Chapter 453 - 418: Gilded Rotten Fruit

Chapter 453: Chapter 418: Gilded Rotten Fruit

Vast, gray-black wings spread flat, blocking out the light from above. Nefarian arrested its descent, adjusting the angle of its wings to ride the air currents as it spiraled downward.

This was a private estate on the outskirts of the Royal Capital, Zelheim. It had no extravagant decorations, only high walls and dense vegetation—an ideal place to hide someone.

Its hooves touched down, bending only a few tufts of wild grass. It snorted, twin plumes of hot white air jetting from its nostrils.

"We’re here." Velin vaulted off his mount’s back and patted its neck.

Xiaolan remained on the horse, her body rigid. Her hands gripped the edge of the saddle so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. The swift journey itself likely wasn’t a challenge for her, but to shield her from the wind, Velin had held her in his arms for nearly the entire ride—a fact the young woman was having trouble adjusting to.

"Can’t get down?" Velin offered his hand.

Xiaolan hesitated for a moment before letting go. The instant her feet touched the ground, her knees gave way, and she pitched forward. Velin deftly caught her by the waist, steadying her.

This scene unfolded just as an old butler came rushing out.

The old gentleman, dressed in a tailcoat with his hair combed immaculately, stopped in his tracks. He adjusted his monocle, his gaze lingering for two seconds on their close embrace. He then lowered his head, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a masterfully restrained smile.

"Ahem. It seems the journey... was quite turbulent."

"Welcome to the Silent Villa, my lord Count." The butler gave a slight bow, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "My name is Sebastian. By order of His Highness the Prince, I have been awaiting Count Klein. His Highness has decreed that all resources here are at your disposal."

Velin released his hold.

Xiaolan sprang back as if shocked, retreating two steps and nearly tripping over her own heels. She bowed her head, staring at the tips of her boots, the lobes of her ears burning as red as ripe tomatoes.

"Good. Let’s skip the pleasantries." Velin started toward the house, unfastening the buttons of his greatcoat. "I need a full report on the situation in the Royal Capital, especially grain prices and the Holy Temple’s movements."

The butler followed, his leather shoes silent on the marble floor.

"The situation is dire," the butler said, his pace even. "Since the blockade of the Western Territory was established, grain from upriver can no longer get through. The black market price for flour has tripled in a month. Yesterday, three riots over food broke out in the slums of the Lower City District. Several hundred people died."

"Several hundred?" Velin asked without breaking stride. "Who was responsible?"

"The Templar Order. And... the private armies of some nobles." Sebastian sighed, quietly lighting the whale-oil lamp on the desk. "They kill commoners more readily than they would chickens. The entire Lower City District is now under lockdown. Entry is permitted, but no one can leave."

Velin sat in a high-backed chair, his fingers drumming softly on the desk.

"Besides the slaughter, they must be offering some kind of carrot," Velin said, watching the dancing flame. "The Holy Temple isn’t run by fools who only know how to swing a blade. What are they selling?"

A flicker of surprise crossed the butler’s eyes. He hadn’t expected the young lord to be so perceptive.

"Holy Water."

The butler produced a thumb-sized glass vial from his coat and placed it on the desk. It contained a pale-gold liquid that refracted the lamplight with a mesmerizing glow.

"The Holy Temple proclaims it ’God’s Grace.’ They claim if you drink it, you will feel no hunger and will be immune to plague," the butler said in a low voice. "At first, they distributed it for free in the slums. But recently... even small merchants and artisans on the brink of ruin have started paying for it."

Velin picked up the vial and swirled its contents.

The liquid was somewhat viscous, leaving oily streaks on the glass as it swirled.

’So it’s not just the lower classes. They’re already infiltrating the bankrupt merchants and artisans?’ Velin held the vial up, watching the distorted candlelight through the glass. ’Is it expensive?’

"It’s free for the poor, but they must volunteer at the church. For others..." The butler held up five fingers. "One Silver Moon per vial. And it must be personally ’blessed’ by a parish bishop. Of course, that’s still cheaper than buying food."

"Heh."

Velin gave a short, cold laugh. He tossed the vial back onto the desk, where glass met wood with a sharp CLINK.

"A screening."

"I’m sorry?" The butler asked, taken aback.

"It’s a necessary screening mechanism," Velin said, leaning back in his chair. He steepled his fingers, his eyes gleaming. "For the displaced commoners, if their faith is weak, this water is the perfect litmus test. If they drink it and become fanatics, they can be funneled into the Holy Temple’s army as the cheapest of soldiers. As for the small-time merchants and artisans, teetering on the brink of this turmoil, they’re forced to empty their coffers to buy this ’ticket of admission’ just to seek protection, binding their interests to the Holy Temple’s cause."

"And as for the truly powerful nobles and magnates..." Velin paused. "They certainly don’t lack for food. They drink it to pledge their fealty to the Empire and the Holy Temple—a public declaration of allegiance."

The Imperial Faction and the Holy Temple are playing the "Holy Water" card together. They’re trying to sift through the chaos of the Duchy, selecting useful forces and consolidating the scattered factions into their war machine.

Simple, brutal, but effective.

Velin’s fingertips traced the surface of the desk, his gaze lingering for a moment on the murky, pale-gold liquid in the vial. His original plan—to rest at the estate for the night and await the prince’s summons—was instantly discarded.

’Intelligence on paper is always one step removed from reality. I need to see for myself how far this "screening" has progressed. I need to see if those commoners Hector considers expendable can still be incited, or if they’ve already been reduced to mindless husks. If I don’t witness how this "miracle" is spreading through the slums with my own eyes, how can I ever hope to strike at the enemy’s heart?’