Chapter 618: There Are Things More Terrifying Than Humans

In mid-June, the morning sun in Roland City carried a damp coolness, unlike the sweltering heat of noon.

Beneath the majestic dome of Saint Roland Cathedral, the air hung thick with the scent of aged incense and melted candle wax.

This was a sacred place of stillness, its grandeur no less impressive than Saint Clement Cathedral, yet even so, the Empire had never given it a second glance.

A thousand years ago, the people of the Empire and the Lyans were indistinguishable; indeed, during the Isaac Dynasty, the Lyans were even more civilized, and the sewers of Lei Ming City were built during that era.

But for some unknown reason, the Lyans became barbarians of the Os Continent, and the Holy Light gradually neglected this land.

Prayer Hall.

King Theoden sat alone on an unremarkable bench, resembling an ordinary old man seeking redemption.

In his hand, he held no scepter, but idly turned a gold coin, his thumb rubbing the worn engravings as if sorting through his thoughts.

Beside him, a monk clad in coarse linen bowed his head, slowly wiping dust from the candlestick with a gray-black cloth.

His movements were slow and gentle, like a servant attending to the gods—but the words he spoke revealed the darkest secrets of the kingdom.

His name was Ma Lusi, the sharpest dagger beneath the king's robe, and leader of the "Gravekeepers."

"I hear the south has been lively lately."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The monk wiping the candlestick spoke softly, his voice like the rustle of a robe brushing stone steps.

"The Campbell Duchy is constructing something new called a 'railway'—two parallel iron tracks, upon which runs a steel beast that belches white smoke. Its speed is less than a warhorse, but it endures, crossing mountains and valleys as if walking on flat ground, transporting as much cargo as several flat-bottomed barges at once."

The gold coin in Theoden's hand stopped turning.

He tilted his head slightly, a flicker of surprise passing through his cloudy pupils, quickly replaced by a wry, cold chuckle.

"My old friend's children always come up with these novel little toys…"

Ma Lusi said softly.

"They say it's no little toy—he's cut the travel time from Lei Ming City to Granston Castle to one-fifth of what it once was… even less."

"How far have they built?"

"To Granston Castle."

"The Derek family's territory, then."

"Yes."

The monk paused his wiping, turned to face the revered king, and continued in a calm voice.

"They've completed the north-south railway. According to their plan, the next step is to extend the line northeast—toward the Spinoir Earldom, or even further east into uncharted lands."

"Spinoir…"

Theoden murmured the name, his expression thoughtful.

"If I recall correctly, that area borders the Wan Ren Mountains—the back garden of certain… unsavory things?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Ma Lusi nodded, speaking in a hushed tone. "East of Spinoir lies untamed wilderness; north lies the territory of the Rot Clan. Though the twilight province's rituals have thinned their numbers, many still remain."

The Rot Clan.

Chewing on the familiar name, Theoden fell into thought, his aged index finger lightly rubbing the arm of the bench.

They were rat-like humanoids dwelling underground and in shadows—greedy, filthy, and perpetually starving.

These little creatures infested the kingdom's borders like plague; compared to them, goblins seemed almost gentle… they were every lord's nightmare.

But they were not the king's nightmare.

On the contrary, they served as the king's gardeners, consuming the rotting leaves that fell upon his estate and pruning away the useless wastes that drained the kingdom's resources without producing anything of value.

They also balanced the southern Campbells, preventing them from securing mineral resources from the Wan Ren Mountains or forming excessive ties with the Dwarf Mountain Kingdom.

That's why the Lionheart Knights could annihilate them in an instant—and yet choose not to.

As for supply difficulties, their height making tunnels impassable, or concerns over relations with the dwarves—those were merely excuses old Lyan peasants told themselves. If humans wanted to fight ratmen, the dwarves would weep with joy, thrilled that their mighty old friend finally remembered them.

The dwarves of the Wan Ren Mountains would even volunteer as vanguard!

Stationing troops at the humble Bronze Pass hardly showcases the dwarves' full strength!

A brief silence fell within the cathedral, broken only by the quiet movement of sunlight filtering through stained glass, dividing Theoden's face into light and shadow.

After a moment, the aged king sighed softly, his voice carrying the weary resignation of a benevolent elder.

"Saint Sis above… the people of Spinoir must be enduring hardship."

His tone was as light as discussing today's weather or tonight's dinner.

Ma Lusi understood instantly, a faint smile touching his stern face.

"When survival demands it, accidents are inevitable."

Theoden said nothing, merely resumed turning the gold coin between his fingers. It spun in the dim light, like a fickle wheel of fate.

"Make it clean."

"As you command."

Ma Lusi lowered his head again, but after a moment, remembered something and lifted his gaze once more.

"There is one more matter, Your Majesty."

"Speak."

"Lord Hagemore is returning to Roland City. But… his entourage is far larger than when he left."

Theoden's brow furrowed slightly—a weary annoyance, like discovering rats in one's home, yet unable to expel them.

"What has he done now?"

"The Lionheart Knights have, under the guise of 'wartime requisition,' intercepted several noble merchant caravans along the way, seizing vast quantities of food and supplies."

Ma Lusi paused. "Of course, our knight commander did not keep these supplies for himself—he fulfilled his 'sacred and ancient' duty by distributing them to the kingdom's subjects. Now, the refugees you expelled from Roland City have begun to return, trailing behind his horse hooves like a snowball… numbering perhaps tens of thousands."

At these words, the last trace of warmth in Theoden's eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, narrowed glare.

"That fool!"

The king's voice trembled with suppressed rage.

He had expended great effort to drive those useless wastes out of the capital, to let those lowly vermin perish in the countryside as fertilizer for the land.

And now this Hagemore, this saintly fool, had brought back tens of thousands of beggars!

Didn't he realize Roland City already had enough gunpowder?

"Shall I go persuade him?" Ma Lusi ventured. "If these refugees re-enter the city, Roland's law and order will deteriorate further—especially with thieves now prowling the slums."

This was another intelligence gathered by the Gravekeepers' underground network: the Campbells had invented not only the train, but also a new kind of intelligence apparatus unlike traditional systems.

They no longer relied on court spies, but instead promoted scouts from their professional army, blending seamlessly with Roland's common folk.

For the Os Continent, this was a novel concept.

Though most royal courts maintained intelligence networks, theirs were centered on the palace—entirely different from this militarized system, despite sharing the same name.

Theoden's lips curled into a cold smile.

"You go persuade him? I'd advise you to save your breath—I can't even persuade him."

Ma Lusi fell silent.

In this world where strength reigned supreme, transcendental power might not mean everything—but when fists decide matters, it means everything.

With his strength, killing two men for the king was no challenge—but persuading the famed "Radiant Knight" to turn back? That was outright arrogance.

Theoden leaned back against the chair, wearily rubbing his temples.

In that moment, he felt profound helplessness.

It was the sorrow of a mortal monarch.

To counter the Church's ever-expanding power, the royal house had no choice but to rely on figures like Hagemore—legendary powerhouses. Yet that immense personal strength was a double-edged sword: it could sever the Church's hand reaching for the throne, but it could also swing back to strike the throne itself.

Theoden gazed at the statue of Saint Sis, merciful and sorrowful, directly before the cathedral, and suddenly felt a fierce longing.

If only there existed a third form of transcendental power.

It should be without thought, without morality, unbound by any rule or restraint—capable of fully enforcing the king's will… like the angel buried deep within the Church, who descended upon the Twilight City's ramparts!

If he could summon angels, whether the arrogant Church, the disobedient knights, or the revolting upstarts downstream along the Flowing River—all would kneel at his feet!

Then every problem facing the Lyan Kingdom today would vanish.

At that moment, hurried, chaotic footsteps echoed outside the cathedral, shattering Theoden's weary thoughts.

Theoden waved his hand.

The monk beside the candlestick bowed slightly, silently stepping into the shadow beneath the candlestick—as if he had never been there.

Seconds later, the heavy door creaked open.

A figure in scarlet bishop's robes stumbled inside.

It was Claude, former court jester, now Bishop of the Lyan Region.

He didn't bother adjusting his crooked tall hat; upon entering, he collapsed to his knees on the cold floor, pressing his body flat against the ground.

"Your Majesty…"

Claude's voice trembled, thick with fear.

"Your servant is unworthy… I beg Your Majesty's punishment!"

Theoden blinked in surprise, then wore an expression of helpless amusement. He rose from the bench and walked to the prayer hall's entrance.

"Bishop Claude, what are you doing? Rise at once." He extended his aged, well-kept hand, gently lifting Claude's trembling elbow.

His tone was as tender as a true elder comforting a child wronged.

Yet beneath that touch, Claude wept harder.

"Your Majesty… those people in Saint City… they're utterly wicked!"

The Bishop of the Lyan Kingdom wept without dignity, snot and tears smearing his wrinkled face.

He wiped his eyes, sobbing bitterly as he vented his outrage and grief.

"These priests in their holy robes! They're nothing but vampires—truly vile! I wrote to them detailing the situation in Roland City, begging them to open their purses and help us through this crisis. Yet this morning, a gray owl tossed my letter onto my window… They coldly and arrogantly refused us! Not a single copper coin would they spare!"

Watching the bishop, his eyes red from weeping for the kingdom, Theoden sighed softly and reached out to straighten his crooked high hat.

"It seems… not only our empire has fallen, but the Holy Cathedral of Saint Clement is no longer the merciful and forgiving holy court it once was."

The king's tone carried a hint of regret, as if mourning the decline of that distant ancient papacy—though his mourning was faint indeed.

At least he did not weep as the bishop did, not a single tear shed.

"Don't be distressed, Claude. Greed is the sin of the Pope and the cardinals—I will not blame you, innocent as you are, for their avarice."

Deep within those seemingly compassionate, cloudy eyes lay only a cold indifference, long anticipated.

Theoden was not surprised at all; he had never expected the distant Holy City to spend a single coin for the people of Roland City.

Yet Claude's absurd performance amused him—it had at least lifted his spirits a little.

Only when the priests of Roland City realize that the Holy City has abandoned them will they bind themselves even tighter around his crown.

Hearing that the king truly bore him no blame, Claude's heaving shoulders finally began to settle.

He sniffled, hastily wiped his tears with his sleeve, still looking disheveled—but his eyes now held a glimmer of light.

"Your Majesty… what should we do?"

No sooner had Claude stopped crying than the dreadful rumors outside returned to him; worry crept back onto his brow.

"I've heard people whispering… that the royal treasury is empty, not even a rat would enter. Others say that by this time next year, we won't even be able to pay the soldiers' wages…"

Theoden let out a light laugh, one laced with disdain for mortal folly.

"What do they know?"

This kingdom always had a breed of self-important fools who thought reading two books made them brilliant, that they knew everything. Like Baron Wickton—always quoting books, the way his steward acted made him sick.

And his finance director, always playing number games with him—calculating how many copper coins a Roland citizen earns in a month, how many loaves of bread that equals… Ha, one day I'll grow tired of his calculations and send him off to Saint Xisi to whine about it!

In the ancient land of knights, discussing economics was inherently foolish. The power of the Devalu family did not come from those money-stinking commoners, but from the extraordinary blood flowing in their veins.

The second class are the true masters of the kingdom; the rest are either the elevated first class, locked away, or the third class—mere tools of production.

Seeing the contempt hidden behind those cloudy eyes, Claude's shoulders trembled slightly; fear flickered again in his gaze.

"But Your Majesty…"

"Listen, Claude, you need not heed the babbling of these ants."

Theoden reached out and gently patted Claude's shoulder. The motion was soft, rhythmic—like soothing a frightened pet.

He leaned down, whispering into the bishop's ear, his voice like a leaky whistle.

"I am king. You are bishop. We are not those money-stinking merchants. These upstarts think poverty can bring us down—yet they don't realize how childish and laughable their thoughts are… They will soon learn just how foolish they are, for our wealth has never been gold, silver, or copper coins."

Claude swallowed hard.

"Then what… is it?"

Looking at this foolish fool, Theoden smiled and softly uttered a single cold word.

"People."

…

The morning sun lit not only the dome of Saint Roland Cathedral but also, beyond the curtains of the Collin Manor guest room, the peaceful face of Eileen.

Indeed—

Home bed was far more comfortable.

Eileen's lashes fluttered twice; like a young lioness waking, she stretched, yawned, and sat up from the bed.

Wash up.