Chapter 427: The Baron and the Clown
Of course, long ago, this man’s name should have been Belair Burke.
The Church of the Sanctuary had four phases in how it handled nobles.
The first phase was during the time of Puniel and the other two, when the Church mostly opted to restrain, control, and then accept them as dogs.
The second phase came after the Church’s authority and strength had stabilized a bit, during which it began directly judging and sentencing nobles who were clearly hostile to it.
This period began after the Senate system stabilized, but before the Eastern Crusade.
At that time, the Church’s influence only extended to a limited region, so it didn’t need many nobles to help manage things. Thus, when nobles acted in ways that displeased the Church, the Church handled matters rather roughly.
Naturally, almost no nobles at that time were capable of satisfying the Church.
This method of handling also served as a warning to the likes of Puniel and his group.
The third phase began after the launch of the Eastern Crusade. Politically, it marked the point when the Church, which had only governed a few viscountcies and marquisates, suddenly assumed nominal control over the entirety of Greenwood.
But the Church lacked sufficient personnel. Priests were slow to train, and the monastery apprentices were still caught between the old and new orders, not yet fit to assume responsibility. So during that time, it had to select a group of obedient nobles to serve as extensions of its power and help manage Greenwood.
Now, however, the Church had entered the fourth phase—eliminating nobles who had become disobedient or had never been particularly obedient to begin with, and openly demonstrating its intent to weaken the nobility’s power.
The new crop of officials trained by the monastery, along with the merchants who had been rallying together through trade over the years, were now more than enough to diminish the influence of the nobles in Greenwood’s administration.
They were no longer essential.
The only reason the nobles weren’t completely wiped out was because the newly supported officials were not much better.
In fact, compared to nobles who viewed their fiefs as private property, these officials—when they went mad—could act even more ruthlessly.
Thus, a portion of the nobility was still needed to act as a counterbalance to the officials.
Of course, beginning with the third phase, the Church had officially handed over authority to the Senate, although everyone knew that the Senate merely executed the Church’s will.
To this, Agamemnon claimed that it was all simply his personal perspective and had nothing to do with the Church.
Though admittedly, even his thoughts had been subconsciously shaped by the Church’s ideology.
In truth, the division of power had already begun in the third phase. And when Agamemnon emerged from the Church, it signaled that the split was complete, and that the Church could proceed to the fourth phase of dealing with the nobles.
Administration and governance were delegated to the Senate, while oversight and faith remained with the Church.
Yet in reality, the bishops all quietly retained considerable political power.
This was something everyone knew, but the Church never openly admitted.
Those below would gossip that the Church was just making trouble for itself out of boredom.
But both Agamemnon and the bishops understood that this was merely to maintain the appearance that the Church did not interfere in politics.
Their eyes had long been set on the future, unlike the others who squabbled over short-term interests.
Even the new bishops now had political influence but no real political power.
He had been dealt with in the second phase.
And because his punishment was partly meant to serve as a warning to Puniel and the others, this baron had suffered terribly in the hospital.
Those books on the difference between nobles and commoners—many of which Agamemnon had once banned—had content that mostly originated from this baron.
These included, but were not limited to, comparisons and experimental data on differences in reproductive organs, reproductive methods, organ structures, muscle density, blood concentration, and more.
There were also theories, not formally recorded in books, on the distinctions between noble souls and commoner souls—things more aligned with the domain of magic.
Yet even with such treatment, this baron was never stripped of his title.
He remained an independent baron.
It was only because of the events of that time, and the lack of any news since his entry into the hospital, that his title had been largely forgotten.
Naturally, as someone who had held the highest authority during both the Church and Senate eras, Agamemnon knew that this deliberate concealment was part of a secret experiment carried out by Scholar Caleb of the monastery.
Once a noble’s identity was forgotten, with no one left to affirm or acknowledge it, could he still be considered a noble?
Though Scholar Caleb had long since passed into the Hall of Heroes, perhaps forgetting the experiment, Agamemnon now had an answer for him:
When a noble’s identity was no longer recognized by others, he naturally ceased to be a noble.
The man who had abandoned the Burke family name and taken the name Caspunk, Belair, now worked as a clown.
He was a subordinate of Councilor Hastings, in the Thieves’ Guild, holding the Second Rank of Clown within its hierarchy.
He seemed to have completely forgotten his former noble identity, becoming a wretched performer for officials, gentry, and merchants in exchange for a few meager gold coins.
Noble gatherings still preferred bards, as they symbolized the prestige of their class. Clown Belair did not qualify to perform at their banquets.
Yet in one of his submitted reports, Agamemnon saw traces of defiance.
Compared to the brief summaries from others, Belair’s report was incredibly detailed. He recorded not only what the nobles said, but also the scenes, their expressions, identities, and social positions at the banquet.
And he even added his own speculations.
Whether those speculations were accurate, Agamemnon made no comment. But the yearning for restored power within them was unmistakably clear.
It appeared this former noble had come to understand that utility outweighed bloodline.
This was Belair’s effort to demonstrate his usefulness to Agamemnon.
Power stemmed from force, and the flow of power came from information.
Having once been a noble, Belair—now completely stripped of noble pride—was able to arrive at this theory by thinking from a practical, survivalist standpoint.
Although this theory had been written in books by Scholar Caleb long ago and read by many nobles—
Reading it and truly understanding it were two different things.
Having now understood it, and having been taken in by Councilor Hastings, Belair realized that the information he gathered would undoubtedly be passed to higher authorities.
And those authorities might not just be Hastings’s appointees—but Hastings himself, or someone even more powerful.
Thus, Belair sought to seize the opportunity.
And Agamemnon could tell him: he had indeed seized it.
At the very least, his performance had caused Agamemnon to remember him.
“‘Let that clown come see me. Of course, he is still a noble with a baron’s title, so treat him with the proper respect,’” said Agamemnon.
No one else was present in his study. No one responded.
But before the sun had set, Belair was secretly brought to Agamemnon’s residence.
Though he wore his cleanest outfit and stood as straight as he could, the tumors on his leg, the uneven shoulders, the crooked mouth, and mismatched eyes—all remnants from the hospital—still gave him a strong clownish air.
In a sense, this former baron had succeeded in the clown profession.
After all, few people could look at him without laughing.
Even Agamemnon couldn’t help but chuckle.
Belair, face flushed with shame, straightened his back even more—only to look even more absurd.
“‘If you truly are this foolish, then perhaps there’s no need for us to continue talking,’” Agamemnon said suddenly, cutting off his laughter.
Belair froze, hesitated for a moment, then made up his mind. He stopped hiding behind his grotesque posture and relaxed slightly.
He still had the crooked body, but something was now different—something in his eyes, in the aura he exuded.
Agamemnon nodded in satisfaction. “‘It seems you’ve learned quite a bit over these years.’”
Belair’s voice was raspy as he replied, “‘This is the New Testament Era. If one doesn’t learn what belongs to this new age, how can they survive?’”
His voice was like rough beast hides rubbing together—grating and harsh.
A lingering effect from an experiment he contributed to back in the hospital.
Agamemnon looked even more pleased. “‘But this truth you speak of—many people still don’t understand it. Even those scholars, who are toasted by nobles after a few cups of honey wine, boldly share this truth—and yet, some still fail to grasp the changing times.’”
“‘If it were just the nobles and gentry longing for the old days, I could understand. But even the officials and merchants yearn for that era, and that confuses me. Tell me, Mister Belair—why is that?’”
Belair’s spirits lifted. He knew this was his moment—the moment that would determine whether he could live a more dignified life.
And this was the very opportunity he had dreamed of when he accepted Hastings’s recruitment—an audience with someone powerful.
He had prepared extensively for such a moment, anticipating numerous questions and crafting many answers.
And he had already anticipated this particular one from Agamemnon.
If one laid out everything the Church—or rather the Senate—had done throughout its reign, one could deduce what the Senate wanted.
And this man before him was a Senate Chancellor. His attitude represented that of the Senate.
So before answering, Belair had to understand: was this a sign the Senate was preparing to act against the officials and merchants?
Why would the Senate want to deal with officials and merchants? The same reason it had dealt with nobles.
Once officials and merchants were equated with nobles, the answer became clear.
“‘Because they desire power,’” Belair answered.
The answer was simple. Too simple.
Agamemnon’s expression revealed dissatisfaction. “‘Only because they want power?’”
But seeing that Agamemnon didn’t interrupt him, Belair felt relieved. He had passed the threshold. Now it was time to prove his value.
After a moment’s thought, he began again: “‘The desire for power—or rather, the urge to climb upward—is something that exists in everyone. These people have no faith. Their hearts are hollow. But those beneath them drive them to climb, for survival and the resources it requires.’”
“‘The higher they climb, the more resources they can access. This earns them the loyalty of those beneath them, who gather around them, become their strength, and grant them respect. And they want to maintain that respect—and earn even more.’”
“‘One could summarize it as a lust for power, but it’s also instinct—not a conscious desire, but the only thought they have.’”
“‘They lack faith, and this absence has been replaced by the ideology of power-lust. This governs all their actions.’”
“‘In theory, one could say they have already fallen into Original Sin.’”
Agamemnon’s expression grew darker. “‘You’re saying they’ve already committed Original Sin?’”
Belair felt his heart pounding, threatening to tear open the scar on his chest that had been there for four or five years. That faint pain helped him stay alert.
Agamemnon’s look told him—these officials and merchants were still useful. Now was not the time to eliminate them. So offering Original Sin as their motive was inappropriate.
He quickly changed tack.
“‘That’s only in theory. In practice, it’s not right to say they’ve committed Original Sin. Their motive is simply to live better lives—to be more respected.’”
“‘But for those who already have their basic needs met, living better means acquiring power. Power lets them control people, and people are wealth. The more people they can control, the more wealth they command—and with more wealth comes more respect.’”
“‘In the old days, gentry treated their lords this way. Once they had enough security, they sought to steal wealth from their lords. And that wealth became their power. It’s instinctual for them.’”
“‘In fact, it’s instinctual for everyone.’”
His words were deeply compelling.
Because he had lived them.
After a brief pause, Belair continued:
“‘Now these officials and merchants are doing the same. And because the Senate isn’t like the nobles of the Old Testament Era, their attempts to seize its power are even more obvious and direct.’”
“‘Because, theoretically, the power wielded by the Senate comes from the King. But the King is absent. So that power should be free, available to any citizen to seize—that’s the King’s promise.’”