"This is probably the day I've seen you lie the most," Nightingale said as she emerged from the mist after Tyro left.
"Who made the one who came the high priest of the Church?" Roland shrugged. "Can you tell the lie from the truth?" "No. God's Stone has consumed the world around him—I see only darkness." "Too bad we can't treat the high priest like Noble," Roland mused. He placed the two pills on the table. "Tell me, is this thing really as divine as they say?" Morphine could ease the pain, but turning soldiers into superhuman beings sounded like adrenaline's work. The real challenge was extracting these substances into pills. With such technology, the Church should have conquered the world ages ago.
Wait... Roland suddenly had a thought—could it be related to Magic Power?
"Can you see the flow of Magic Power?" he asked Nightingale. "Is there any Magic Power in these two pills?" Nightingale examined them closely. "No visible Magic Power, but it does resemble the God's Stone of Punishment." "The God's Stone of Punishment?" Roland was stunned.
"Um," she nodded, "you've seen the world shrouded in mist—just black and white. But that darkness differs from the void created by God's Stone of Punishment, which seems to swallow the world around it. I can't quite put it into words..." Nightingale paused. "It's not so much pitch-black as an emptiness." "Void?" "Exactly," she nodded. "Both pills bear faint traces of void, but they're not round voids—they resemble flowing black threads." "Will this void affect your abilities?" Nightingale grabbed the pills, unfurled the mist, and quickly withdrew. "Not much, at least." "Looks like we need to get a death row inmate to taste these pills." Roland carefully wrapped the pills in paper and tucked them into his pocket.
"I never thought the Church would be so supportive of you," Nightingale said, sitting back beside Prince with a heavy heart.
"If the High Priest wasn't wearing the Stone of God's Punishment, I'd bet nine out of ten of his claims were lies," Roland pouted. "The crux is that their actions don't match their demands." "Why?" "Look at what they want: more churches, more followers, a self-proclaimed Prince or the King to legitimize divine authority. A stable nation would help them recruit believers and expand influence. Otherwise, churches and monasteries would become targets for refugees and nobles looting in perpetual warfare." "But aren't they just after your promise of stability?" "Not exactly," Roland shook his head. "Stability comes from unity or balance. Even if the king indulges in daily pleasures, a unified nation thrives better than refugees in conflict. So supporting a second Prince or a third princess makes sense, but coming to support me? That's downright bizarre—especially after Gacia's decisive victory." If the Church fully backed Gacia now, the capital and eastern territories might crumble within six months. Roland calculated that seventy percent of Graycastle's land would then fall under the Queen's control, and his own pressure would skyrocket. Rather than aiding the stronger faction, he chose to support the seemingly weakest option at the moment. The Church's decision appeared advantageous to him. However, if he had accepted their support, the conflict between the two kings of Graycastle would have escalated into chaos, mirroring a cross-dimensional version of the Three Kingdoms. The immediate consequences would have been a drastic population decline, rapid wealth depletion, nationwide war, and a protracted unification process.
What good does this do for the Church? Forget about growing its membership—every single church built across the country might get torn down.
"You don't get Noble's way—always beating around the bush," the Nightingale sighed.
"Um," Roland chuckled, "except me." "..." The Witch squinted her eyes and stared at Prince for a long while. "Strange—why does this also hold true?" Three days later, Roland had finally emptied the castle and its library, then boarded the town train with a sense of satisfaction, embarking on his journey home.
As we followed the Chishui River toward Border Town, the landscape along its banks had transformed. Across the town, Anna's burning had left a barren clearing where laborers bustled about—by their attire, they must be the serfs who had been brought here first. Meanwhile, on the side near the Desolate Mountains, makeshift wooden huts stood with faint activity inside. Roland surmised these were likely the serfs' families.
These people were bound to the land for generations, and their children were born as serfs. Lacking hope, most lived in a numb existence. Their labor was not driven by genuine desire but by the whips and fetters of their masters. The low productivity was nothing short of a tremendous waste of human resources.
Undoubtedly, slavery was the enemy of industrial production and a system that must be abolished. Yet Roland didn't intend to grant them freedom with a wave of his hand. Instead, he offered a pathway to see the hope of becoming free—since there were precedents of masters showing mercy by freeing slaves. This compromise, even if leaked, would have little impact, at most making other Nobles think he was just a good-natured figure.
When the time is right, he can implement the abolition of slavery more fully, and the resistance will be much less.
The dock was packed with sailboats, clearly too small to handle the heavy traffic. Luckily, the town's boat had a shallow draft, allowing it to dock without the pier. Roland thought the dock expansion should be added to the agenda.
After returning to the castle, the group made no time to rest. He rushed back to the office and immediately summoned Barov to brief him on the progress of receiving supplies.
Meanwhile, the Minister's Assistant had been prepared all along, pulling out a scroll of parchment from his pocket and laying it out on the large wooden table.
"Your Highness, the items you've brought back to the castle these days have truly taken my breath away," he said, though the furrowed brow betrayed his true thoughts. "Twelve apprentices worked through the night to tally all the coins—over fourteen thousand gold dragons! Your Highness, that's equivalent to an ordinary town's annual income!" The Duke must have spent over twenty years amassing these gold dragons, Roland thought, plundered from the people of the West. He needed to convert them into grain, steel, and machinery as quickly as possible. "What about the gems, jewelry, and artifacts?" "We haven't had time to quantify them yet, but conservatively, they're worth around ten thousand gold dragons. They'd fetch even more at the royal auction. For now, they're stored in your castle's basement," Barov paused. "But that means the original grain storage rooms won't suffice. I suggest expanding the castle complex with additional warehouses for other supplies."