1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 153 The Black Hole of Faith

The black speedboat glided through the night, blending seamlessly into the dark sea.

At dawn, a pale, fish-belly white light appeared on the horizon where the sea met the sky. At the edge of the intelligence agents' line of sight, the outline of a solitary island slowly emerged from the morning mist.

This is a desolate island covered with black reefs. There is no greenery to be seen, only jagged rocks and low shrubs shivering in the sea breeze. On the cliff at the highest point of the island, an ancient stone monastery stands alone, facing the direction of the sunrise and overlooking the surging waves below.

"The Monastery of St. George," an agent whispered, referring to the nautical chart. "It's somewhat famous among the believers in Athens, known for its ascetic practices."

The fishing boat ahead slowed down, skillfully maneuvering around underwater reefs and mooring in a naturally formed small harbor.

The agents moored the speedboat on the other side of the island, leaving only two guards while the rest, equipped with gear, quietly landed. Like the most agile mountain goats, they scaled the steep cliffs and quickly found an excellent vantage point on a ridge opposite the monastery.

A high-magnification German-made telescope was set up.

In the scene, the mysterious sailor is carrying an unusually heavy money bag, walking step by step along the rugged mountain path toward the monastery gate.

The morning bells rang out, their sound distant and solemn.

However, what happened next sent a chill down the spines of even the most seasoned agents.

The monastery's wooden doors opened, and instead of a lean monk, the sailors were greeted by a bloated, greasy-faced, obese monk. His grey monk's robes were stretched taut by his fat body, and a greedy smile graced his oily face.

He was the abbot of St. George's Abbey.

The sailor handed the heavy money bag to the abbot.

The abbot did not return to the inner sanctum, nor did he avoid the other monks who were performing their morning prayers in the courtyard. Right there under the statue of St. George, he impatiently untied the bag and poured its contents onto the stone table.

Gold coins, silver coins, and large denomination banknotes gleamed with a sinister light in the morning sun.

The abbot stretched out his fat fingers and counted the money quickly and skillfully, like a butcher counting pork. His face was filled with undisguised satisfaction and ecstasy. Several young cultivators nearby watched numbly, their eyes vacant, as if this was all too commonplace.

At this moment, all the mysteries were answered.

Behind the telescope, Alexandros Dimitriopoulos's chaotic intelligence network instantly became clear.

This supposedly sacred monastery is anything but a place of spiritual retreat. It is the heart of the "Black Honey" money laundering network in Greece! A perfect transit point and money laundering center that no one would suspect!

A poisoned ship from Smyrna unloaded its cargo on this isolated island. The monastery, taking advantage of its special religious status, disguised "black honey" as "holy relics" or medicinal herbs, and then its agents, posing as sailors or fishermen, transported it in batches to the port of Piraeus.

The huge sums of money obtained from these transactions flowed back to the monastery under the guise of "donations from believers." Here, dirty drug money was laundered into sacred "offerings," and then transferred abroad or into the private pockets of certain individuals through secret channels within the church.

This is a closed loop that is both perfect and vicious.

It not only exploited loopholes in the law, but also took advantage of people's most sacred beliefs.

Alexandros dared not delay for a moment. He left half of his men to continue monitoring, while he took the other half and returned at full speed in a speedboat.

He had to report this terrifying discovery to His Highness the Prince immediately, right away.

……

The study in the Royal Palace of Athens.

Constantine had just seen Sophia off. After a day of "incognito travel," he had pieced together from the workers' complaints, fears, and despair the devastating impact "Black Honey" had had on the lower classes.

He was drawing a map of the underground forces in the port of Piraeus on a blank sheet of paper, as well as the possible distribution channels for "black honey." Every name and every location came from snippets of information inadvertently revealed by the workers.

There was a knock on the study door, but no one was informed.

Alexandros appeared in the doorway. He took off his hat and strode to the desk, his clothes still carrying the salty, damp scent of the sea.

His face no longer held its usual composure; instead, it displayed a suppressed, impending rage.

"Your Highness." His voice was a little hoarse.

Constantine put down his pen and looked up at his most capable intelligence chief.

Alexandros did not submit a written report; he simply recounted everything they had seen at St. George's Monastery in the most concise and direct language, word for word.

From the mysterious sailor to the obese abbot, and then to the pile of gleaming, sinful coins on the stone table.

A long silence fell over the study.

Constantine remained silent, listening attentively. When Alexandros finished recounting the events, he slowly rose and walked to the large map of all of Greece on the wall.

His gaze passed over Athens, over Piraeus, and finally landed on the unassuming little island in the Saronic Gulf that represented the Monastery of St. George.

He finally understood Muradbey's true killing move.

This Ottoman tycoon's ambitions went far beyond simply destroying Greece's industrial base with drugs.

What he wants to destroy is the very soul that holds this country together.

Orthodox Christianity was the only spiritual flame that never went out for the Greek people during the centuries of Ottoman rule. It was a banner of resistance and the root of the nation.

When people discovered that even the most pure and sacred monasteries had degenerated into dens of iniquity; when the presiding priest's hands, while accepting the confessions of believers, were simultaneously counting the filthy drug money...

Faith will begin to crumble from its very foundation.

A nation that has lost its spiritual pillar, no matter how many factories it has or how strong its army is, is nothing more than a pile of loose sand.

This is a destruction more vicious than war.

Constantine turned to face his chief of intelligence. The light in the study seemed to dim, and his expression was terrifyingly calm, but Alexandros felt a chill run down his spine.

"He defiles God with the devil, so we will burn the devil to death with the wrath of God." Constantine's voice was not loud, but it made the air tremble.

Alexandros bowed, awaiting orders. He knew a storm was brewing.