"Bread is coming again, brothers!"
A refugee with a dirty face flaunted the moldy black bread in his hand to his companions.
"Why so early today?"
"Hurry up, if you don’t go now, there won’t be any left."
A group of refugees scrambled from their makeshift grass shacks or beneath the trees, like urine streams from relief, rushing chaotically toward the monastery.
This is the Gulag Monastery in Tree Hedge Village, situated on higher ground, where the clergy flee to when floods co.
Surrounding the monastery are countless grass huts like gray-black mushrooms, a wooden fra covered with straw is enough to serve as a small shelter from rain.
Between the refugee shacks, disputes over food, con-artistry, or theft frequently erupt, not five steps away, soldiers in chainmail and red-and-white checkered tabards chat and patrol, ignoring the chaos.
"...Reward for participation in the Secret Faction, heretics and witch followers—information providers will receive 50 dinars and ten loaves of bread..."
On top of the millstone, a black-robed monk held a vertical scroll, loudly reciting the ignored bounty notice.
The apathetic refugees trudged around the millstone, striving toward the relief tents.
They must hurry, arriving late ans no food, for Bishop Durdafer’s daily ration only feeds a fifth of them.
Behind the tents is the towering Gulag Monastery.
A thin rain mist blurred the outline of the monastery, washing the crevices of its square stones, the slender columns and spires of flying arches swaying in the smoky rain.
Raindrops fell on the mosaic stained glass beneath the semi-circular pillars, painting irregular marks.
On the second floor of the monastery lies a room called the "Dining Room," a scripture transcription room, used by Bishop Durdafer for prayers.
Compared to the corpse stench and mold outside in the rain, the transcription room was filled with the aroma of roast chicken, ad, and white bread.
Rows of scrolls displayed on shelves, thick with dust, the walls adorned with unique carvings and exquisite tapestries, showcasing the glory of Miseria, golden and platinum, and amber crosses are of course indispensable.
In the transcription room, the sloped writing desk was gone, replaced by a large rectangular flat writing table, indicating the laborious tasks of His Excellency the Bishop.
Sitting on either side of the table were two figures facing each other.
"Ah?" The demon hunter Jilo, who had just settled on the bench, sprang up, "Priest, you’re sure it was the knight you knew? A body that’s been in water too long will bloat, maybe it’s a mistake?"
Sitting opposite the demon hunter was Priest Darduff from Tree Hedge Village, wearing a small rimless cap, his smile etched in the folds, his squinting eyes often obscured his gaze.
Stuffing a roast chicken leg into his mouth, his fat hand slapped the table in displeasure, Darduff mumbled indistinctly, "No mistake, before the flood, he often ca to discuss matters with , many here know him, I had the Liu Ying who knew him verify, it’s him."
"Miseria above." Sipping ad to calm his nerves, the white-haired demon hunter crossed himself with a finger on his forehead, "It’s such a sha for such a noble to be murdered."
"May his soul find eternal peace in the Holy Father’s embrace," Darduff coughed, "Yet the issue is, he did not die a natural death summoned by the Creator; he t a violent end, have you examined his body?"
"I have, I think it’s a riot by mobs since he had over a hundred wounds, all from different people stabbing."
"Mob riot? Knight Barnett possessed the third tier of knight’s breathing technique, and a master armor, he had fought in the Xilan Islands against vampire pirates, experienced, certainly not a novice knight." Darduff slowly shook his head.
Knight’s breathing technique has always been a ans for the noble groups to suppress commoners, but the tiers only define the upper limit of combat capability and not actual performance in battle.
A novice knight with tier five breathing technique might be killed by a seasoned knight with tier three, it involves experience, weapons, armor, and skill.
"It could be a demon, it could be bandits, or there might be another possibility."
Darduff paused slightly, making Jilo’s heart tremble.
"The Secret Faction and witches." Darduff’s hand feeding himself stopped, disgust lined his face, as if speaking the na was tainting.
"Witches?" Serious and calm, Jilo’s voice had a slight sharp pitch at the end.
"It’s just a possibility, I didn’t say it definitely is." Not noticing Jilo’s anomaly, Darduff spread his arms, "I don’t believe this is simply a mob uprising, the Secret Faction and witches might have stirred trouble."
"Why?"
"Oh, Jilo, my old friend, you should know, we have a dangerous witch imprisoned in our dungeon, she is not alone, she managed to hide her identity in Shangruifo County for five years, I can’t believe she has no accomplices."
Rising, the flicker of silver candlesticks swayed in the wind, Darduff walked to Jilo’s side, raising his index finger heavily, "Barnett’s death must be the work of witches! It must be the conspiracy of the Secret Faction!"
Jilo clamped his legs tightly, trying hard not to wet himself.
"So, Jilo Don Kamado, in the na of Miseria, I entrust you with this sacred and perilous task: to uncover the cause of Barnett’s death. I have sealed off the information to prevent anyone from warning them. Once the rain stops a bit, you’ll take a boat over there to investigate the situation. I’ll allocate a team to assist you."
Jilo could no longer speak; his voice was stuck in his throat. He could only nod numbly.
"Hmm! Then I’ll leave this matter to you."
Darduff looked at the emotionless, stern Demon Hunter before him, whose two scars crossed his right eye, and was very pleased.
Among the many gamblers, drunks, and demon hunters he had t, this Jilo was the most reliable.
If Durdafer could be promoted this ti, continuing cooperation with him might not be a bad idea.
He turned around and took out a bottle of fine wine produced by the Chuck Monastery from the cabinet behind him, along with two bone china goblets, pouring a cup for himself and Jilo.
"Alright, don’t wear a long face, have a drink. You’ve made ritorious service twice in a row, enough for you to be promoted to Wolf Castle." Darduff raised the goblet towards Jilo, "When you return, I’ll write you a promotion report, Toast! (Elvish for cheers)"
"Toast!" Jilo drank the cup without tasting it.
With a faint sll of urine, Jilo left.
After Jilo left, a hook-nosed monk imdiately entered the room.
He glanced back at the departing Jilo, then at the frowning Darduff, and whispered, "Sir, that Barnett is just a country knight. Is it necessary to be this attentive?"
"What do you understand? Get out!"
Holding his belly, Darduff paced back and forth twice in the scriptorium, finally making up his mind.
"Floods, famine, Witch Secret Faction, it really is a troubleso ti."
Glancing at the red circle on the calendar on the wall, Darduff donned an exquisite cloak embroidered with triangles and vine geotry.
Exiting the scriptorium, he summoned two Ard Monks and two Guards. Darduff opened the small door at the end of the corridor, raised a torch, traversed the damp mossy steps, and entered the dark dungeon.
The torchlight made the dungeon slightly warr.
Several mosquitoes and flies flew in the air, and behind sturdy iron bars, a slender, tall figure huddled in a corner.
"Witch!" A guard tapped on the iron bars.
The figure did not respond.
Through the gap between the bars, Darduff’s face lit up with a gentle smile: "Witch, I’ll ask you one last ti, where did that thing go? If you tell , though I can’t let you go, I can at least ensure you live comfortably in the cell for the rest of your life."
No response.
"This is your last chance, don’t be ungrateful."
The witch, with her back to them, continued to ignore him.
"Is she still alive?" Darduff asked the guard beside him.
The guard took down a whip hanging on the wall, maneuvered the whip handle through the bars skillfully, and lashed out fiercely.
"Snap--"
After the explosion-like sound of the whip eting flesh, the body instantly went rigid, clutching the spot where the whip had struck, uttering a muffled "mmm" of pain.
"You son of a witch!" The guard was about to claim credit but was kicked in the waist by an Ard Monk beside him, "Didn’t you see Priest Darduff is here? What if that blow drew blood and infected Priest Darduff?"
The guard chuckled apologetically and tossed the whip into a nearby bucket of Holy Water.
"Still not cooperating?" Darduff continued to smile amiably at the witch, still receiving no response.
"Alright then." After a long silence, Darduff ran out of patience, his slanted eyes casting a venomous light: "Strict vigilance during this period, and as soon as the rain stops, pour ten tis the Holy Water into her, make her an idiot, hmph, such a waste!"
He knocked on the bars once more, his face displaying a rare viciousness.
"I’ve given you a chance, witch. You’d better think carefully, for I won’t be coming down to see you again until the rain stops."
The torchlight and footsteps gradually faded away, and only then did a pair of red eyes slowly open in the dark corner of the dungeon.
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