Chapter 275: Use Them to Death if They Can’t Be Used to Death
The news that Bishop Corleon of the Church of the Sanctuary was about to be crowned as Pope quickly spread far and wide.
In the homeland of York Territory, everyone cheered; the northern lands of York, which were under the Diocese of Rod, also hurriedly joined in the cheer. The Diocese of Adrian, however, had mixed emotions, but under the influence of Marl and Richard, most of them still raised their voices in cheer.
Outside these three dioceses, the reactions varied.
They had no energy to care about this matter. The old ones who had followed Pegiraov on the expedition had returned. Those who survived until now were people who held some power, but in their own territories, there could only be one ruler. So when these old ones came back, what awaited them was not a welcome but spears.
In such chaos, let alone the coronation of the Pope of the Church of the Sanctuary—even if Councilor Julian once again led his army to sweep across them—so long as he didn’t sweep through their lands, these people couldn’t be bothered.
However, when the seven personal guards of Pegiraov once again led their knights southward, silence fell.
When those men, emanating a murderous aura, passed through their lands, leaving behind proclamations that the Church of the Sanctuary would redraw the territories in Lord Pegiraov’s name, they hesitated at first. But then, under the maneuverings of Councilor Bevan and the spread of merchants that followed, they came to know the true standing of the Church of the Sanctuary, as well as the fact that it was the heir to Lord Pegiraov’s will.
Soon after, word spread that the war was not yet over, that an entire stretch of the Principality of Corlay was still infested with Fishmen waiting to be purged, and that endless merit awaited those who seized it. The nobles, who had been locked in battles for titles, suddenly reconciled like father and son in harmony.
What was their little plot of land compared to the vast lands of the Principality of Corlay? That land was nearly twice the size of the Principality of Ackerman. Not to mention, it bordered the coast and promised abundant fishing and hunting resources.
Moreover, many nobles of the Principality of Patlin and the Principality of Ackerman had perished, leaving behind lands that no lord yet claimed.
As for those Fishmen? The nobles sharpening their blades were only wondering how much merit a single Fishman was worth.
Having followed Pegiraov into countless battles, undefeated every time, they did not take Fishmen seriously at all.
Correspondingly, rumors once again spread—that Bishop Corleon was in fact Pegiraov’s illegitimate son.
However, on the second day after this rumor circulated, the respected Dean Oscar was found hanging upside down in nothing but his underclothes at the monastery gates, and the rumor was promptly silenced.
Further south, after Pegiraov’s army retreated, the nobles of the Principality of Ackerman, relieved to finally breathe, were terrified by the returning personal guards—those killers.
Yet these guards merely slaughtered one viscount’s territory clean, then told the others that every noble must head to York Territory to attend the coronation of the Pope of the Church of the Sanctuary. Any noble who refused had no place in Lord Pegiraov’s lands.
At first, they wanted to resist. But seeing the seven men’s expressions—like extinction awaited any who refused—they chose to go.
After all, the direct line of the Ackerman Family was already wiped out. For them, as so-called “free nobles,” finding a new lord was only natural.
As for why they had not sworn allegiance while Pegiraov was still alive?
Well, Pegiraov had never given them the chance.
Adrian Diocese, Mist Fortress.
“Agamemnon is preparing to confer lands anew.” Marl spoke to Cicero, who was busily sketching.
Without lifting his head, Cicero replied, “Mm, I know.”
Marl continued, “But Agamemnon is still just a priest.”
Still without looking up, Cicero said, “Mm, I know.”
“This matter, given his age, is a little too early.”
“But he has done well,” Cicero answered.
Marl did not press further on that subject. His eyes shifted to the drawing Cicero was making—it seemed to depict a structure floating above the ground.
“Is this floating in the air?” Marl asked.
At that, Cicero finally lifted his head, pride shining on his face. “Of course it floats. Since it is a Magic Academy, it must carry elements of magic.”
“But are you certain you can build… such a floating academy?” Marl struggled to find words.
Puzzled, Cicero asked, “I don’t know for sure, but didn’t you find a magician? Isn’t floating an entire city simple work for a magician?”
Marl fell silent, then said, “Magician Valo heard your idea and told me he was not capable. He intended to leave.”
Cicero was shocked. “But when I told him my vision, he did not object.”
“He thought you could not be reasoned with,” Marl said.
Cicero’s face fell. “Fine, it seems I miscalculated.”
“I stopped him,” Marl said. “Design something achievable—a castle perhaps, or something like a monastery.”
“That’s too ordinary,” Cicero sighed. “Can’t you find a stronger magician?”
“You mean one strong enough to pass the Baptism?” Marl asked.
Cicero fell silent. He recalled a story Aivas once told him when he was a child.
One time, Aivas awoke and encountered a mysterious revival. He then created an undead empire that nearly ruled the world.
With it, Aivas slaughtered nine-tenths of all living beings in existence.
He could have buried that mystery directly, but thought it too boring. Instead, during his brief awakening, he chose to give that being a grand funeral.
Scratching his head, Cicero said helplessly, “Fine, then I’ll make it simple.”
Muttering softly, “What’s the point of using magic only to build such an ordinary academy…”
Marl ignored him. “Since you’re here, help me decide where to build the Adrian Cathedral.”
Due to scarce manpower in Richard’s territory, Marl had not yet built a cathedral. He had been handling most affairs in Mist Fortress.
But it would have to be built sooner or later. With Cicero here, the task was handed to him.
All the Church of the Sanctuary’s great structures were designed by Cicero. The small churches too were built from his blueprints, adapted to local conditions.
So Cicero did not refuse. His crimson eyes lit up slightly as he gazed at the map, absorbing the terrain into his vision. Finally, he pointed to a location.
“The cathedral will be built here. As for the Magic Academy—here, by Lake Salvador.” Cicero even picked a site for the academy.
“Here?” Marl frowned. “This is Fishmen territory.”
The Magic Academy would be almost directly across from York Territory, with the cathedral even farther.
“Not for long. Have your Count Richard take it when the time comes,” Cicero said.
Marl narrowed his eyes, thinking of what Agamemnon was doing. “This land belongs to the Richard Family. He won’t give it up.”
“Then add it to his holdings,” Cicero said casually. “The Principality of Corlay already belongs to the Lundex Family.”
“Beyond lies the territory of the Original Sins. The cathedral’s radiance must suppress their spread. When the time is ripe, an army must be sent to root them out.”
“And magicians are dangerous in the end. They cannot be left outside the Church’s control.”
Marl slowly nodded. “If the land’s ownership is not an issue, then it’s settled.”
“Good,” Cicero said, straightening. “Now, let me meet this magician of yours. I’ll see what he can truly do.”
“Valo is only a Ritual Magician.”
“That speaks only of his magic power, not the depth of his study.”
“But he can pass the Baptism.”
Cicero stiffened, then sighed. “Fine, I see what you mean.”
Doyle Territory, Castle of Gregor Doyle.
“Priest Jeremiah, must I attend the coronation ceremony?” Earl Gregor Doyle asked nervously.
Looking weary, Jeremiah replied firmly, “Of course. Priest Agamemnon’s order was that all nobles of the Greenwood Principalities must attend. Naturally, you are included.”
Gregor had petitioned the Church of the Sanctuary to appoint Jeremiah independently and establish a Doyle Diocese. The first was approved, but the latter was rejected for lack of sufficient priests. Thus, Jeremiah remained only a priest.
Still, apart from preaching in his own villages, Jeremiah also had to regularly come to Castle Gregor to help manage affairs.
Gregor, following the advice of a departed scholar, used Jeremiah without mercy—using him to death if he couldn’t be used to death—dumping all administration upon him. If not for the sensible folk of his village, Jeremiah would have truly been worked to death.
“But I still carry the blood of the Patlin Family,” Gregor said.
“You are alive,” Jeremiah replied. “And Lord Pegiraov never decreed that all of Patlin’s bloodline must be purged. Look at Count Richard—he too was never attacked by Lord Pegiraov’s knights.”
“Richard is a mighty knight, with a great Dragon-Eagle, and mysteries within his family. I am but an ordinary knight,” Gregor admitted.
Taking a deep breath, Jeremiah said, “Then go with him. You yourself said he is your brother.”
“He is foolish,” Gregor muttered. “Still fussing with knightly oaths in his land. I fear he’ll offend the Pope and nobles, dragging me down with him.”
Jeremiah shut his eyes, breathing deeply before saying, “Think of this summons as an oath of loyalty. Only by going will you be accepted as one of their own. Refuse, and you will be their enemy.”
“You know Pegiraov’s wars are not over. If you’re seen as an enemy, the nobles will gladly trample your lands flat.”
Gregor shuddered, looking at Jeremiah pitifully.
“But if you go, you’ll be one of them. This war is not over. Vast land in Corlay still awaits, and countless Fishmen. You’ve fought stray Fishmen before—you know how weak they are. If you join the army, you’ll slay them and gain merit. In return, you’ll earn more land.”
At the word “land,” Gregor’s heart stirred, greed flickering in his eyes. But then he thought of the Fishmen and said, “Those were mere Fishman servants. The Deep Divers, stronger than knights, I’ve never met. Even Richard, riding his Dragon-Eagle, could barely kill them.”
A vein bulged visibly on Jeremiah’s forehead, his jaws clenched with an audible grind. His once-steady eyes quivered. At last, he closed them, breathing deeply to calm himself. “If you do not go, you’ll be an enemy to every noble of Greenwood. If you go, you’ll share in the whole of Corlay.”
“So—will you go, or not?”
Jeremiah bit his words out like they were forced through his teeth.
Seeing Jeremiah’s bloodshot eyes glaring at him, Gregor swallowed his excuses and admitted honestly, “I’ll go.”
Jeremiah finally exhaled long and hard.
“But am I going alone, or with my army?” Gregor asked.
Jeremiah closed his eyes in pain.