Chapter 264: Plane Authority Certificate

Anthony was recently overwhelmed, so stressed his hair was falling out in clumps; he even considered quitting and dying—dealing with undead was far more relaxing than being this damn interim Pope.

Anthony had over a thousand years of political experience, a vast network of followers and subordinates, and countless people who trusted him—but he couldn't solve the current problem: famine. The main plane was suffering famine.

"Actually, the main plane has been plagued by famine year after year—small outbreaks every year, major ones every five years, with plagues breaking out occasionally," Anthony said with a grim face. "Some landlords and nobles collect taxes so harshly, minor uprisings happen in localized areas."

These incidents were relatively rare under Anthony's rule, but extremely common in the western diocese, which is why the western diocese's population had never grown.

Famine still occurred under Anthony's jurisdiction, but he would redistribute, relocate, buy out, reduce taxes, lend, arrange installments, even cheat—using methods everyone found acceptable, he transferred grain from landlords and nobles into the hands of famine victims or bankrupt farmers.

If they can't repay next year, pay in installments. If they still can't pay, reduce their taxes. If they still can't pay, offer policy incentives. As long as people are alive, there's always a way to survive.

But all these maneuvers rest on one foundation: having grain.

"Now even landlords and nobles have no surplus grain. Even if I confiscated their homes, I wouldn't get much food—and…" Anthony smiled bitterly.

And there was another more troublesome constraint preventing him from using harsher methods, like plundering…

The eastern diocese has seceded; they now call themselves the Holy Church, and he is the interim Pope.

To win over kings, nobles, and landlords, Anthony had made countless secret compromises and concessions—otherwise, even with his thousand-year network of hidden agents, they would never have risked following him to the end.

In essence, Anthony's actions amounted to rebellion; if he failed, he'd likely be beheaded. Who would follow him without immense gains?

But most of what he gave up were ecclesiastical interests—spending God's wealth. Yet equally, he couldn't use overly brutal methods, or the entire eastern diocese would collapse.

If I raid one household, the rest will rise up in rebellion; everyone will think: Is Anthony trying to settle scores and break his promises?

"Not only can I not confiscate property—I have to close my eyes when I see hoarders. Pretend I don't see them. Isn't that infuriating?"

Nagelis nodded: "Yeah, it's really infuriating, especially since you've said all this and the actual person isn't even listening—makes it worse." He pointed to Ang, who had pulled them into his consciousness space and was now distractedly farming.

Anthony sighed: "I'm used to it. Talking to you, Lord of Knowledge, is the same. Lord Ang respects your opinion."

The flattery hit just right; Nagelis's tail lifted. But after it did, it began scratching its head: "Still, you're asking for too much. One hundred thousand tons—that's two hundred million jin. If rationed, it could feed millions."

"Yes, but the grain deficit is exactly this big. This year: drought, then hurricane, then locust plague. Black Mountain Duchy's farmland was destroyed. Their refugees flooded into our eastern diocese. Years of good harvests meant more births—we've seen continuous population explosions, and the burden keeps growing," Anthony lamented.

In an era of poor transportation and low productivity, population was sometimes not wealth, but a burden.

For example, if a region suffered disaster with five thousand refugees, transporting grain to rescue them was easy—even without roads, you could carry food across wilderness to feed five thousand.

But if fifty thousand were affected, the difficulty wasn't ten times greater—it could be fifty or a hundred times worse.

Because wilderness couldn't sustain such massive logistics. Roads were needed. Transporters needed food, water, rest—half the supplies would be consumed en route. Getting even ten to twenty percent through was already good.

So, managing a nation of a million people versus a nation of ten million wasn't ten times harder—it was dozens or hundreds of times harder.

In eras of low productivity, too many people often marked the beginning of empire fragmentation. Only with industrial society could population advantage be converted into productivity through education.

Anthony was now feeling the pain of too many people. For instance, now he came to Ang for help, asking for one hundred thousand tons. When he rescued Black Mountain Duchy before, he'd only asked for one thousand tons.

But this was a necessity. In his calculations, one hundred thousand tons was exactly enough to survive this disaster year. If managed well, he might even depress grain prices and force nobles and hoarders to release some stock.

Still, he didn't think it likely. He could roughly estimate how much Ang had—because Anthony was among the innermost circle; Ang had nothing to hide from him.

The farm of the Palace of Rest, two underground cities in the Abyss of Rest, two World Tree protective forest farms, plus the Oasis of Hope and the Fallen Dragon Lake.

Among these, the Fallen Dragon Lake likely had the highest grain output—but also fed the most people. How much surplus it could spare was uncertain.

Even if every one of these places was stripped bare, they couldn't produce one hundred thousand tons. Their own people needed to eat too.

But as long as they weren't dead, they had to be saved. He couldn't just watch millions die. If the famine wasn't controlled, at least a few million in the eastern diocese would perish. Add plague, and tens of millions could die within months, inevitably sparking unrest.

In his thousand years, Anthony had seen this many times. In eras of low productivity, population was regulated this way.

This time was different. Anthony realized he might be able to struggle a little—after all, he had the Undying God watching over him.

One hundred thousand tons? If not, fifty thousand will do. Thirty thousand isn't out of the question. Even ten thousand could save some people, right?

"Just say it outright. Don't explain anything else. Ang won't listen. Just say what you're offering in exchange for one hundred thousand tons of grain—see how much he'll give," Nagelis advised Anthony.

Anthony thought the advice sound. He gave Nagelis a thumbs-up, then turned to Ang: "My Lord, I request your support of one hundred thousand tons of grain. I offer ten thousand souls in exchange."

Nagelis, who had just given him that advice, exploded: "Anthony, you're shameless! You want grain and want to dump your refugees on us? You're eating from both sides—no shame!"

Anthony didn't flinch: "Lord Nagel, you misunderstand. How could people be a burden? These ten thousand include craftsmen, farmers, able-bodied men, women—perfectly filling the shortage in your ranks. If left to natural reproduction, it would take five hundred years to fill the Abyss of Rest."

"Why do we need to fill the Abyss of Rest?" Nagelis asked, puzzled.

"Where there are people, there is faith. If the Undying Temple has tens of millions of believers, you could become a being like His Majesty—and perhaps even be freed from your seal."

As Anthony spoke the earlier lines, Nagelis had scoffed, sneering. But when he heard the last sentence, he paused.

"Freed? My seal?" Nagelis asked, wistful.

Anthony hadn't mentioned it, and Nagelis had nearly forgotten it was still sealed. It spent its days projecting onto the dragon embryo—no pain, no real disruption to its life, and its bond with Nai Aili had grown stronger.

The only problem: Nai Aili's body kept growing. Hugging her often risked breaking Nagelis's bones. It didn't hurt—but it was a nuisance.

"Aren't you longing for freedom?" Anthony asked.

Nagelis took a deep breath and spat a roar straight into Anthony's face: "Longing for freedom? I'm already dead! Breaking the seal means I die? What good is freedom if I'm gone? If you want me dead, die first—I'll have my grandnephew strangle you!"

"No, no, Lord Nagel—I mean, don't you want to break the seal of the Brass Book? Not your seal—the book's seal. It's a divine scripture. Don't you want to pull it out and smash people with it? It's incredibly powerful."

Anthony covered his face to block Nagelis's spittle. Though they were in Ang's consciousness space and all forms were illusory, it was still disgusting.

Normally, when he saw dragon slobber in potions, Anthony refused to take it. Dragon slobber was just dragon saliva—how filthy.

"The book's seal?" Nagelis froze.

"Yes. The seal of the Brass Book."

"What would it do if broken?" Nagelis asked.

"Smash people. I don't know anything else—but if it can seal you, it can probably seal weaker gods too," Anthony said.

Nagelis frowned, deep in thought: "Are there gods weaker than me?"

But quickly, Nagelis snapped back: "Damn it! I almost fell for your goblin trick! We're talking about you trading people for grain now. You dump your burden and get grain? No way. Ang's grain isn't grown in water!"

Anthony spread his hands: "Then I'll pay. Two hundred thousand magic crystals. How's that?"

"Pfft. Worse than ten thousand souls. You're haggling too hard," Nagelis said.

"My Lord, it's just grain. What price are you expecting?" Anthony was speechless.

True enough—though grain was vital, its price was low. When Cold Ice City bought grain from the main plane, it was one magic crystal per ton. Anthony guessed he was after grain from the Fallen Dragon Lake, not cross-plane—two magic crystals per ton was already high, five times the normal price.

Anything not involving gods or magic, mass-produced, and needed by common folk—its unit price couldn't be high.

But Nagelis clearly looked down on such petty trade. It was still worse than ten thousand souls.

"Then ten thousand souls plus two hundred thousand magic crystals. If you're still not satisfied, you're robbing me," Anthony muttered.

"Pah!" Faced with Anthony's cheeky greed, Nagelis could only protest: "I'm done. Ask Ang. I don't even know if he can produce one hundred thousand tons."

Anthony turned to Ang: "My Lord, I request one hundred thousand tons of grain in exchange for ten thousand souls and two hundred thousand magic crystals. Is that acceptable?"

Ang tilted his head, then floated up. A halo of the Scale of Judgment appeared around him. He pointed at one patch of soilless magic rice: "Seven thousand tons."

He floated to another area, pointed: "Fifteen thousand tons."

He flew on, pointing, adding up—soon reaching seventy-five thousand tons.

Anthony was stunned. How long had Ang been in this plane? How had he grown so much grain? And floating on water? This was too miraculous. He said it wasn't grown in water?

Seventy-five thousand tons already far exceeded his expectations. When Ang flew toward a field of unripe rice, Anthony hurriedly said: "Enough, enough! Less is fine, less is fine!"

Ang ignored him. He landed on a floating gel plate, stomped hard. The rice field rapidly grew, bloomed, fruited, ripened.

He repeated this several times. Then he pointed at the last floating gel plate: "One hundred thousand tons."

Anthony's stress turned into painful joy: joy because the worst problem was solved; pain because—how the hell was he going to transport all this grain back?

A few days later, a squad of Holy Knights teleported to the Pale Sea Plane and showed a document to the official on Bright Island—the slick cleric.

"Relocated? Why? Why are we being moved out of nowhere?" The cleric couldn't believe it.

Though being transferred to a remote plane with poor resources and no entertainment, it meant distance from the center and power struggles—no one watching, life was comfortable. Why suddenly move them?

"We don't know, cleric. Execute the order. This is a direct command signed by His Holiness Anthony, Interim Pope of the Holy Church," the Holy Knight said sternly.

The cleric quickly gripped the Holy Knight's hand, slipping a bit of "gift" into his sleeve.

The Holy Knight's expression softened slightly. He whispered: "A big shot has taken interest in this plane. No profit here. Get out fast. The big shot hinted—he'll assign you a good post when you return."

Big shot?! The cleric immediately thought of the big shot four months ago—the one riding in the airship of a middle-aged female adventurer, swaying on the sea. Could it be him?

A plane where the Church of Light held no advantage—abandoning it was no loss. The few hundred people on Light Sand Shore evacuated swiftly, leaving only the adventurers behind.

Soon after, two figures cloaked in cloaks arrived via teleportation. They didn't take a boat. They ran straight into the sea—and from beneath them, a horse materialized, dragging a trail of death across the water toward the distance.

"Bolck? How did you get here?" It was Anthony's two Black Knights.

"His Majesty sent us to deliver a gift: a Plane Authority Certificate. In the name of the Holy Church, this plane is recognized as belonging to Lord Ang. As long as you don't oppose the Holy Church, don't deny its ownership. But to avoid suspicion, His Majesty registered it under the name of the Mercenary King Cai Gutou."

Bolck knelt and raised the object above his head.