Chapter 337

The monastery’s renewed operation is steering the Priel Domain toward the desired direction.

Large budget expenditures have become irrigation ditches, waterwheels, and mills under construction, generating orders for agricultural and artisanal goods equal to the total of past years, along with employment opportunities insufficient to absorb all idle labor.

Some of this money flows back to the lord as taxes, replenishing his depleted treasury.

Better days lie ahead: the knightly order will likely soon begin its charitable relief work, especially by establishing the promised monastic clinic, taking full charge of social welfare, medical resources, and trade introduction.

The baron’s experience could best be described as “the Heavenly Father descended beside me”—twenty years of waiting rewarded, a return to the dreamlike era of his ancestors who simply lay back and collected money, and a smooth adoption of the path relying on the Church for family revival.

The two who felt out of place wandered for days, sensing that everyone else here was in a state of joyful fulfillment.

Women and children were busy with handicrafts, producing everyday items including, but not limited to, straw bedding, brooms, coarse cloth, and candles.

In just a few weeks, the monastery had become the economic core of this remote village: carts arriving and departing scattered coins, while the building atop the mountain—visible only in clear weather—showed no sign of saturation, continuously and indiscriminately swallowing more goods.

Each report submission and procurement chat revealed a sense of busyness. As the team’s activity range within the monastery expanded, they discovered nearly everything needed cleaning, replacement, or rearrangement; the day of order seemed distant, and no one would be freed in the short term to take over duties at the manor below.

Only two things offered slight comfort. First, their bland work reports had indeed reached Kraft’s hands, and were passed solely by Brother Raymond or Assistant Kup, with no third party involved.

The second was likely an offshoot of their rising economic status: the knightly order had inherited a portion of the former Church’s prestige—small, but enough for villagers to regard them as neutral “authorities.”

Specifically, while strolling through the village, people would approach them, requesting they intervene in local disputes as representatives of the Heavenly Father and impartial arbiters.

“Huh?!” Dominic’s reaction at the time could be summed up in a single exclamation.

What right did they have to represent the Heavenly Father in judging earthly affairs? Even bishops would hesitate before using such language.

But since the words were already spoken, the novice monks readily agreed to the request and followed the two families—each armed with clubs, tension thick in the air—to see what was happening.

They spent the entire afternoon reviewing basic geometry learned at Church school, successfully calculating the area of a ruined plot, studying a worm-eaten land deed from over twenty years ago, and ultimately persuading both sides with their primary training in Church law and doctrine: advising the party slightly advantaged to offer labor or grain compensation, then rewriting and notarizing the deed.

Yet they soon intuitively grasped a vital law—matters naturally gravitate toward those who handle them reliably.

After the land dispute, requests poured in: water allocation, loans, marital conflicts, inheritance disputes, vendor encroachment, verbal quarrels—all manner of trivialities. Life swiftly reversed from boredom to utter bewilderment.

Yet from the standpoint of their perceived divine mission and expanding influence, mediation was impossible to refuse. Kraft likely never imagined he had inadvertently dumped this responsibility on them.

Only when Field accidentally recalled and adopted Kraft’s habit of always carrying a sword did the mediation work become easier—everyone suddenly became more receptive to the teachings of tolerance and peace.

But the sword seemed to further enhance their authority, drawing even more numerous and complex requests—like this one.

“So you mean old John, with his failing eyesight, dug up horseweed on the hill and hit your ancestral grave?”

The story sounded absurd, but Dominic was no longer surprised.

“That’s just his excuse—I think he wants to desecrate the dead and sell the burial goods for copper coins to buy liquor!” The accuser waved his muscular arms, growing angrier as he spoke. Dominic recognized him: the village stonemason, somewhat respected, but clearly not important enough for the lord to bother with such nonsense.

“When did this happen?”

“Five years ago.”

Field covered his face, shielding himself from flying spittle and hiding his helpless expression.

Five years? The horseweed on the grave mound has changed generations. Even the Heavenly Father might need to consult records to recall what happened then.

But it didn’t matter—they had experience with such cases. Just use doctrine to muddy the waters. Worst case, scare old John with talk of ghosts and posthumous retribution; maybe he’ll confess himself.

Then order an apology, minor punishment, labor or grain compensation for atonement, have the Church perform a soothing ritual at the grave—and it becomes another case of mutual satisfaction, free prestige earned.

“The graveyard is a sacred resting place, under the Heavenly Father’s gaze—such crimes cannot go unpunished,” Dominic clearly thought the same, “but neither should any innocent be wronged. Take us to see old John. Let us confront him face-to-face under the Heavenly Father’s gaze.”

“But old John is already dead, and his son flatly denies the whole thing...” The accuser, finally finding someone willing to uphold justice, poured out years of complex grievances between the two families.

Mutual verbal abuse, public accusations, escalating to physical fights and bloodshed among the younger generations—countless threads, and the suspicion of grave-robbing had become almost secondary.

The two listeners already felt headaches coming; perhaps they shouldn’t have meddled in this decades-old mess.

“You must help us!” Noticing the monks’ hidden impatience, he scrambled for more reasons to make them take it seriously: “My grandfather was a faithful believer his whole life—he repaired the monastery’s walls and roof, and on his deathbed, he specifically instructed us to bury him as close to the Heavenly Father as possible.”

“Alright, alright.” With the man’s words Zhici , Dominic could only nod, grasping the calloused, stone-dusted hands and pulling him up.

“We will do our best to resolve this. But time has passed—truth may be irrecoverable. That which cannot be proven does not justify endless quarreling. The Heavenly Father teaches us forgiveness and cooperation, not endless indulgence in hatred. Your grandfather, as a devout believer, would surely agree...”

It took considerable effort to pacify the furious stonemason. The two exchanged weary smiles, beginning to miss the quiet, idle days just gone.

Even if the truth could never be uncovered, they would still have to visit that grave, long dug up and disturbed.

After showing their stance and returning, it would almost certainly be the same old mud-slinging routine—Dominic couldn’t imagine any other outcome.