.

The previous silence had been because everyone had been locked inside their rooms.

The people within the Poorhouse gradually stirred as well. They pushed and shoved their way outside, yet not a single one complained.

In the women's section deepest inside, someone saw her husband and burst into tears while clutching her child.

Outside, old people and children, wives and husbands, parents and children all embraced one another tightly.

Choked sobs and smiles intertwined into the South York Poorhouse's melody for the night.

"Most people who enter the Poorhouse must perform grueling labor, or they receive no food.

People are assigned to live in different areas according to standards such as gender, age, and ability to work.

When a family enters the Poorhouse, parents, children, and married couples are all separated.

Even infants can only see their mothers when they are being breastfed."

As though speaking to himself, and as though explaining to his Lord.

Little George watched everything from outside the gate, then suddenly knelt on the ground.

"Great Lord, thank You for Your gift, which allowed me to save these suffering people!"

Ivan silently floated in the air, watching the kneeling Little George as though expecting what would happen next.

The embracing crowd gradually recovered from the sobs of their reunion.

Someone heard Little George's prayer and could not help muttering quietly.

"...Lord? If the Lord were useful, would we have been locked up here?"

"...That's right! I'd rather starve to death on the streets outside than be imprisoned in the Poorhouse!"

"...Pah! The Church of Divine Grace is nothing but the lapdogs of those pampered upper-class idiots!"

Discordant voices rose from the crowd once more.

"...That guy is so powerful. Could he be from the church?"

"...Exactly! He must be one of the church's lackeys, here to persecute us!"

"These people really know how to play along—first 'that's right,' then 'exactly.'"

Ivan looked at the few people who had initially delighted in Little George's misfortune and could not help shaking his head.

No matter where one went, there was never any shortage of people who believed in conspiracy theories.

Amid the noisy suspicions, Little George's face slowly reddened.

He raised his head and took several deep breaths, his gaze settling on the few people in the crowd who kept slandering his Lord.

"The great Lord will not be profaned like this!"

Little George moved swiftly, crossing from the ground to those people in the blink of an eye.

Vines broke through the stone-paved road and shot up from the ground, rapidly wrapping around their necks and hoisting them into the air.

"The people of the Church of Divine Grace believe only in the Blood of the Lord and His eyes.

They have misunderstood the Lord's will and defied the Lord's wishes.

But I believe in the Holy Spirit of the Lord—the truly merciful and great Lord!"

Though his voice was not loud, the surrounding area had already fallen into utter silence.

Only the few people hanging from the vines remained, struggling in agony and making hoarse, gurgling sounds.

Ivan quietly watched Little George's every move from behind.

"Not bad. Tempering kindness with authority—Little George has the makings of a fine preacher. I should train him as a bishop!"

The ethereal voice appeared in Little George's mind once again.

"You have done very well, child."

"Carry out my will. Proclaim my holy name."

"In the name of the Holy Spirit Society."