Chapter 437: The Saint and the Lord Protector

The shadow struck the tip of its staff against the ground.

"Then let me ask one more question."

"Ask."

"Do the people sitting in power across the nations—the royal families, the cabinets, and the top echelon—all have ties to the mystical side?"

The old Scholar slowly shook his head.

"They do, but not the kind you're thinking of."

"The vast majority of politicians are completely clean from head to toe, without a single trace of a circuit. While a few are simply unlucky, it's mostly because someone else is making the choices for them."

"The children of the Department of Internal Affairs, the General Administration, and a few Hunter families do serve in the government, but their ceiling is strictly capped. In public office, the highest Rank allowed is a Major Adept."

"Why?"

"Because any higher, a Virtuoso wouldn't even be able to enter an ordinary conference room."

The old Scholar spread his hands.

"If a Virtuoso simply raised their voice, everyone on that floor would suffer nightmares that night. The next day, the secretaries would lose their hair in droves and their hands would shake too much to pour tea. They wouldn't be able to hold a meeting at all."

"More importantly, there's something else."

He placed his hands back on his lap.

"Rank and power are mutually exclusive."

"Power requires being seen. The stronger you become, the less you can be seen."

"So those who truly reach the top never sit on thrones. They can't fit into them, nor do they need to."

"They stand behind the families, the families stand behind the politicians, and the politicians step onto the stage."

The figure holding the scorched wood snorted from the side.

"I carried the flag for a king when I was alive."

"The bastard was so stupid he couldn't even count the wells in his own fief."

"But the moment he put on that crown, our entire army truly felt he was different."

Seeing that they had finished their chat, the lord of the hunt brought out the second collection item.

It was also a ring. Words were engraved on the inner band, shallow and crooked—clearly the handiwork of a village blacksmith.

Originally, there were three words, but they had been worn down until only two and a half remained.

"This belonged to a young girl," the old Scholar's voice lowered.

"Which girl?"

"Jeanne. She came from a village called Domremy in the east of Franc. Her father was a farmer."

"When she was thirteen, her parents bought her this Ring at the market."

The old Scholar held up the narrow Ring.

"She had no guide, but she was born with absurdly high Inspiration."

"Her greatest talent was... the moment she spoke, people believed her."

"The power to define," Richard said.

"The power to define," the old Scholar nodded.

"An untaught country girl grasped this innate power from birth."

"Within half a year, she lifted the siege of Orleans, escorted the prince into Reims Cathedral, and watched him put on that crown."

The old Scholar turned the Ring a half circle.

"Think about it. A seventeen-year-old girl, armed with nothing but her words, successfully crowned a monarch in half a year."

"Then what was the Church to do?"

"The Church naturally had to deal with her."

"Collaborating with the enemy?"

"No," the old Scholar said. "The Church wasn't afraid of her collaborating with the enemy."

"What the Church feared was... she only needed to speak, and all of Franc would believe her."

"If so, then what of the hundreds of years of tradition, where only the anointed had the right to speak? What would that amount to?"

"And what does this Ring do?" Richard asked.

"Put it on, and you will receive 'revelation'."

The old Scholar lifted the narrow Ring a bit higher.

"This revelation can even allow you to foresee your own death."

"And the price?"

"You must first believe in it yourself—believe so deeply that you leave no room in your heart for doubt."

"The more people believe in you, the brighter you shine on the other side of the veil."

"When you shine brightly enough, someone will build a court specifically to destroy you."

The shadow planted its staff firmly.

"So to use it, I'd have to be the kind of person who never questions if I'm right."

"...Correct."

"As for someone like me, who turns a single sentence over three times before speaking," Richard said, "I'd be crushed under my own weight the day I put it on."

The third item was a Bronze Seal.

"This belonged to your Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell."

"For several years, his subordinates urged him to just put on the crown."

"He thought about it for six weeks, and didn't wear it."

"He didn't dare wear it."

The old Scholar rested the seal upright on his lap.

"The smartest decision of his life was that one."

"He met a peaceful end while alive, but two years later, the son of the man he had beheaded returned."

"They dug Cromwell out of the dirt. By the time they dug him up, he had mostly rotted away. Yet, they still went through the entire procedure: dragging him to the execution ground, hanging him for a full day, and when it got dark, chopping off his head and spiking it on a pole."

"The pole was erected on the roof of the hall where he once held office."

The lord of the hunt suddenly chuckled beside them.

"Actually, the most valuable thing was his own head."

"For the twenty-five years it maintained its reign up there, not a single person on the island of Albion could look up without seeing it."

"Those entering the city would look at it, and those leaving would look at it. Mothers would hold up their children and point it out to them: 'Look, that's him, the man who beheaded a king.'"

"Millions of people, day after day, murmured about it for twenty-five years."

"I attended the Lord Protector's funeral," the red coat in the procession suddenly spoke up.

Dozens of heads turned toward him at once.

"I carried a gun for him." He straightened the row of brightly polished buttons on his cuff. "Two shillings a day."

"The day he was buried, everyone made a wooden effigy, dressed it in purple robes, and placed an orb and a scepter in its hands."

"He didn't dare wear the crown when he was alive," the redcoat said.

"But when he could no longer speak, we put the crown on him."

The old Scholar flattened the scroll on his lap.

"When these people reached the end, the life's work they had built up condensed into visible supernatural items like these."

"The Signet Ring of Alexander the Great is his vast territory, the Ring is Jeanne's eyes, and the Bronze Seal is the army in Cromwell's hands."

"They never relied on external objects to accomplish their deeds. It was only after they were finished that their relics grew into this."

At this moment, the lord of the hunt turned his antlers around.

"Choose," it said.

Richard had his shadow hold the Caduceus horizontally in front of him, pretending to examine them closely.

Inner Awakening lit up right then.

Ever since it leveled up to Lv.3, those eyes that specialized in picking at bones had turned back from the outside, shining inward upon himself.

It wouldn't solve problems for him. It would only take a thought just as it sprouted in his mind and flip it over, showing him the reverse side.

The lord of the hunt had opened the cabinet far too eagerly just now.

A miser who had to agonize for half a day just to part with the shed tip of a mount's antler—agonizing to the point that two Major Adepts had openly shown their disdain on the spot.

Suddenly bringing out its bottom-of-the-box treasures one by one, displaying several of them, and even inviting a Scholar to tell stories alongside them.

The stories were told so beautifully, so enticingly, that it made his own heart itch.

In his mind, Richard turned a page of the tome pressed beneath Professor Mortimer's windowsill.

"A slave is bound by debt, a guest arrives by token."

What binds a slave is debt.

Then, what was the easiest way to turn a guest into a slave?

Give him something he could never repay.

The old Scholar had calculated what he rightfully deserved tonight perfectly:

The merit of diverting tens of thousands of people, and a crucial hint that allowed the lord of the hunt to strike at someone of the same Rank.

How much these two things added up to, every member of the hunting party knew in their hearts.

How much was the Signet Ring of Alexander the Great worth? How much was the Holy Maiden's revelation worth? How much was the Lord Protector's Bronze Seal worth?

Combined with the two privileges the lord of the hunt had already granted him, if he reached out and took any of these items now, the scale would heavily tip to that side.

From that moment on, he would be the one in debt.

"Can I ask a question?" Richard said.

"Ask."

"Is there anything else in this cabinet?"

The lord of the hunt's antlers paused for a moment.

The pause was incredibly brief—so brief that Richard almost mistook it for an illusion.

"There is."

A small section of the cloud surface caved in again, and the object that floated up didn't look like much.

A Brass Fragment, the size of a palm.

There was a thin layer of glaze of an indescribable color on the inner wall of the fragment.

"What is this?" the young man wielding an axe stretched his neck to look. "A broken pot?"

"It's a crucible," the old Scholar said.

He didn't continue telling a story as he had before.

"It belonged to that person from tonight," the lord of the hunt said.

"When he tried to melt himself into that crucible, he only melted halfway. The signature artifact followed him upward, and halfway through, I tore it apart."

"Tore off this piece."

No one on the cloud spoke.

Richard spread out his Still Water, letting the mirror surface reflect upon that fragment.

The truly valuable parts involving the mysteries of a Virtuoso had already been taken by the lord of the hunt himself; all that remained was the ether it had naturally absorbed.

Richard's breathing slowed.

A fragment of a signature artifact personally nurtured by a Major Adept for decades, washed over during the ritual of ascending to a Virtuoso.

"I want this piece," he said.

Silence fell upon the cloud.

"...He wants that broken pot."

"He didn't understand, did he?"

"Can't he see what's placed right next to it?"

"I think he's read himself stupid."

The old Scholar pulled the pen from behind his ear and wrote a line on the scroll.

After writing, he lifted his head and stared at the shadow for a long time.

The lord of the hunt's antlers remained completely still.

"Are you certain?"

"Certain."

The lord of the hunt said, "These are all top-tier supernatural items. An ordinary Major Adept might not even possess a single one, and you don't want them?"

"I know."

"Then why don't you want them?"

The shadow tapped the Caduceus against the ground.

"The spoils I am rightfully owed tonight, combined with a high-level supernatural item, would exceed my quota."

The cloud was silent for another moment.

Then, the lord of the hunt laughed.

The laughter was more unbridled than any other time tonight, rolling across the entire host, causing tens of thousands of mounts to paw at the ground simultaneously.

As it laughed, it swiftly shut the cabinet on the cloud surface, closing it with clean, rapid finality.

The figure holding the scorched wood instantly joined in with roaring laughter.

"Look at that." He pointed the tip of his charred wood at the lord of the hunt. "Look at that trick."

"Shut up."

"I'm praising you."

"You've praised me twice tonight."

"That's because you've skimped twice tonight."

The old Scholar tucked his pen back behind his ear and stood up.

He walked over to the shadow and lowered his voice, though lowering one's voice up here was virtually useless.

"Young man."

"It displayed so many items in this cabinet, but in truth, it couldn't bear to part with a single one. It only brought them out to see if you would reach for them."

"And if I really had reached for them?"

"Then you wouldn't be returning tonight."

"It would utter a few words of pity for you, and then arrange a horse for you."

The Brass Fragment floated over and dropped into the shadow's palm.

It was cold to the touch, too cold to feel like brass.

The lord of the hunt raised the horn once more.

"Dawn is approaching."

"You've earned your share for tonight's hunt."

The horn sounded. It was a short blast—the tune of calling it a night.

Tens of thousands of riders scattered toward the southeast, dispersing incredibly fast.

The few at the very back of the host were still arguing over whether a shoe was made of sheepskin or cowhide; as they argued, their voices faded away.

The clouds parted, revealing the lowlands below.

Light began to gleam on the surface of the canal, stretching out line by line from the east.

Across the eight-thousand-meter battle line, the stretcher-bearers were still marching.

When Richard opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was his own knees.

His coat had slipped to his feet, damp with a layer of dew.

He reached out to grab it, but halfway there he found his fingers too stiff to obey. He had to force them twice before they bent.

The hollies in the backyard were dripping with water. The sky was fully bright.

Gerard was sitting on the stone bench opposite him.

The old man had an evening paper spread across his lap. It hadn't been turned since last night.

"You're back."

"I'm back."

Gerard folded the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and stood up.

His knees popped as he rose, though he didn't seem to notice.

"It's indeed before dawn. Seven minutes to spare."

"I didn't know you were counting."

"I was counting all night."

After Gerard spoke, he headed toward the foyer.

"That bit of hay on the gatepost is gone."

Richard used the wicker chair for support as he stood up, walking over to take a look.

At the base of the left stone gatepost, the half-bundle of dry hay that had been standing there last night was reduced to nothing but crumbs.

"The frost melted from the top down," Gerard said. "Normal frost melts from the bottom up."

Richard didn't reply.

At that moment, the butler poked his head out from the foyer, his face puffy from a sleepless night.

"Master... Young Master..."

He looked at the stone gatepost, then at Richard.

"That half-bundle of hay in the woodshed—I checked this morning and it's gone too."

When breakfast was served, Richard ate several portions all by himself.

Gerard sat watching his grandson scrape his second plate of smoked fish clean before putting down his knife and fork.

"What exactly did that person give you?"

Richard wiped his hands on a napkin, retrieved the Brass Fragment from his inner pocket, and placed it on the tablecloth.

Gerard's Spirit Vision rested on it for a long time, his expression odd.

But he didn't say anything, simply pushing the fragment back.

"Grandfather, they gave me a title."

"What title?"

"A herald."

Gerard set his teacup down.

"And the obligations?"

"None."

The old man snorted through his nose.

"Then it really was too stingy to cough anything up."