Chapter 284

Anthony's papal procession was set up in the disaster zone, directly in front of the temporary settlement for refugees—at least three hundred thousand displaced people housed at the border between this river valley plain and the forest, with even more refugees, hearing the news, dragging their families toward this place.

Some said Anthony was mad—he, a sitting papal vicar, had come to such a filthy, chaotic place, eating poorly, burdened with endless menial tasks, utterly undignified, reeking everywhere, and unable to sleep at night.

Those who said this were all from Anthony's guard legion; though most of the legion were carefully chosen by Anthony and utterly loyal, many were in fact noble landowners, raised since childhood in luxury—fine with giving orders, but when forced to do manual labor, complaints inevitably followed.

But Anthony was busy nonstop, and these complaints never reached his ears.

Over the past thousand years, every so often, an eastern diocese would produce a populist archbishop—sometimes called Anxi, sometimes Anbei, or similar—each acting in nearly identical fashion.

With such precedents, people grumbled only a little, yet still dared not slack off on their duties.

The most vital part of famine relief was maintaining food supply, stabilizing public morale, and ensuring fair distribution—do these three things well, and no matter how many refugees there were, chaos would not break out.

Food supply could fluctuate—after all, eating two meals a day or one meal a day would both keep you alive—but distribution had to be fair; if the front line got two bowls while the back line got one, chaos would surely follow.

At the same time, people needed reassurance—they needed to know someone was still caring for them, still striving to relieve their suffering, that if they endured just a little longer, they would surely survive.

The surest way to reassure refugees was to see their usual distant, lofty archbishop, His Holiness the Papal Vicar, appear on-site, continuously bringing more food.

So whenever Anthony had a moment, he came to the settlement to work—not merely for show, for he was an archbishop himself, backed by a patron deity who treated divine power as if it were free, so purification and beautification spells were his to use without limit.

He scoured the ground for injured refugees and treated them personally.

The endless holy light, the wounds healing visibly before the eyes under beautification spells, the drinking water once caked with grime now purified to crystal clarity, the faces scarred, burned, and blotched restored to flawless youthfulness—each moment testified to divine miracles.

The grace of the gods is boundless.

Every day felt like a grand prayer assembly, an unceasing stream of soul flames offered to Anthony—though all of them were diverted to Ang.

If the Gods of Light were still alive, they would surely be puzzled: business is thriving—why isn't any income coming in?

As long as Ang's food supply remained stable and no other mishaps occurred, Anthony could ensure the entire relief effort ran smoothly; once they weathered this winter, come next planting season, these hundreds of thousands would become precious laborers, no longer a burden.

Then, with the production tools he'd bought cheaply during this famine—plows, hoes, and the like—he could put them to use, grow grain, repay all debts, and distribute dividends.

If any surplus remained, he would give it to the refugees, while preparing all manner of daily necessities; once the refugees had money, they would spend it, and businesses would flourish.

Hundreds of thousands of people formed a vast consumer market; whoever spent the most this year would get the largest quotas next year.

With this system, merchants gained wealth, nobles gained grain, refugees received aid, the local economy revived, and vast quantities of production tools were acquired at low cost—all sides benefited.

Nagelis often mocked Anthony for profiting from both ends, but to Anthony, that was nothing special—just something he did casually.

Yet all these plans depended on Ang's food supply remaining stable and no other accidents occurring.

When someone carried a pale-faced patient before him, and the patient spat out a thick mass of bright red mucus, and Anthony noticed that many of the refugees carrying him also had unnatural pallor, Anthony knew trouble had come.

"Save me, save us, Your Grace, Your Holiness, save us!" The refugee collapsed to his knees, crawling forward to clutch Anthony's legs.

*Clang! His loyal guards had already drawn their swords, blocking the refugees' advance, shouting sharply: "Plague! Protect His Holiness! Everyone, fall back—or be slain on the spot."

"Priests, purify!"

"Mages, dispel, erect shields, maintain air pressure!"

"Knights, hold your breath, shield yourselves with holy light, dispel them!"

The guards, always so gentle, instantly became bristling porcupines; their deployment unfolded with brutal efficiency, as if under assassination threat.

Indeed, it was an assassination—even higher alert than assassination, for this was plague.

Anthony did not stop his guards' brutal actions; he merely said weakly, "Don't hurt anyone."

Seeing that bright red mucus, Anthony knew there was no saving the man—he had dealt with countless plagues in his thousand-plus years, yet never seen one like this.

Never seen meant new; new meant no existing cure; no cure meant everyone could be infected.

He had the Immortal God's protection—he could reincarnate, could return as a Black Knight—but his men could not.

Under these conditions, you couldn't ask them to be gentle with the refugees; not hurting them was already generous.

But the guards' reaction only panicked the refugees; upon hearing "plague," everyone panicked, grasping at straws like drowning men, and refused to let Anthony leave.

Suddenly, nearby refugees surged forward, pulling in others from afar who didn't understand what was happening; combined with Anthony's order to "not hurt anyone," they were now surrounded and unable to move.

The guards were frantic—this was plague, invisible, intangible, every second spent here risked infection, yet Anthony forbade them from killing their way out.

They could only have mages raise shields, priests continuously cast purification spells, and maintain stable air pressure inside to prevent outside air from being drawn in.

But this couldn't last; the guard commander turned anxiously to Anthony, hoping for authorization to break out—but when he looked back, he saw Anthony with eyes closed, as if listening to something.

The commander shuddered, swallowed his words, then turned and signaled everyone to be silent, whispering: "No talking—His Holiness is listening to the divine oracle."

As if a silence spell had been cast, the words "divine oracle" echoed softly, spreading outward—wherever they reached, even the refugees fell quiet.

Listening to the divine oracle? A miracle no one had ever witnessed in a lifetime.

Too bad, the oracle was an oracle—but whose god it came from was another matter.

After a long while, Anthony opened his eyes and immediately saw countless eyes fixed upon him.

Anthony smiled faintly, calm and unruffled: "Our suffering has been heard by the gods. Help will arrive soon."

Anthony's words silenced the entire restless camp; soon after, a figure flew in from the distance, two vast black wings of light beating behind her back.