Chapter 68: Subverting the Holy Servant

Silvercoin checked his appearance, and before the people outside came in, he climbed out himself: “Hello there, are you looking for something?”

The people outside were startled and raised their farming tools to strike, torches nearly pressed against Silvercoin’s face; only when they saw he was alive did they relax: “Goblin, alive.”

The lead villager searched Silvercoin’s body, pinching his skin and sniffing him, found nothing unusual, then let him go: “Why were you hiding in the sewer?”

Silvercoin brushed off his clothes and said calmly: “Just a wandering traveler’s temporary shelter. What? Can’t a guy hide in a sewer? Or has something happened?”

“A undead creature was spotted in the mass grave, no one knows where it ran to—we’re searching for it. Don’t wander around. Find a place to stay.” The lead villager said.

Silvercoin put on a shocked expression: “Undead creature? That’s serious business. Thank you for the warning—I’ll find a safe place right away. Deeply grateful.” With that, he hurried off.

One of the searching villagers asked puzzled: “Just let him go? Don’t we interrogate him?”

The lead villager replied in confusion: “Interrogate? What for? He’s obviously alive, no stench of decay—what’s there to ask?”

“Ask why he was hiding in the sewer! Doesn’t that seem strange?”

The lead villager laughed: “You’re clearly inexperienced. What was that just now? A goblin—a stingy goblin. Even when they have money, they rarely stay at inns. What’s strange about living in a ready-made sewer?”

“Huh? That’s normal?”

“Extremely normal. Honestly, even if we moved into the sewer now, given the times, how strange would that be? The lords raise taxes higher every year, take more grain every year… sigh…” The lead villager sighed.

Once this topic came up, everyone lost the will to speak.

On his way, Silvercoin encountered several search parties, even some led by priests, but he slipped past each one unharmed; people paid little attention to a goblin who looked alive and had no odor.

This made Silvercoin deeply feel the power of “Pure Visage.” Simply healing his decaying body meant nothing—if his clothes were filthy and he still smelled of decay, people would notice. He didn’t know whether priests could detect his anomaly up close.

After detouring a stretch of road, he returned to the Silverlight Merchants’ outpost, knocked on the door of his private courtyard with a specific rhythm; the door opened quietly soon after, and a sleepy goblin yawned as he opened it: “Chief, you’re back?”

Silvercoin had forgotten who this goblin was, didn’t greet him, just nodded, and walked inside.

Silverlight Merchants was a loose alliance of caravans; each vice-chief led an independent caravan, sharing resources and information, but keeping personnel and assets separate.

Silvercoin returned to his room, pulled out ledgers, diaries, merchant notebooks, and carefully reviewed them, cross-referencing gaps in his memory.

His soul had suffered great damage—half of it had been drained—and his memories were damaged, but with these written records, some things could still be pieced together.

The next morning, Silvercoin took a box from the safe and called everyone to a meeting. When all had gathered, he said directly: “On this trip, I had an accident—I was struck by a mental spell, my memory is confused. Tercas, Stile, who is this? Reza? Stenson…”

After naming them all, he finally connected names to faces, and everyone accepted his explanation.

No one asked why Silvercoin had been hit by a mental spell.

“Alright, now I’ll mention something else. From now on, we’re shifting our business focus. Liquidate all the messy projects quickly. From now on, focus solely on tasks I assign. First task: acquire as much grain, cloth, and farming tools as possible.”

Someone objected. Stenson said: “Huh? Liquidate everything? I finally secured a source for elven crafts—do we really sell that off? Too bad!”

“Sell it off, but keep your ties with the elves. If the mission requires it, contact them again.” Silvercoin said.

Stenson said: “Chief, this isn’t fair. I worked hard to build these connections—you suddenly change direction? I can’t accept this. I’m withdrawing from the caravan.”

Building ties with the elves required both skill and luck. Stenson had suffered greatly, traveling deep into forests countless times.

He’d planned to make a fortune from it—now Silvercoin suddenly demanded he liquidate everything? What joke is this? With this connection, he could walk into any merchant guild and get a partner’s position. Liquidate it?

Silvercoin nodded: “Fine. May your business prosper. Aside from caravan assets, all records you’ve built up are yours to take.”

Stenson’s expression changed—he spoke sincerely: “Thank you, Chief.”

Taking his own records meant tacit permission to take his clients—this was an exceptionally generous move. Legally, everything built under the caravan belonged to the caravan; letting him leave was already generous. To let him take clients?

Some ruthless guilds would break your legs and throw you out.

Grateful beyond words, Stenson left. Silvercoin looked around: “Anyone else want to leave?”

Most faces showed hesitation, but unlike Stenson, none had their own client networks. After a moment’s pause, everyone shook their heads.

“Good. Close the door. Activate the warning array. Gather close.” Everyone crowded behind Silvercoin as he opened the box on the table—then snapped it shut halfway.

But it was enough. Those behind had seen what was inside. Someone instinctively gasped: “Sacred…” but a companion clamped a hand over his mouth—or elbowed him in the gut, silencing the rest.

Everyone’s eyes gleamed with crystal light; their hearts roared: Fortune! Fortune! Stenson’s an idiot!

What were elven crafts compared to Sacred Essence? This was one of the few things that sold for crystal prices—thousands of crystals. Every woman in the world would go mad for it.

Silvercoin’s caravan swiftly broke from Silverlight Merchants, transformed overnight—from open to secret. From today, it dealt in only one product: Sacred Essence.

Running Sacred Essence didn’t need so many people—but Silvercoin knew clearly: from the moment he was reborn, his fate no longer belonged to himself. It never truly had.

From that moment on, he must wholeheartedly serve Ang’s will, prioritize Ang’s needs, and adjust his business direction at any time—so he needed more reliable, loyal people.

He knew this model well—he’d done it before: prioritizing Saintblade Army’s needs, running trade while gathering intelligence—no difference.

Besides grain, Silvercoin independently added cloth, farming tools, various seeds, and ordered iron, wheels—he’d been to Frost City and toured Ang’s farmland, and had a rough idea of what that world lacked.

Or rather, it lacked nothing—except water and stone. It lacked everything else.

A good merchant doesn’t wait for customers to state needs—he must uncover them. If there are none, create them.

That night, Silvercoin took a vial of Sacred Essence, poured out a small trial sample, drove his cart to a tavern near Saintblade Army’s encampment, checked in, and placed a dish of fresh flowers on the window.

Deep in the night, a woman in a cloak knocked on his door.

She lifted her hood, revealing a face of sacred dignity—radiating noble purity. Any unrighteous soul would feel shame just looking at it.

Silvercoin had once dared not meet this face directly—but now he felt no such fear.

“Hello, Sister Patrice.” Silvercoin placed his hand over his chest in greeting.

“You? You’re not dead?” Patrice showed a flicker of surprise.

The Saintblade Army’s Divine Knight was dead. The quartermaster was dead. The Holy Knight squad was dead. Ten priests, ten heavy shield-bearers, seventy archers and crossbowmen, and two specially trained Holy Servants—all dead. Yet the goblin merchant who first went to investigate? Still alive?

Patrice was among the few who knew Silvercoin’s identity—because the two Holy Servants beside him were the ones she had sent.

“I’m not dead. I traded something precious to regain my life and freedom, then slipped back.” Silvercoin made up a reason: “I found what Leonhard was truly searching for.”

Patrice’s brow furrowed slightly, her expression stern without raising her voice: “What do you mean?”

Silvercoin said nothing. He simply placed the trial vial of Sacred Essence on the table and gently pushed it toward Patrice.

Patrice tried to maintain her dignity, but her trembling brow betrayed her inner turmoil. She picked up the vial, poured a drop onto her hand, sniffed it, then eagerly smeared it on her face.

The scent, texture, absorption speed—all confirmed it was the concentrated version of the essence now circulating among noblewomen. Concentration was essence, the essence of essence. Indeed, the goblin had found what Leonhard truly sought.

Patrice took a deep breath and smiled: “What are your plans?”

Silvercoin immediately pushed a full vial toward her: “Sell it. I don’t care how much you charge. I want thirteen hundred crystals per vial as cost price.”

Patrice’s heart raced uncontrollably—if she sold it for fifteen hundred, she’d make two hundred crystals profit?

That was already the market price for concentrated essence. A few noblewomen would raise the price, double it easily.

Many might not grasp the value of two hundred crystals—a three-thousand-square-foot estate with a three-hundred-square-foot house cost less than two hundred crystals. One vial could earn a whole estate?

Many thoughts flashed through Patrice’s mind—but then she remembered Leonhard’s fate. After long hesitation, she nodded solemnly: “By the Light, I swear: for every vial of Sacred Essence sold, I will give Silvercoin, Chief, thirteen hundred crystals.”

As she spoke, a vow mark materialized before her. Silvercoin reached out and took it. Patrice picked up the essence on the table.

“Now, Sister Patrice—do you know the Corrosion Scar?” Silvercoin stared into her eyes.

The moment “Corrosion Scar” was spoken, Patrice’s eyes flashed sharply—clearly, murderous intent surged within.

Silvercoin instinctively gripped the ring on his index finger and cried urgently: “Do you still have the medicine?”

Patrice fixed her gaze on Silvercoin, silent—but her sacred dignity vanished, replaced by lethal intent.

Silvercoin knew he’d won. He’d deliberately waited until after the Light Oath to reveal this topic—afraid she’d kill him on the spot. “Do you still have the medicine?” was a test.

From her reaction, she not only knew what the Corrosion Scar was, but likely had little medicine left—because only Leonhard and the quartermaster held it.

Seeing her reaction, Silvercoin knew he held the greatest leverage. His face softened into the most sincere goblin merchant expression: “Sister Patrice, do you believe there’s a power that can completely heal the Corrosion Scar? Like me.”

Like you? Patrice’s expression grew solemn without warning.

Good lord—if Liza knew Silvercoin had used a single vial of essence to try to turn a Holy Servant, she’d definitely give him a thumbs-up.

…

To receive Silvercoin’s prepared supplies, Ang came to the control room to learn how to operate the teleportation array.

“Teach me.” Ang pointed at the coordinate map and said to Negrilis.