Chapter 354: The Temptation of Entering the Hall of Heroes
In a sense, Puniel could be considered Hobert’s benefactor.
Back then, when the Mercenary Tavern began spreading beyond the York Territory, Puniel had already sensed that those who lived by the sword held no loyalty toward him.
In fact, because they could make a living without depending on him—or anyone else—they could be said to have taken the “freedom” bestowed upon the commoners by the Church to its utmost extreme.
They could choose to settle in one place or wander the land with their swords and packs, sleeping under the open sky.
When they had enough gold coins, they spent freely; when they had only a few copper pieces, they made do.
They were free men, and so they had little fondness for Puniel, who sought to bind them.
Rather than bowing to his authority, they were far more willing to acknowledge the strength of powerful mercenaries.
Thus, when Bishop Marl told him that one among the mercenaries would be promoted to nobility, he had chosen without hesitation—Hobert, the one willing to heed his word.
At that time, though the rank system had not yet been fully established, a Fourth-Tier Hobert accepting the title of mercenary was already proof of considerable ambition.
Puniel did not fear his ambition—indeed, he admired it—for ambition meant the desire to draw closer to power.
And who, at that time, could have been a better stepping stone for Hobert than Puniel, who oversaw the Mercenary Tavern?
Thus, Puniel handed him the opportunity, and Hobert, in turn, offered something back—
He helped Puniel regain firm control over the Mercenary Tavern. Even as the tavern spread throughout the Greenwood, Puniel could still barely maintain his grip upon it.
However, once the tavern’s reach extended into the Northland, granting mercenaries a true “world” of freedom, Puniel completely lost control over it.
Even so, when he decided to let go of the tavern and turn instead toward the Warrior Guild, his connection with Hobert did not entirely sever.
After all, a baron could still lend Puniel some weight within the Senate—especially a baron with real lands and plenty of able fighters under his command.
But now, Priest Agamemnon had said that Hobert had brought back a deity.
That was no small matter.
Even though the Church of the Sanctuary preached restraint with words like “Gods of the Old Testament, people of the New Testament,” the essence of it remained the same—the Church would never allow a deity to reappear in the mortal world.
In truth, they did not want the gods to return.
The appearance of a god would inevitably bring upheaval to the established order, and once the order was overturned, those who benefited from it—such as themselves—would naturally lose their power.
Therefore, if accountability were to be pursued, Puniel, who had once given Hobert the chance to rise into nobility, would not escape blame.
Not only from the Church, but also from the Senate.
Puniel himself did not fear death; in his eyes, power outweighed life. But the continuation of his family and bloodline outweighed power—and now, even those who had once been merely associated with him might face execution.
Just look at Bevan and Jeffrey—their eyes were already burning with hatred, as if they wished to kill Puniel on the spot, lest the Church’s wrath splatter upon them too.
The Old Testament Era was not that far behind. Had it not been just a few years since the day Knight Wolf slaughtered everyone in his castle save for him and Gregor?
As he aged, Puniel often dreamt of that scene at night.
“I… I… I haven’t had contact with him for a long time,” Puniel said, his voice trembling.
Though “a long time” might have meant only three or five months.
“Be at ease, Councilor Puniel. If they truly meant to hold you accountable, you wouldn’t still be sitting here,” Agamemnon said, his tone calm and reassuring.
Those words did soothe Puniel somewhat.
After all, considering the Church’s reach—and the strong-willed Bishop Marl, who had always stood by Hobert—if they truly wanted to bring him down, they would not have waited until now.
The Oath Knights would be more than happy to relieve Bishop Marl of such burdens.
Puniel finally exhaled and said, “It was my failure not to see that his ambition would reach such heights.”
“The human heart is ever-changing. Even a bishop of the Church cannot claim to see through it,” Agamemnon replied.
Just like now—Puniel’s anger from two days ago, when his power was stripped, had completely faded, replaced only by relief.
He suddenly realized that wielding great power was not always a blessing.
Julian spoke up, “Then, if the battlefield will be set in the Woodlands, that means Baron Hobert must also remain there.”
Agamemnon nodded. “Greenwood is the land protected by the Lord—the birthplace of the New Testament, the domain bathed in the Church of the Sanctuary’s glory. Therefore, the wicked gods of the Old Testament must be driven out, leaving no trace within Greenwood.”
Julian nodded slowly, then asked, “In that case, once war begins, shall we follow the laws of war—or the laws of the Church?”
Agamemnon fell silent. So did the other councilors. It was a sensitive topic, and since they deemed warfare not their responsibility, none spoke.
The laws of war were, of course, the way of the nobles: as long as victory was secured, the slaughter of innocent civilians—by the village or the town—was permissible.
But under the laws of the Church, wanton killing of civilians would be punished; too many would be judged as sinful.
At last, Agamemnon said, “Bishop Jeremiah will accompany this campaign. Certain matters can be discussed with him. Moreover, he has many friends within the Woodlands who can provide you with assistance.”
“I see…” Julian nodded.
He knew Jeremiah well—and he knew the bishop was no mere scripture-reciting cleric. Jeremiah had taken part in the Eastern Crusade and was a master of political maneuvering.
“Then, what of the scale of this war?” Julian continued. “Will it involve only the forces of York Territory, or will we summon other nobles as well? Without divine interference, even half the First Legion would suffice to level the Woodlands.”
Agamemnon replied, “You are the councilor in charge of war. Such decisions rest with you.”
Then, after a pause, a faint smile rose on Agamemnon’s face. “This will be the first war since the dawn of the New Testament Era. Perhaps your name will be remembered—perhaps you shall become one blessed by the Myriad Army. Your deeds will be recorded, and you may, through them, enter the Hall of Heroes to be eternally remembered.”
There were two kinds of Halls of Heroes. One was the place where the souls of the sung heroes went after death—the one celebrated in the songs of bard apprentices.
According to those bards, anyone whose deeds were sung could enter the Hall of Heroes, which was why they so fearlessly sought to create great stories of their own.
However, those within Agamemnon’s circle knew the truth: being sung was merely one condition. One also needed to have left behind deeds worthy of remembrance—deeds that could represent the history of humankind.
The other Hall of Heroes existed within the Church of the Sanctuary itself—its standards were never made public.
Now, for those who held power, nothing inspired greater yearning than the thought of entering that Hall after death—be it the legendary afterlife or the Church’s own sanctified hall.
Thus, upon hearing Agamemnon’s words, Julian smiled. “Then it seems this war must be won beautifully—both in appearance and in essence.”
They all knew that when Agamemnon had still been with the Church, he had been one of those messengers who carried word of who was permitted to enter the Hall of Heroes. Even now, having left the Church, his words on the matter carried weight.
The other councilors could not help but gaze upon him with envy.
——
After the Senate meeting ended, certain pieces of information—those deemed fit or necessary to be made public—began spreading through mysterious channels.
For instance, the formation of various guilds.
When the session began, many nobles had either personally come to York City or sent trusted agents to remain stationed there, all to receive the Senate’s latest decrees as soon as they emerged.
And as soon as the first announcements reached York City, the nobles were in an uproar.
Most were filled with shock and fury.
What was made public, naturally, were only matters safe to be revealed. The existence of an Assassins’ Guild, for example—one designed solely for killing—would not be among them.
Of course, in time, those who needed to know would learn of it.
But even the guilds revealed so far were enough to set the nobles ablaze with outrage.
The Senate’s meticulous planning, once implemented, would inevitably extend its reach into their territories.
And since power was a finite loaf of bread, the moment the Senate’s hand reached into their domains, a portion of that loaf would be torn away.
Thus, the nobles were furious at these policies, which stripped away their authority.
Yet fury was all they could muster—they had no means to resist.
Just as the Church could crush the Senate at will, so now could the Senate crush them.
After a round of furious cursing, they began to rethink their approach—perhaps they could still find a place within these new systems of power.
A few years prior, when the Mercenary Tavern had first eroded their control, they had taken over its branches after Puniel was forced to withdraw.
They had then discovered that beyond their own knights and warriors, even the mercenaries could be turned into swords wielded by gold.
Through this shift, they had gained even firmer control over the lower layers of power beyond their fortresses—tightening their grip while cutting down the influence of local officials and gentry.
But no matter how they schemed, the ones who would ultimately feel the impact of these new guilds were, inevitably, the common folk at the very bottom.