Chapter 196: Traces of the Fishmen
“There's no need to keep the manufacturing methods of standard crossbows and bolts a secret,” Corleon said. “The special production methods that come later, however, must be kept confidential.”
It was the same as with the trebuchet.
Oscar nodded. “Alright, I’ll sell them later to those in need.”
At present, under the Church’s influence, the value of gold coins in the York Territory was gradually stabilizing, restoring currency to its intended role of facilitating the flow of goods. As a result, money was becoming increasingly valuable.
Similarly, the Church needed to reclaim the gold coins that the local gentry had hoarded in their cellars during the chaotic times—suspected to be far too many.
The means of reclaiming them, naturally, was through the monastery producing items that looked impressive yet had no relation to basic production.
The devout local gentry felt that anything developed by the monastery was naturally worth the price, so they brought out the gold coins hidden in their cellars.
After all, if they didn’t hand them over, perhaps one day the Church would claim that werewolves had infiltrated their manor.
“Doesn’t it seem strange that the Bishop has been keeping his eyes closed all this time?” Oscar continued, looking at Corleon’s still-shut eyes.
“I could make you a magical item that blocks it out. That woman, Terry, recently produced a kind of thread that can be made into soft, light gauze. Even when worn, it wouldn’t block vision. I could use that as the material.”
Corleon didn’t answer. He simply opened his eyes and glanced at Oscar.
When Oscar regained awareness, Corleon was already gone.
He could feel that same sense of a time lapse as before. On the wall of the Clock Tower before him, faint golden traces were slowly fading away. Even those lingering remnants made Oscar feel slightly dizzy just by looking at them.
“Well, it seems this material still won’t do,” Oscar sighed. But his eyes showed no disappointment—only eager anticipation.
…
Leo and Vito slept for two days and nights in the Glory Fortress before waking.
Their time in Holy Land Town had worn them out.
When they awoke, their armor had already been delivered.
Wearing the gleaming armor, the two finally stepped out of the Glory Fortress and wandered through the Church of the Sanctuary’s station, which now covered an area larger than a small village.
Here, everyone who saw them gave them looks of deep reverence.
After committing the now greatly transformed Church to memory, they went to the monastery. There, upon seeing the first draft of the story Oscar had written about them while they were resting, their expressions could only be described as shock—certainly not satisfaction.
Was that supposed to be them?
Three meters tall, able to uproot deep-rooted trees with both hands, crush a werewolf’s skull with one punch; the two of them spending a single night with seven women, all of whom ended up pregnant, and giving birth after only a single day.
The children, upon birth, could already run and jump; on the second day, they could wield swords and powerful crossbows; on the third day, they could fight werewolves; on the fourth day, they hunted down ten werewolves alone; and by the fifth day, they had driven the werewolves from their strongholds.
Oscar insisted that it had to be written this way—that commoners preferred such stories, and they would spread better.
Wasn’t this the Lord’s miracle? And was it not precisely because of the Lord’s miracle that they had survived and protected so many people?
Since it was a miracle, he had merely done a bit of literary embellishment.
Leo and Vito, not being men of many words, had no response to this reasoning.
So, they decided to reason with Oscar using their fists.
Although Oscar had been conferred knighthood, it was only as an Honorary Knight. His own combat ability was just barely comparable to that of a knight, and as for magic, he disdained the trivial tricks like conjuring fireballs. The small defensive items he carried could not withstand a knight’s attacks.
This was the library, not his residence, so he hadn’t fortified it into a defensive position.
Thus, wearing the Dean’s robe, Oscar was soundly convinced by the fists of two full-plated Guardian Knights.
After that, they stayed in the monastery for five days—until the story Oscar wrote fully aligned with their actual experiences—before they were satisfied to leave.
They made sure to include Flint’s story as well, in gratitude for his help. Regardless of personal opinions, it was thanks to Flint that they had been able to protect so many people.
Flint’s tale also served to warn everyone who read their story.
Although Oscar judged it dull and flavorless, it was still sent, according to Corleon’s instructions, to the second floor of the Clock Tower. Copies were made by the apprentices of the monastery and spread around.
After resolving the matter with Oscar, they visited the Castlelot Market. There, the people’s gazes held not just reverence but also awe—and fear.
Uncomfortable with this, after being used to interacting with the people of Holy Land Town, they decided to head the next day to the village established by the refugees from Holy Land Town.
This village was named Odo Village, which made the two of them somewhat embarrassed.
However, upon arrival, they found the villagers tense.
The cause of the tension was a humanoid creature with fish-like features, tangled in fishing nets and hung up.
A fishman. And from its appearance, the two instantly knew it was one of the fishmen ravaging the Principality of Corlay.
“Knight Leo, Knight Vito,” Borien, standing before the net, greeted them.
He had removed his armor, and water still dripped from his body.
“Today, the Bishop ordered me here to capture this fishman. If I hadn’t reacted quickly, it might have escaped,” Knight Borien said.
Odo Village had been established by Lake Salvador. Apprentices of the monastery had instructed the villagers to set up fisheries for catching and processing fish.
Today was their first time fishing, but instead of fish, their net had pulled up a fishman.
This one was only waist-high, its body covered with fine, grey scales marked with smooth lines. Fins grew along its back and joints, its human-like arms and legs were strong, and its wide mouth, like a frog’s, was lined with fine, sharp teeth. It had two sets of eyelids—an outer lid like a human’s, and a thin membrane underneath to protect its eyes. One eye was intact, round, and staring, while the other seemed gouged out, with blood flowing from the socket.
What stood out was that, among the grey, its body was mottled with flame-like crimson-gold spots, the color of burning fire.
“This one bit through the fishing net and even attacked people,” Borien said. “The fishermen beat it and gouged its eye. If I hadn’t arrived in time to stop them, they’d have dragged it ashore and hacked it to death.”
“But the cunning thing jumped into the water while I was calling to the fishermen, trying to escape.”
“My task was to capture it. There was no way I’d let it get away, so I removed my armor and caught it in the water.”
“Fortunately, it had a broken leg and arm from the fishermen’s beating—it couldn’t get far.”
Borien scooped a dipper of water from a nearby barrel and poured it over the fishman.
Like cold water on hot iron, it hissed, releasing white steam.
“A strange fishman,” Borien remarked. “Without water, it would die of thirst, but if thrown into the water, it would drown.”
“Is this from the Principality of Corlay?” Vito asked.
“Yes. I’ve heard that Corlay fishmen are marked with flame-like crimson-gold spots,” Borien nodded. “But this one is only a fishman servant, the lowest caste of their kind. It can’t even communicate—likely just a scout.”
Fishman servants, by the monastery’s ranking, were beneath even first-tier commoners.
They bred rapidly, were the most numerous, and served as the fishmen’s vanguard—sent to test whether the path ahead was safe.
They were also considered emergency rations when food was scarce in fishman society.
Leo and Vito frowned. These were the fishmen capable of toppling the Principality of Corlay. If they crossed Lake Salvador to invade York Territory, it would be serious trouble.
Usually, where the servants went, the fishman army followed.
They voiced their concerns.
“That’s why I need to bring this fishman back to the Senate,” Borien said. “If you two knights have no other plans, please stay here and protect them.”
“No matter how the Senate reacts, tomorrow I’ll request the Bishop to station the Honorary Knights Order here.”
Leo and Vito naturally agreed, and Borien simply slung the net over his horse and dragged the fishman away.
…
Morning Star had set, and the three members of the Senate looked grim.
They had seen the fishman Borien brought back.
“If only the Rat Path were still around,” Bevan sighed.
Without the Rat Path, their channels for gathering outside information were cut off.
The Church—or rather, the Bishop—seemed to have better sources, but the Church was always so cryptic, leaving those used to gathering and controlling information uneasy.
“Enough, Bevan. Talking about it now won’t help. We need to think of a response,” Jeffrey interrupted.
They all knew why the Rat Path had left York Territory, and so did others. The Church seemed unconcerned about anyone knowing, but as nobles, they were accustomed to caution.
“How are we supposed to respond? That’s an entire principality we’re talking about,” Bevan said. “Under the fishman invasion, only the Corlay Family’s marquisate still barely holds on. We’re just a viscountcy—how can we resist them?”
“Even with the Church holding Mysteries and Holy Relics, the Principality of Corlay had more than ten Holy Relics, and it was still overrun.”
Bevan’s words silenced Jeffrey.
Last year, the dark creatures of the Northwind Mountains had nearly wiped out the three of them. Now, although the entire York Territory—including their three fiefs—stood together, the enemy was no longer dark creatures, but fishmen.