East Borough, an area under the Remann Gang's actual control, inside a certain house.
"Clink."
Oliver set his bowl on the table. The oatmeal porridge inside had been drunk clean.
"If that's not enough, you can have a little more."
The elderly woman in charge of meals smiled warmly at him.
"I'm full."
Oliver answered in a low voice, keeping his head down.
He hadn't forgotten his days at the orphanage.
There, if you dared ask for extra porridge, the supervisor would shriek curses at you, calling you a "greedy pig" or a "vile thief," and lock you in the dark room to reflect.
Oliver worried that if he asked for another serving, it would leave a bad impression on this seemingly kind lady.
He now belonged to that "missionary" gentleman.
He still didn't know the man's temperament or character, so he could only try to behave as well as possible and try to make sure nobody disliked him.
That's right, Oliver had been bought.
Actually, this wasn't the first time he'd been sold.
The children at the orphanage were a considerable asset. They were like livestock in a pen.
Every so often, different people would come to inspect them and buy some away.
Pretty boys and girls were the easiest to take; those with nimble hands and feet would be bought by gangs to train as pickpockets; even the worst of them were welcomed by coal mines and cleaning companies.
Of course, procedurally speaking, they were all legally adopted.
For this, the orphanage supervisor often praised herself as "the kindest-hearted person," giving these "God-forsaken" orphans a way to survive.
Oliver was fairly decent-looking, but because he'd talked back to the supervisor, she'd deliberately arranged for him to go to a cleaning company.
His small body was just right for cleaning flues, and he had to work more than ten hours a day in narrow, dark chimneys.
He'd been so tired. When going down, he hadn't tied the rope properly and accidentally fell, breaking his arm.
He'd thought he'd be abandoned and left to die on the streets, but unexpectedly the foreman had sent him to meet a gentleman with magical powers.
And after this noble gentleman healed his arm, he'd actually bought him...
"Cough, cough..."
Just then, a burning, itching irritation came from his lungs, making Oliver cough uncontrollably.
"Are you all right?"
The elderly woman showed a worried expression.
"I'm fine! Cough, cough..."
Oliver quickly said, suppressing his cough and trying to sit up straight.
"Please don't worry... cough, cough..."
The coal dust from the chimneys had completely ruined his lungs, making him cough constantly and breathe rapidly.
His work capacity had greatly decreased, and the cleaning company's foreman had cursed him as useless.
He was afraid of being considered worthless here too, so even though he felt terrible, he forced himself to endure it.
"..."
The elderly woman looked like she wanted to say something, but after opening her mouth, she remained silent.
What was that emotion in her eyes? Pity? Sympathy?
Oliver felt somewhat bewildered.
He'd never seen such an expression on the faces of the adults around him. When facing him, they usually only showed coldness and disgust.
"Mother."
At that moment, a young man pushed a cart into the kitchen. The cart's upper and lower levels were stacked with baked bread.
"Here's today's batch. I've brought it all for you. How are you doing today? Is the kitchen work tiring?"
He seemed very energetic, unloading bread for his elderly mother while chatting with her.
Mother...
Oliver listened to that unfamiliar word, watching the interaction between the young man and the elderly woman.
According to the orphanage supervisor, his mother had died after giving birth to him. As for his father, that was even more unknown.
"Good, once you're finished eating, go next door."
After saying a few words to her son, the elderly woman turned to him again.
The smile on her face was still so gentle. "The missionary gentleman is waiting for you."
"Oh..."
Oliver stood up uneasily and slowly walked outside.
That kind gentleman had saved him with incredible methods, but somehow always made him feel inexplicably afraid...
The light in the next room was very dim.
After Oliver walked in and his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he finally saw the gentleman sitting quietly in a chair.
He appeared to be resting with his eyes closed.
"Sir."
Oliver greeted him quietly.
"You're here?"
The other person woke up, the blue light in his eyes flickering in the darkness.
"Drink this."
The blue-eyed gentleman handed a small bottle to Oliver.
"...All right."
Oliver had no choice but to take it and drink it down.
The liquid in the bottle was somewhat numbing and bitter, but after swallowing it, his body gradually became warm and light, as if wrapped in clouds from the sky.
"Sir, what is this?"
Feeling so relaxed, he asked drowsily.
"Something that will give you sweet dreams."
Silas answered softly. "When you wake up, you won't cough anymore."
Could such a good thing really exist?
Oliver didn't know, but more than not coughing anymore, he hoped he could see his mother and be held gently by her.
He soon fell into a deep sleep.
————
Silas performed a minor surgery.
The lungs were delicate and critical organs.
If eroded by impurities, they would gradually make a person suffer, weakening them in despair until they suffocated to death.
With Backlund's current medical technology, treatment was basically impossible.
But Silas was a Beyonder, a Rose Bishop renowned for flesh and blood magic.
All he needed was to put the patient under anesthesia, maintain his life while "cleansing" his lungs.
A Rose Bishop's abilities could truly heal many people, yet cultists only used them to create flesh and blood bombs.
All thanks to the blessings of that damned evil god at the top.
Silas "praised" the True Creator in his heart as he finished the treatment.
Letting the patient continue sleeping, he walked out of the room and left the house.
"Missionary, sir!"
People on the street were busy with their work. Seeing him emerge, they all stopped what they were doing, smiled, and greeted him.
"Mm."
Silas smiled in return, feeling the "Shepherd" potion inside him gradually digesting.
These sheep had received his "tending" and were slowly recognizing him as the leader of the flock.
But this alone wasn't enough.
The digestion progress was somewhat slow, indicating two things: first, the flock wasn't large enough yet; second, the acting couldn't just stop at the most basic level of maintaining the flock.
He needed to explore more deeply into the essence corresponding to the potion's name.
For a shepherd, besides tending the flock, was there other important work?
Silas recalled the experiences of that professional shepherd.
Protecting the flock and guiding the lambs?
Protection was simple enough. As for guidance, perhaps that was related to preaching.
It's about time to officially start preaching.
Silas thought, raising his head to look at the crowd.
"Everyone can gather now."
He said.