Chapter 406: The Psychometrician
The three of them, each possessing the basic refinement of nobles, soon shared a knowing laugh and tacitly fell silent, simply waiting in the secret room of this tavern for the person they had arranged to meet.
Hobert's initial proposal had naturally stirred their interest.
If Hobert truly possessed Tier Five power, then it was not entirely impossible for him to lead some of their bloodlines to break out of Greenwood.
Even in the worst case, outside the Woodlands, if their descendants could follow Hobert in securing a piece of territory and maintain their noble status, it would suffice. Perhaps, generations later, time would prove the Senate's decision correct. By then, their descendants might make the right choices.
They believed in their own lineage—a noble bloodline, unmatched by mere commoners.
And if Hobert had any strategy in mind, he could perhaps draw in Marquis Richard. After all, even if Richard was an aberration among the nobility, he was still a noble—and slated for elimination.
If they could bring together Hero-class Richard and the Church’s Hero-class Paladin Duizi, it might indeed be possible to rally the neutral nobles and seize the throne.
But then—what did Hobert say next?
Assassinate an Administrator?
What would be the point? Political policies were aggregates of interests, and any policy that emerged from the Senate implied that at least half of the Senators had approved it.
And then, to provoke the Altlinsmann Empire—and the Fishmen as well.
Both were exceedingly cruel powers.
Their goal in conspiring was survival—to preserve their bloodlines and retain noble status.
Yet those two forces? They would devour not only their flesh and blood, but their very souls.
So after returning and carefully weighing the pros and cons, they decided: rather than trust this brainless First Generation noble, Hobert, it would be better to kneel before the Senate directly. Perhaps they could even negotiate terms.
And so, they came bringing their bargaining chips.
But upon seeing the other two, the three separate chips they each held in their hearts instantly merged into one.
They suspected the others held identical chips.
Thus, the three exchanged glances and wore the restrained smiles of nobles.
Yet inwardly, they were determined: no matter if it offended Councilor Fenrir, Yorn, or Jeffrey—they would be the first to speak.
Only, when they saw that the one arriving was not their appointed councilor but Councilor Bevan, all three were momentarily stunned.
Then they heard Councilor Bevan say, "Hobert defected yesterday with his men. We've already dispatched pursuers to hunt him down."
“Also, congratulations. You’ve made the right choice.”
In the Senate chamber, among the four councilors still present in York City, all stood—except one, a withered old man who sat in Agamemnon’s seat.
His eyes, still strikingly bright, stared unblinkingly at the door, his wrinkled lips trembling unconsciously.
*Creaaak*—the door opened.
A soul-piercing light suddenly burst from the old man's eyes, momentarily dizzying Councilor Bevan, who nearly gagged.
But in the next instant, the light vanished, and the old man simply looked on with hope.
Bevan, still shaken, quickly calmed himself, putting on a smile. “Master Wilber, your predicted trajectory was flawless. The three selected individuals acted precisely as expected. Hobert has indeed gone to the Woodlands."
"He merely believed we forced him out to purge the nobility, not realizing it was because of that Sacred Relic."
"Your maneuver this time was perfect."
Bevan's praise was effusive—but well deserved.
This old scholar, after the Scholar’s Guild affairs had settled over a month ago, had approached Jeffrey, then through him, Agamemnon.
He said he was willing to use the remainder of his life to assist Agamemnon in a task—one that would prove his own worth. In return, he hoped Agamemnon would create a dedicated research line for his field within the Scholar’s Guild.
Agamemnon assigned him a single task: make Hobert, who possessed a Sacred Relic and was protected by an Evil God, head to the Woodlands.
Then, with a slight modification on the base of the Doyle Territory operations, three nobles were selected. That tiny adjustment led to Hobert, after speaking with the three, heading to the Woodlands—on his own initiative, and even as a branded traitor.
"Moreover, the three nobles are willing to cede some of their authority, allowing us to implement new policies," Bevan added, glancing at Agamemnon.
This was a bonus.
Agamemnon had just opened his mouth to reply, when a withered hand gripped his own.
Looking down, it was none other than Scholar Wilber.
His shriveled face was wide-eyed, staring at Agamemnon.
His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came.
After accepting the task, Wilber had selected three nobles from the covertly gathered movements of Greenwood’s aristocrats. Ever since, he had remained in the Senate, receiving information about those three.
Then, through bards, thieves, and assassins—he subtly influenced the information that reached them.
He had not rested during this entire time, consuming himself like a burning torch.
Two days ago, after the three met Hobert, Wilber’s flame began to die. He had sat there, waiting for the final outcome.
Agamemnon looked at him with a trace of sorrow, then gently held Wilber’s frail hand.
“You may rest easy,” he said. “You’ve proven the power of your psychological doctrine. Long ago, Scholar Rudolf attempted psychological intervention to treat corrupted Temple Warriors.
"But back then, psychology wasn’t a complete discipline—it couldn’t be applied. Now, you've proven its necessity."
"Thus, the Scholar’s Guild will establish psychology as a dedicated branch. Those who enter it will receive specialized titles, according to their abilities."
"Personally, I believe Tier Six in psychology should be called a 'Psychometrician'—and that title suits you perfectly. What do you think?"
Scholar Wilber pulled a delighted smile—like a child receiving a cherished toy.
Then his jaw began to work furiously.
Agamemnon swiftly knelt on one knee, leaned close, and signaled Yorn.
Seeing the gesture—and shocked that a noble Administrator would kneel before an old scholar—Yorn rushed over with paper and pen, dropped to his knees, and held one hand on the paper, the other poised to write.
His fawning demeanor drew expressions of disdain from the other councilors.
Agamemnon repeated the old scholar’s faint words: “Human actions are driven by the heart, but the heart follows reason. This reason comes from all one has experienced, and forms one's view of the world. Within that personal world, this reason becomes the truth of the self. Interpreting this individual truth—that is the doctrine of psychology.”
“Rudolf, that idiot, doesn’t understand a damn—uh, forget that part.”
Agamemnon looked a bit awkward. He hadn’t expected this self-immolating scholar to be so fiery in speech.
And with those final words spoken, Wilber, smiling in satisfaction, lost the strength to hold himself up and peacefully closed his eyes in Agamemnon’s Senate seat.
Agamemnon took the paper from Yorn, deliberately ignoring the line that had been crossed out, and looked to Jeffrey. “Master Wilber has proven the value of psychology. You witnessed it firsthand. I believe establishing a dedicated branch for it in the Scholar’s Guild is warranted.”
Jeffrey replied, “Absolutely. And I agree—Master Wilber deserves the title of Tier Six Psychometrician.”
Agamemnon nodded, then handed the recorded words to Jeffrey. “Until a new Psychometrician standardizes psychology, let this serve as its guiding goal.”
Jeffrey accepted it with a nod. “I’ll have it faithfully copied. And this original—I’ll personally deliver it to Bishop Claudy.”
All items of significance would be stored in the Church’s Clock Tower. Though the tower was currently closed to the public, they could entrust the original to Bishop Claudy, who would see it safely delivered.
Once all was settled, Agamemnon had Wilber’s body sent to the Church.
Whether he would be laid to rest in the Hall of Heroes or interred in the cemetery—that would be for the Church to decide.
When all was arranged, Bevan eagerly asked, “The summoned scholars and officials have arrived. With Doyle Diocese now essentially purged, shouldn’t we let them proceed?”
Agamemnon nodded in approval.
Then Jeffrey added, “And the nobles in the Woodlands? They’ve already sworn allegiance. If we continue to hold them, they might raise objections.”
Councilor Hastings laughed. “Ha! Those monkeys in the trees are having too much fun. I doubt they’d leave even if we tried to chase them out.”
His words dripped with arrogance.
Jeffrey ignored the fool. If those nobles weren’t enjoying themselves, they’d never leave—perhaps even sleep one night and never wake up.
Agamemnon said, “Let them enjoy themselves in York City for another half month. Didn’t they bring a lot of gold to trade for York Coins? They must be quite wealthy now.”
“Hastings, have your men serve them well. Best if they can spend every coin they brought in York City.”
“Of course, I’m sure they’ll be very happy to indulge here.”
Hastings laughed, “Naturally. My men are working extra hard for their promotions.”