Chapter 79: A Divine Witness

The central church of Blackfort Town stood at the junction of the vassal and noble districts, the tallest and grandest building in all of Blackfort. Its main structure was built of sturdy gray limestone, the walls coated with a layer of white sand, combining majesty with refinement. The interior soared high and wide, the bell tower piercing the heavens, a testament to the supreme glory of the Lord of Radiance.

Compared to Father Ivan’s church, the magnificent central church appeared even more sacred and solemn, and far more desolate. The central church served the elite, or rather, it was a place where the elite served the Lord of Radiance. Rich men would come to the central church to donate money and goods, displaying their piety to the Lord of Radiance—a stark contrast to the church in the slums.

Father Conley, adorned in splendid priestly robes and wearing a grave expression, supervised the attendants in their preparations for today’s ceremony within the church. Here, a sacred notarization before God was to be held, the parties being Count Embiser York and Baron Victor Wimbledon. For Father Conley, this was of great significance: it was the first notarization between lords presided over by him since he took charge of the central church, and indeed the first such ceremony in the Centaur Frontier.

“Father, everything is ready,” an attendant bowed to Conley.

Conley nodded with authority, glanced around, and asked, “Have Holy Knight Claude and his squad returned?”

“Not yet, we’ve already sent someone to hasten them.”

At the attendant’s reply, a cloud passed over Conley’s face.

His superior, Bishop Pello, had told him that the Centaur Hills might one day become a new diocese. To increase the church’s influence here, more clergy would gradually be dispatched, and Claude had just been assigned to him as captain of the holy knights.

When Captain Claude arrived with a reorganized squad, Father Conley was initially pleased—this would greatly strengthen his hand. But his delight was short-lived. Claude, young as he was, possessed masterful martial skills, enthusiasm, compassion, courage, justice, and piety—all the virtues the church extolled in a holy knight—yet he was utterly green.

Claude had barely arrived before plunging headlong into the shantytown. He and his team set about maintaining order, righting wrongs and aiding the weak. In just a few days, they’d arrested many thieves and robbers, delivering them to the Blackfort constabulary—much to the constable’s displeasure, who had already complained to Conley several times.

Conley had hurriedly summoned Claude, warning him that the church possessed no secular authority, as stipulated in the New Covenant of Light. Claude replied that they were not enforcing the law, merely suppressing evil and handing criminals over to the authorities. He even asked Conley to distribute more food and clothing to the freemen, and urged him to fund the renovation of the shantytown to improve their living conditions.

Only then did Conley realize that Claude had never undergone the two years' trial required of holy knights; he’d simply been sent straight to his charge. This kept Conley awake at night—nothing was more headache-inducing for a lower priest than a rookie holy knight.

The consequences were soon apparent: the stonemasons reduced their donations to the central church, the vegetable sellers contributed less, and the most devoted donor, the hyena gang leader, had stopped coming altogether. Merchants, too, had cut back, as they were now paying higher protection fees. Only the lords in the noble district remained unaffected, but their generosity was always at the mercy of their moods.

At the worst of times, even big-bearded Ivan had warned Conley repeatedly to keep Claude in check—recently, far fewer commoners were attending Ivan’s prayers!

What could Conley do? He’d already written to Bishop Pello, subtly requesting a more experienced holy knight to assist him—meaning, in effect, that Claude should be gotten rid of. But the bishop had yet to reply, so Conley had no choice but to endure a while longer.

“The notarization ceremony is about to begin! Send someone again to check if that fool Claude is here yet!” Conley ordered irritably.

As the presiding priest of the central church, Conley’s path to promotion was entirely different from Ivan’s: it depended on how much money he could raise for the church, and how much he could extend its influence. This notarization ceremony would be a feather in his cap.

“Father Conley! We're here!”

Turning around, Conley saw Claude striding over with his holy knights, attendants pinching their noses as they passed. Conley was alarmed and immediately called out, “Stop! Don’t come in!”

“You’ve been to the shantytown again today, haven’t you? You reek! Go wash up and change into your ceremonial armor—the notarization is about to begin!” Conley said with disgust.

“Father, I have something important to report! Johnny was attacked in the shantytown today!” Claude said solemnly.

“What? Where’s Johnny?” A cold glint flashed in Conley’s eyes; attacking a holy knight was a grave crime, something only a sorcerer would dare.

“Here, Father,” Johnny raised a dispirited hand, still crestfallen from being so thoroughly beaten.

Conley looked Johnny up and down, seeing he was unharmed, and relaxed. “What happened?”

“It was like this—” Johnny recounted the entire incident to the priest.

Conley was silent for a moment, then said through gritted teeth, “So, you weren’t attacked—you meddled and got taught a lesson!”

“Father, something’s not right. That man defeated Johnny with ease—he must at least be a squire. If that old farmer hadn’t called out to him, he would have killed Johnny! Now he’s taken the farmer away—I think we should send someone to rescue that poor man, or he might be killed!” Claude shouted, growing agitated. In his mind, he’d already imagined a tragic tale—a squire with an eye for a farmer’s daughter, scorned and now threatening the father. Who knew, perhaps there was a beautiful maiden waiting to be rescued by a holy knight. The very thought set Claude’s blood racing.

“A squire, kill Johnny? Then why didn’t he cleave off Johnny’s head with the first blow? And why did the old farmer walk off with the squire in the end?” Conley sneered.

“Uh…” Claude was left speechless.

“I’ll warn you again, the shantytown is the constable’s domain! Your duty is to serve the church, to hunt sorcerers, and to fight monsters. Stop running off to the shantytown all the time! Now, go clean yourselves up and put on your ceremonial armor—the notarization is about to start.”

At Conley’s bellow, the young holy knights hurried off to their quarters.

“Utterly ridiculous! What business is it of ours what filth goes on between nobles?” Conley muttered under his breath.

“Father Conley, Baron Wimbledon has arrived,” an attendant announced.

Father Conley permitted himself a smile. Two days prior, Baron Wimbledon had donated two thousand gold solars to the central church, yet recorded only a thousand in the registry—such boundless generosity naturally delighted Conley.

And so, Conley stepped out of the cathedral to greet the baron in person.

At the foot of the gleaming white steps, Father Conley saw the young, upright baron and his retinue, though the baron’s face was rather pale. Recalling the comely maid who had accompanied him two days before, Conley understood at once.

“Baron Victor, good day. May the Lord of Radiance’s glory shine upon you,” Conley said with a smile.

“Good day, Father Conley,” Victor replied courteously.

“Baron Victor, you look quite spirited today,” Conley said with a knowing smile.

Spirited? Victor nearly blacked out at the words; he was exhausted to the bone, ravished by Sylvia’s insatiable demands—painful, yet pleasurable.

“Not too bad,” Victor managed a dry laugh.

Father Conley said nothing but smiled. He raised his priest’s staff and pointed it at Victor; a shaft of platinum light bathed him. Victor felt instantly invigorated, his fatigue swept away, his body suddenly light and agile.

“Father, what was that?” Victor asked in surprise.

“That is holy magic bestowed by our Lord—Restoration. It can continuously restore a person’s energy and strength,” Conley said with pride.

“Amazing!”

Victor clenched his fists, feeling the power return to his body.

“Father Conley, this Restoration spell is truly remarkable—it could allow soldiers to fight on without tiring.”

“Well… in theory, yes. But Restoration can only be used once per day, and its effect wanes with repeated use,” Conley admitted with a wry smile.

“Oh, is that so? Even so, it’s impressive! Father Conley, could you perhaps tell me more about the basic types of holy magic? I’m very interested—but only if it’s not too much trouble…”

“It’s no great secret. For thousands of years, under the church’s leadership, lords have fought monsters and orcs—everyone is well aware of our Lord’s power. I’d be glad to discuss it with you,” Conley replied graciously.

“Our holy magics mainly include Restoration, Healing, Cleansing, and Inspiration.

“Restoration, you know already. Healing can continuously stop bleeding and close wounds—a small wound heals quickly, a large one more slowly. Healing lasts five minutes per use; high-ranking priests can even reattach limbs, though at great cost. This magic has saved countless soldiers’ lives.

“Cleansing can cure most diseases; it’s a spell we clergy use frequently, though it requires a special ritual and consumes costly white crystals, so we must charge a fee.

“Inspiration bolsters a soldier’s courage, banishing fear. It also dulls pain, so soldiers won’t faint from their wounds. Like Restoration, Inspiration works best if used only once a day.”

“The power and mercy of the Lord of Radiance are truly awe-inspiring,” Victor flattered at the appropriate moment.

“The Lord’s light is eternal,” Conley intoned solemnly.

“By the way, at the last purification ritual, I saw the bishop conjure a platinum holy flame—is that also a holy magic?” Victor asked.

“That is Sacred Fire, which only high priests can cast. I don’t know much about it myself,” Conley replied, a touch embarrassed, though his shifty gaze did not escape Victor’s notice; clearly, the priest was unwilling to discuss deeper matters.

“I see,” Victor nodded, smiling.

The two men chatted as they made their way into the cathedral.

The prayer hall was wide and lofty, making one feel insignificant. Four massive statues of sword-bearing angels heightened the sense of awe. The domed ceiling was fashioned from special crystal; by day, sunlight filtered through, bathing everything in gold—a truly sacred atmosphere.

Victor felt little awe—this was not his first time in the central church, and in his memories were even grander cathedrals of the Radiant faith. Still, he could not deny that Blackfort’s central church exuded an impressive sense of heritage and power, especially for a frontier town only three years old.

“Father Conley, Count York has arrived,” an attendant announced.

“Baron Victor, I must go to greet the count. Please wait here; the notarization will begin shortly.”

With that, Father Conley left the hall to welcome the lord of Blackfort.

Victor pressed his hand to the long table at the center of the hall. Soon, he and Count York would sit here for the notarization before God.

This ceremony was established by the church to mediate disputes between lords, a practice instituted only fifteen hundred years ago. In the church’s heyday, it would intervene forcefully in conflicts among lords. But as feudalism took hold, the power of the lords grew, the church’s influence waned, and disputes were settled by the lords themselves—usually through small wars or marriages. When the knightly order began to dominate the church, they proposed notarization ceremonies to expand ecclesiastical influence and judicial authority, but few lords were willing to participate.

Victor had no choice, however: he was unqualified for a marriage alliance, unwilling to become a vassal, and the Yorks, to ensure the agreement’s enforcement, had demanded notarization before God. The core of the agreement was that Victor could not secretly sell violet cane wine to other lords—if he did, the Yorks could take up arms against him without church interference. Another feature of notarization was that it superseded hereditary rights—Victor’s heirs could not overturn the agreement with the Yorks.

This didn’t concern Victor in the least; his heirs would be either the Marquis Sophia or his obliging older brother.

Strictly speaking, the Yorks’ notarization with Victor harmed the collective interests of the nobility—it was a betrayal of the lordly class. But the contents were unusual, being an unprecedented supply contract.

“When Father Conley reads out the price of eighteen copper sols per liter of violet cane wine, his expression should be a sight to behold,” Victor thought with amusement.

As Victor entertained himself with such thoughts, Count York entered with his retinue, accompanied by Father Conley, and barked without preamble:

“Victor! You’re paying the notarization fee this time!”

Victor: “… I am not.”

———

While Victor and Count York bickered over the donation fee, in the Blackfort constabulary station, Monkey was reporting to his master.

“Sir, the baron’s men brought a dog I’ve never seen and found Barol’s body.”

“What’s so strange about that? They want to know if Barol is dead or if we’ve just hidden him. The Victor family is reacting too slowly! The Villepan family was here looking for Barol days ago,” Constable Shax said with a dismissive laugh.

“Sir, why were they looking for Barol?” Monkey asked nervously.

Monkey and Old John had seen Barol’s corpse—though it was already decomposing, Monkey could still identify him by the moles on his body. Still, something about it struck Monkey as odd, though he couldn’t say what.

“What else? To vent their anger,” Shax replied, his tone light and laced with contempt.