Chapter 93: True · Killing the Heart
The woman stared blankly at the High Sparrow, not understanding what he meant.
"Take off your clothes!"
It wasn't the High Sparrow who spoke, but the assistant beside him, barking coldly:
"Strip away the whore's disguise.
Remove that filthy silk bought with flesh!"
"Expose your sinful body and receive purification!"
The woman's face went deathly pale.
She looked around.
Hundreds of eyes stared back at her—
curious, contemptuous, numb, eager.
Her arms tightened around her child, trembling uncontrollably.
When she lifted her head again, she met the same sorrowful, compassionate face of the High Sparrow.
"To remove filth," he said calmly,
"is the first step toward washing away sin."
His voice was gentle—yet utterly unquestionable.
"Only by cleansing the evil from your body can the corruption flowing in her blood be erased."
Those merciless words shattered her final line of defense.
Trembling, she gently placed the half-conscious child onto a relatively clean stone slab nearby.
Then she stood.
Her fingers reached for the knot at her waist.
The silk dress slid down.
She had done this motion thousands of times—
but never before under the gaze of hundreds.
The late-autumn wind swept across the square, goosebumps rising instantly on her bare skin.
Her figure was well-shaped, full, untouched by hunger—
clearly, business had not been poor.
Yet there were scars on her chest and between her thighs, unmistakable proof that this trade was never easy.
She crossed her arms over herself, head lowered, hair falling to hide her face—
but not her shaking.
"Look at everyone!"
The assistant barked again.
"Raise your head!
Look into the eyes you've polluted with your sin!"
She obeyed, lifting her face with effort.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Now."
The High Sparrow finally met her gaze.
"Speak your sins.
Every one of them."
"I will listen.
They will listen.
The gods will listen."
She was already on the brink of collapse.
Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
"Speak!"
Someone shouted from the crowd.
Then another.
Then dozens.
"We're waiting!"
"Say it!"
"Confess!"
"For your child!"
Human beings are creatures of the herd.
What began as curiosity and disdain turned into collective coercion.
Even those who might once have felt sympathy now shouted along—
as if proving their own purity through her humiliation.
Under this crushing pressure, the woman finally broke.
"I… I am a—"
"I receive clients at the Red Sparrow Nest…
with men… I…"
She couldn't continue.
She sobbed.
"Not enough."
The assistant shook his head, voice colder still.
"That kind of vagueness cannot earn the gods' forgiveness!"
"How many times?
What kind of men?
How much gold?"
"Every detail is a unit of sin.
You must measure it precisely, or you'll never know how much repentance is required!"
Beside Odin, Iggo shifted.
"I want to kill him," Iggo said flatly.
"That goat-man dares to call such joyful acts sinful."
Odin glanced at him.
Your brain really does work differently, doesn't it?
Under continued pressure, the woman surrendered completely and began recounting the most degrading details.
The crowd listened with growing interest.
In lives equally miserable, another person's shame had become entertainment.
When she reached the fifth "client," the assistant raised a hand.
"Enough."
"Now comes the second stage of purification."
Turning to the crowd, he shouted:
"The Seven teach us to despise sin!
Use your saliva to wash the filth from her body!"
The crowd hesitated.
Then the assistant spat first.
One followed.
Then another.
Soon dozens joined in—
even some women, eager to distance themselves from the "fallen."
The woman stood motionless, eyes closed, body shaking violently.
She did not wipe it away.
She simply endured.
But restraint vanished quickly.
Some stepped forward, shoving, striking—
until a blow knocked her to her knees.
The assistant watched with sick satisfaction.
The High Sparrow remained serene, unchanged.
Only when the frenzy had burned itself out did he raise his voice:
"Enough."
At once, the crowd froze.
They parted, leaving the woman collapsed among them.
She looked up.
A steaming bowl of broth hovered before her.
"You may now pray for grace for your child," the High Sparrow said gently.
"In light of your sincere repentance."
Her face was empty—but when she saw the broth, a spark lit her eyes.
She struggled to raise her hand—
"She doesn't need grace."
A voice cut through the square.
The woman froze.
All heads turned.
Two figures emerged from the shadows.
Both wore dark gray hooded cloaks.
The leader was fully wrapped, only a hard, emotionless jaw visible beneath the hood.
With each step, his robe swayed cleanly—no hesitation, no waste.
More unsettling was the pressure he radiated.
People unconsciously stepped back as he passed,
as though the square itself were making room.
The High Sparrow narrowed his eyes.
For the first time in years of ascetic discipline—
he felt threatened.
The woman didn't understand any of this.
She only knew the broth—her hope—was gone.
She dared not lift her head.
Only a pair of boots stopped before her.
Then something warm fell over her shoulders.
"Stand up."
The voice was calm.
Cold.
Unyielding.
She looked up.
Black eyes.
Firm lips.
"Do not kneel."
He turned away from her and walked straight toward the platform.
"Stop!" the assistant finally shouted.
"Who allowed you to interrupt the Seven's judgment?!"
Odin stopped.
Faced the platform.
"I'm a healer."
He looked at the High Sparrow, lips curling faintly.
"Not a fraud."
"Blasphemy—!"
"That child has pneumonia."
Odin raised his voice, cutting him off.
"Possibly severe bronchitis—but given the suprasternal and intercostal retractions during breathing, pneumonia is more likely."
His words echoed across the square.
With every technical term, the assistant's face darkened.
The crowd didn't understand—but they could tell.
This sounded authoritative.
"What nonsense are you spouting?" the assistant roared.
"This is the Seven's—"
"The Seven do not cure disease."
Odin cut him off again, turning to the crowd.
"They don't prepare medicine.
They don't auscultate lungs.
They don't diagnose infections."
"What heals is knowledge.
What heals is medicine."
"That child doesn't need her mother humiliated.
She doesn't need spit.
She doesn't need lectures about sin."
She needs treatment.
The square erupted into murmurs.
No one dared speak openly.
They were peasants—
no, less than peasants.
But the presence of these two men screamed danger.
Seeing his authority falter, the High Sparrow finally spoke:
"Who are you?"
At that moment, a cloud passed over the sun—
then the wind tore it away.
Light poured down again.
Half of Odin stood in sunlight.
Half in shadow.
Light and darkness.
And he spoke.
"…Odin."
The High Sparrow's pupils contracted.
He had heard the name.
The new power in Flea Bottom.
The founder of the Black Hand.
Rumors were one thing.
Reality was another.
"And why are you here?"
From the crowd, a small voice trembled:
"Uncle… Odin…"
Little Tommy stared at him, unable to reconcile the man before him with the name whispered through Flea Bottom.
Odin grinned at him.
Then raised his voice.
"You heard correctly.
My name is Odin."
"From today onward, the Hall of Order will open free soup kitchens and free clinics!"
"The Black Hand will provide food and medical care to anyone in need!"
"No kneeling.
No confession.
No stripping naked."
"And absolutely no drinking hallucinogenic poison disguised as divine grace!"
He pointed at the brown broth.
"Yes—this is poison.
Addictive.
Body-destroying."
The square exploded.
"Poison?!"
"No way!"
"But I felt better after drinking it!"
"He said hallucinations…"
"Free food?
Free treatment?
Is that real?!"
The High Sparrow's expression finally changed.
This man wasn't arguing.
He was dismantling everything.
"Expel the blasphemers!"
He barked the order without hesitation.
A dozen enforcers surged forward, clubs drawn.
Odin did not retreat.
Instead, he spoke louder:
"Stand or kneel.
Friend or enemy."
"Choose."
"You only get one chance."
He glanced at Iggo.
The Dothraki warrior grinned—
a predator unleashed at last.
Finally.
Blood.
He didn't retreat.
Instead, he charged straight into the crowd.
Two wooden clubs slammed into him almost simultaneously—he took them head-on—then his hand snapped to the small of his back and drew a short blade.
Thk.
One thrust—
a throat opened.
He reversed his grip and stabbed again, the blade punching clean through the lung of the man behind.
Before the body even hit the ground, he wrenched the dagger free, raised it overhead, and hacked downward—
Half a skull split open.
White cheekbone gleamed in the sunlight.
"ROAR—!!!"
Beating his chest with a blood-slick fist, the long-suppressed Dothraki warrior exploded into motion.
In a heartbeat, three men were dead.
---
On the other side, if Iggo's fighting style was wild and overwhelming, then Odin's was surgical.
His short blade was almost invisible.
Enemies rushed in—
fell.
Rushed again—
fell again.
No wasted motion. No excess force.
He didn't need to sever necks.
A precise thrust between the ribs caused a pneumothorax—lungs collapsed, the enemy suffocated and dropped.
He didn't need to hack off limbs.
A clean cut to the ulnar or radial nerve—
the arm was useless.
Achilles tendon.
Artery.
Nerve plexus.
[Basic Swordsmanship Lv3] + [Insight Lv3] + [Surgery Lv3]
turned every movement into perfection.
Every opening was seized.
Every strike landed on the body's weakest point.
This wasn't combat.
It was an anatomical demonstration disguised as slaughter.
Each enemy collapsed twitching—alive, screaming, fully aware that their life was draining away.
Yet when the fifth man fell, the blood on Odin's blade was still less than what splattered across Iggo's body.
---
Thirty seconds.
From the first enforcer charging in, to the last man trying to flee—only to have Iggo kick his spine apart from behind—
Less than half a minute had passed.
Twelve men. All down.
"AOOO—!!!"
Iggo stood drenched in blood, chest heaving, eyes blazing with post-kill frenzy, letting out a guttural howl.
It was a Dothraki hunter's cry.
Then—
He spotted the High Sparrow being hustled away into a narrow alley, surrounded by followers.
"He's running!"
Iggo roared, flinging his dagger forward to pin a man to the ground, then lunged to give chase—
But five or six enforcers threw themselves at him desperately.
Perhaps they were fanatics.
Perhaps they knew they were doomed.
But if the High Sparrow escaped, maybe their families would live.
"AAAH!"
Iggo howled skyward, smashed a charging man's skull with his fist, tore away a club, and laid about wildly—
But the delay was enough.
The High Sparrow vanished into the maze of alleys.
---
By then, Odin had finished the last man entangling him.
He strode over and dispatched the remaining attackers around Iggo with quick, efficient movements.
"Too late," Odin said calmly, stopping Iggo as he tried to pursue.
"They know these streets better than we do."
Yet there was no regret in Odin's voice.
He clapped Iggo on the shoulder and said something the Dothraki didn't understand:
"It's fine."
"Let the bullet… fly a little longer."
Iggo growled in frustration and hurled the club aside.
Then he turned.
Blood-red eyes locked onto the lone figure still standing on the platform.
The High Sparrow's assistant.
The man was shaking so badly he looked like he'd pissed himself.
When the High Sparrow fled, he hadn't even taken him along.
"The Seven will punish you…" the assistant whimpered, collapsing backward.
"You blasphemers… your souls will burn forever—"
Iggo didn't let him finish.
He snatched the dagger from Odin's hand, leapt onto the platform, seized the man by the hair, and dragged him to the edge.
The blade plunged straight into the chest—
then ripped upward.
Ribs cracked open.
The scream lasted less than a second.
Iggo shoved his hand into the torn chest cavity, groped briefly—
Then yanked out a heart.
A dripping, steaming heart.
Still beating in his hand.
---
The square had already dissolved into chaos.
People fled in all directions—but many stopped at a distance, unable to look away.
When Iggo raised the heart, the entire crowd froze.
Breath held.
Silence fell like death.
Then, under hundreds of stunned gazes, Iggo lifted the heart higher and turned around.
Seeing Odin staring at him with a deeply complicated expression, Iggo scratched his head, smearing blood across his hair, and asked, genuinely puzzled:
"What is it, blood of my blood?"
"Wasn't it you who said…"
He held up the still-beating heart.
"Kill the man—
and kill the heart?"