Chapter 583: The Bishop Tripped the Knight

As a demon lord who understood human nature intimately, Luo Yan was utterly clear about one thing.

That shareholders' passion for a company always surpassed that of a CEO clocking out at five.

For instance, in the not-so-distant Twilight Province, there was a ready example to reference.

The same person, sitting on the same chair, doing nearly the same thing, displayed utterly different levels of enthusiasm.

Just as Duke Edward took his first step toward toppling Theoden's crown, the future Speaker of the Twilight Province also dropped his first move with great ambition.

In the central cathedral of Dusk City, the air was unusually cold.

Even though the sun blazed outside, the thick stone walls and stained-glass windows filtered the brilliant light into only dim, faint shadows.

Since Jimenez had used the "Judgment Cross" on Eileen, devout believers had unconsciously avoided this place.

They preferred to travel farther to pray rather than risk attracting the attention of the Inquisition.

But today was an exception.

The Viceroy, who had always been invisible in Dusk City, had unexpectedly come here—and deliberately provoked the infamous Inquisition.

In the cathedral's prayer chamber, the heavy oak door was tightly shut.

The candle flames on the brass candelabra flickered; the air was thick with the scent of burning sage, so holy it was suffocating.

Baron Alaric, Viceroy of the Twilight Province, stood in the shadow of the marble pillars.

His expression was grave; he cradled a filthy object wrapped in black velvet as if it were a demon's severed arm.

Opposite him sat a high-ranking figure from the Holy City: Inquisitor-General Jimenez.

Behind Jimenez, several theologians sat rigidly upright, their priestly robes radiating quiet dignity in the candlelight.

"... This is the enemy we must confront, revered Inquisitor-General."

Alaric spoke in a low voice, then slowly peeled back the velvet, revealing the handwritten manuscript beneath.

The pages curled and blackened at the edges; the cover was stained with dried blood and greasy smudges, reeking of the damp rot unique to dungeons.

As if soaked in filth.

"This was found last night after the prison riot, hidden in the slats of a death row inmate's bed."

Alaric pried open the cover with his fingertip, his voice dripping with revulsion to distance himself from it.

"The prisoner was illiterate, yet he could recite every sentence, every word of this book fluently—and even taught it to other inmates... I reasonably suspect the New Covenant's infiltration has spread beyond the countryside and reached literate citizens!"

Rumors about the New Covenant had already spread like plague through the sewers of the Holy City.

Yet for Jimenez, a high-ranking judge, this was the first time he had seen an actual physical copy.

Jimenez leaned forward slightly, his gaze as sharp as a hawk's. He stared at the filthy pages, searching for clues.

"It seems the witch's servants don't hold their witch in high regard," chuckled an elderly theologian, his eyes laced with contempt. "They've dirtied her holy book so badly—did the prisoner run out of straw for wiping his ass?"

It was clear he was trying hard to be funny. But the joke was stiff—only the words, no humor.

Alaric nodded.

"Yes, those rabble are exactly like that. But I must say, the content still sends chills down my spine."

"Oh?" Jimenez studied the baron with amusement. "Where exactly?"

Alaric cleared his throat lightly.

"... I dare not defile your eyes with these words. Permit me to recite for you the poison flowing beneath our province."

Jimenez gave a slight nod.

"Read."

Alaric had been waiting for those words.

Opening the filthy manuscript, he cleared his throat and, within this sacred chamber connected to divine will, recited the blasphemous passages aloud.

"The Saintess said: the voice of the divine... does not need gilded pipes."

Alaric's voice echoed through the empty prayer chamber; the first sentence was as sacrilegious as a severed head axe landing on the neck.

The theologians' expressions froze instantly; audible gasps filled the air. Even the elderly scholar who had sneered moments before turned pale, as if struck with internal injury.

Alaric appeared oblivious to the storm behind him, glancing cautiously at Inquisitor-General Jimenez.

Seeing the Inquisitor-General nod, he continued reading the carefully selected passages.

"... It resonates directly within the heart of every sufferer; all may hear His divine decree, for all are children of the divine, all may follow His will."

"That's not the most blasphemous—there's this: 'You must be children of Holy Light, not slaves to shepherds!'"

There were more blasphemous lines, but he chose only those most likely to enrage the priests.

Alaric knew he was risking his life—he had a thirty percent chance of leaving this chamber alive, and a thirty percent chance of making the Inquisitor-General recognize the true threat.

He believed the Inquisitor-General was no cowardly fool who would vent his rage on the messenger.

Deathly silence enveloped the prayer chamber, broken only by the crackling of candles.

This was a naked denial!

Denial of the Church's holiness, denial of clerical privilege, even equating the supreme Papacy with shepherds enslaving believers!

In the Holy Scripture, the shepherd's role was clearly one of guidance!

The pampered theologians present felt unprecedented offense—and fear rising from the depths of their souls.

"Absurd! This is utterly absurd!"

An elderly theologian leapt to his feet, trembling finger pointing at the book in Alaric's hands, his beard shaking with rage.

"If we accept this madness, what becomes of the thousand-year order of the Holy Sis Church?"

"If a thief claims he heard the divine voice and steals, if a bandit robs in the name of God, if a butcher kills in the name of God—then is our Holy Light still holy? This turns sacred faith into a weapon in the hands of bandits!"

This argument held no flaw—the Inquisition hadn't burned the most witches, nor had it killed the most peasants.

After all, the Inquisition killed only those on a list—numbers that could be counted.

But the Greenwood Army? They killed without count. Who lived, who died—entirely up to whim, no rules, no restraint.

Facing this thunderous rebuke, Alaric showed no panic—because the spittle wasn't landing on him.

He slammed the blasphemous book shut with a dull thud, then wore an expression more sorrowful than any priest's as he declared sharply:

"You are absolutely right, my lord! That is precisely my point!"

His brow furrowed, fists clenched.

"What an abomination! When I first read these words, my revulsion surpassed even the stench of a rotting corpse. This isn't mere rebellion—it's shaking the very foundation of our faith!"

The theologians, who had prepared volumes of scripture to refute the Viceroy, were stunned. Their fury lost its target; for a long moment, all they could manage was: "Well said!"

Among these unevolved savages... there were a few who understood.

Yet these theologians from the Holy City did not know that the blasphemous manuscript before them had been written by a clever hand.

A village girl from the fields had no skill to write such a book.

Had she not been driven to prostitution by men claiming to wield Holy Light, clinging to her last shred of purity and devotion, she would never have met the "Son of God" on that snowy night, nor become the "Saintess" by accident.

In essence, she was no different from a certain stable hand.

But Alaric was different—he was a genuine nobleman; writing such correct yet useless nonsense was as easy for him as breathing.

All he needed was to expand on the central idea of "everyone is a priest," and he could blaspheme however he pleased.

The Inquisitor-General Jimenez, silent until now, finally moved.

He slowly lifted his head; his previously expressionless face now dark as iron, his hawk-like eyes glinting with unpredictable coldness.

This was no longer just a few peasants causing trouble—it was a plague spreading, eroding the legitimacy of the Papacy itself.

He even suspected demonic forces were behind it.

After all, Chaos bred madmen; even the cunning Veil of Deceit rarely wove such intricate conspiracies.

Alaric sharply caught the killing intent in Jimenez's eyes.

He knew the moment had come.

He stepped forward two paces and gently placed the filthy New Covenant on the pristine walnut table before Jimenez.

"Inquisitor-General."

Alaric's voice lowered, filled with sincere earnestness: "Our enemy is truly shameless—and that is precisely why the Lionheart Knights' heavy cavalry tire themselves in the mud yet never catch the rebels."

Jimenez lifted his eyelids, coldly studying the Viceroy known for his pragmatism: "What are you suggesting, Baron Alaric?"

"I say our knights are too merciful! The New Covenant's corruption is a plague—and it doesn't attack our flesh, but our souls! Swords cannot heal soul-wounds; only a far more potent medicine can eradicate it!"

Alaric's finger pressed against the manuscript, his gaze toward the Inquisitor-General as earnest as ever. Yet beneath that genuine piety lay a faint, almost imperceptible chill.

"Inquisitor-General, this is the problem. I do not wish to criticize my sovereign, but his knights have proven utterly incompetent in this matter... they have not even grasped the severity."

This struck a chord with Jimenez.

His own thoughts were even more radical than Alaric's—not only the knights, but the king behind them were incompetent.

It was Theoden de Valu who was too weak.

Of course, from Theoden's own perspective, using the Inquisition to eliminate rivals was understandable.

But he had likely forgotten his own role.

The divine had granted him the crown not merely as a reward to the de Valu family, but also as a sacred duty—or obligation.

They were meant to guard the Holy Land of the Old Continent for the Holy Sis Church, preventing Chaos, Hell, and other heresies from invading.

He had gone too far!

And the Lionheart Knights under Hagemore were equally foolish—especially that "Radiant Knight."

Their eyes had always been fixed on the southern Campbell Duchy, obsessed with geopolitics and the king's territorial gains, yet blind to the maggots right before their eyes. Their loyalty bordered on stupidity.

So what if they killed a few Leins?

Shouldn't those who sold their souls to Chaos be dead?

Looking at the only awake man—Baron Alaric—Jimenez's rigid, expressionless face finally broke into a long-absent smile.

"On this mist-shrouded land, you appear to be the only clear-headed shepherd, Baron."

Jimenez's voice was light, like a feather falling to the ground.

He rose from his chair, circled the hu taomu desk, and approached the breathless Alaric, speaking in a voice barely above a whisper.

"The Tribunal never refuses to hear the voices of pious subjects. Since you have identified the root of the problem… what ideas do you have?"

The fish has taken the bait.

Suppressing his excitement and fear, Alaric swallowed hard, like a thief stealing in the name of the divine.

"In fact… I do have a sound proposal. To ease the Tribunal's burden and restore normalcy to the Dusk Province as soon as possible, I and several other pious nobles have formed an organization called the Holy Light Council."

"Oh?" Jimenez smiled. "Tell me—what do you discuss in your meetings?"

"Of course—how to capture that wicked witch!"

Alaric's tone was humble yet brimming with rage, as if Karren had harmed his own family.

"It's not that I distrust the King's army—those noble knights only know how to charge headlong. But our enemy won't foolishly line up before us. They hide among us, in the slums where knightly lords dare not tread… Only we know how to deal with these country bumpkins."

Jimenez nodded.

"You make sense. Anything else?"

"Of course there is!"

Watching the unflinching Inquisitor-General, Alaric swiftly cast his next sweet bait, his voice earnest and eager.

"The Holy Light Council pledges to be the Tribunal's most loyal hound! Our conscripts have walked every inch of this land; they know every sheep path and will ensure those bandits from the depths of Wanren Mountains never find footing here!"

"Moreover, we promise that all heretical texts and forbidden ritual artifacts seized during operations will be surrendered to you without delay!"

Jimenez's eyelid twitched.

If he had merely found the earlier claims reasonable, this statement truly stirred him.

The Dusk Province was turning into a quagmire, and the mud, already up to his calves, was about to flood his boots.

If this so-called Holy Light Council could resolve his immediate troubles, why not let them try?

This was not merely for his own sake, but for the Church's interest.

The Tribunal will one day leave.

Rather than let the King cling to land he cannot control, only to unleash greater chaos after we depart, why not let this local noble take a chance?

"Then, what do you need?" the Inquisitor-General said softly.

"Efficiency! My lord, I need absolute efficiency for this holy campaign!"

Alaric pulled from his robe a pre-drafted scroll, its dense clauses culminating in one core demand—

"Emergency Administrative Authority!"

The Inquisitor-General would not strip the King of his title in the Dusk Province, but he could lend his own privileges to the Holy Light Council.

Wherever the Tribunal goes, local lords must obey its commands!

Not just the army.

This includes governance rights!

The Tribunal normally avoids direct interference in local affairs—after all, they cannot and have no obligation to bring imperial bureaucrats here to do the work.

Alaric had bundled every power he could imagine: requisitioning supplies, appointing officials, establishing checkpoints—all of it.

Of course, he did not expose his ambition too plainly; he masked it with carefully woven justifications.

"The holy Church focuses on saving the Lord's children; the King's army ought to be tended by the King's own servants—such as ourselves, the nobility."

"The Holy Light Council will ensure the troops are fed and handle the mundane logistics."

"Beyond that, I require a command blade to bypass the sluggish royal bureaucrats. And when necessary, I shall act in your name to issue direct orders to the Lionheart Knights stationed in the Dusk Province, lest General Haigemo's passivity delay your holy purge of heretics."

A brief silence fell over the prayer chamber, then murmurs spread.

The theologians exchanged glances and opinions. Some thought the Viceroy's words made sense; others felt it was inappropriate.

Jimenez took the scroll, scanned its clauses—each capable of hollowing out the entire province's administration—and a faint smile curled his lips.

Interesting.

The Council borrowing governance authority from the Tribunal—this Viceroy's ambition runs deep. But does he fear the King's retribution afterward?

He saw Alaric's intent clearly: this greedy Viceroy wished to use the Tribunal's blade to cut the King's flesh.