After resolving the trivial matters in the Holy Arrival Hall, Horn rested for ten minutes before setting off again for Lubyanka Monastery.
After more than half a year of research, the Cheka finally managed to successfully develop the first batch of Holy Oil.
Sitting in the carriage, Horn watched as the walls of Lubyanka Monastery on the hill grew closer. The few Holy Gun Cavalry mbers beside him were too nervous to speak.
Horn couldn’t help but find it amusing, as in the eyes of most of the Joan of Arc Castle people, Lubyanka was clearly demonized.
"Your Grace." René ticulously saluted Horn as he disembarked, "Please follow ."
"How’s the quality of the produced Holy Oil?"
"It’s strange. You’ll see when I show you." René didn’t elaborate due to the legal issues concerning the Salvation Army.
Whether intentionally or unintentionally selling it as a mystery, René led Horn’s group through the courtyard garden of the monastery.
Following René into the attic, there were several large pots and tables with copper alchemical vessels placed upon them.
On the ground were two large boxes, filled to the brim with Holy Oil Jars.
The production process of these Holy Oils was very simple—just pour a lump of Holy Oil into Holy Water, and recite scriptures over it every day.
After a month or two, the Holy Water would gradually gelatinize, and then a layer of solidified white grease would form on the surface of the water.
Mix this white grease with herbs, and you’ll create the key item for using all Divine Arts and Blessings—the Holy Oil.
Horn once doubted that the Holy Oil was the source of Divine Art energy, but there was no evidence to prove it.
The source of Divine Art energy was a mystery not only to Horn but also to the monks.
They knew how to use it without understanding why, as long as they followed the book, applied Holy Oil, and perford the ritual, they could cast Blessings.
The unique aspect of this extraordinary power was that there was almost no physical sensation.
For example, witches could intuitively sense the existence of Mana and use Mana to construct spells.
For instance, knights could clearly feel the rhythm of their muscles and breathing, enabling them to develop nurous extraordinary martial skills.
But monks couldn’t. Most of their Divine Arts and Blessings were derived through exhaustive thods.
They relied on rote rituals and chanting, never having an intuitive feel, thus unable to invent or innovate.
The Holy Light and Echoes in the scriptures, ah, they had to be imagined by themselves.
The most absurd thing to Horn was that these monk priests turned extraordinary from mortals with almost no training.
Wizards needed ditation, knights needed training, but monks didn’t even have to drink potions.
Entering the monastery, reciting scriptures every day for seven or eight years, and practicing and familiarizing themselves with rituals, they could use Blessings.
With increased familiarity with the rituals and age, their power would naturally grow.
The breathing thod still required training, but the monastery only needed reading.
Many priests also read the Gospel daily, much like those in churches and monasteries, yet they couldn’t use Blessing Divine Arts.
Many devout nobles and fanatical believers surpassed the monks in fervor in copying and reciting the Gospel, and still, they did not gain the power to cast Blessings.
It was as if so identity recognition system existed, capable of filtering out oddities like Horn.
Initially, Horn thought the "identity recognition system" criterion was faith and devotion, but thinking about the monks’ behavior, he felt it was not.
After testing multiple tis without results, he paused that draining exercise of resources and manpower.
Anyway, the current monasteries could consistently produce monks, which sufficed for use.
He abandoned the study of Divine Arts for about half a year until Ludvik casually ntioned a secret that reignited his interest in Blessings.
This secret was simple to describe.
If monks left the monastery, even maintaining their previous level of devout living, the power of Blessings would not vanish but wouldn’t grow either.
So monks always stayed near monasteries, never straying too far, especially those mastering extraordinary powers.
With new clues, Horn planned to dispatch secret investigations and statistics on monasteries in his domain, even attempting to build his own monastery to groom a batch himself.
However, he first needed to verify whether the monastic sites occupied by the "Holy Path heretics" were still usable.
"Usable, but not usable."
"You might as well clarify."
René gestured to a timid monk who used to be the chaplain at Lubyanka Monastery and was very familiar with Holy Oil production.
"We follow every step as before; these Cheka lords can testify." The old monk rubbed his disheveled hair, "But the produced Holy Oil keeps getting worse; the first two batches were still usable; the third and fourth are nearly unusable."
"Show ." Horn moved towards the direction of the large pot.
Reaching the pot, a cross-shaped fra was soaking in the water, and several monks sat around the pot, muttering incantations.
Despite the absence of any fire or heat source, small bubbles kept surfacing in the pot.
Watching the bubbling pot, Horn furrowed his brow tightly.
Could this monastery truly identify who resides within it?
After observing the large pot for a long while, Horn inspected around but still found no clues; the procedure was too complicated, leaving him uncertain whether it was as miraculous as the monks claid.
"Later, conduct experints using four small monasteries with the variable control thod I ntioned before, to properly investigate and pinpoint the issue."
.........
After visiting Gulag Monastery’s Holy Oil production, Horn returned to Joan of Arc Castle just in ti to see Catherine off.
Workers at the pier busily transported goods while Night Watchers ford a human barricade before the boardwalk.
Standing by the pier with a Joan of Arc Castle custom-made suitcase, Catherine turned around: "Taking this far was enough. Thank you for making the ti to see off."
"How formal, it feels like saying goodbye to an old man and a child." Horn replied with a smile.
Catherine’s smile froze, and she imdiately retorted fiercely: "After all, I always have to look down to see you; it’s hard not to treat you as a junior."
"... What you said is pointless, huh." Horn denied, sowhat exasperated.
In this era, his height of one and seventy centiters wasn’t short; among ordinary n, he was considered tall.
However, apart from Hilov, all these witches were tall and lanky, making him appear short.
"Alright." Catherine glanced at the rising sails, "I must depart."
"Everything in Rapids City depends on you." Putting away his smile, Horn waved goodbye to Catherine standing at the end of the boardwalk.
"Rest assured, I won’t disappoint you." Catherine waved back, turned, and proceeded onto the ship.
But just as Catherine’s boots landed on the ship, a piercing sound approached from afar.
"Toot toot toot—"
The sharp whistle made both Horn and Catherine pause, looking toward the river. They saw a spindle-shaped small boat weaving between the barges.
The waves it stirred almost capsized the boat several tis, yet it managed to reach the shore successfully.
Monts later, several pale Salvation Army War Monks scrambled ashore without resting.
They sprinted towards the stables, running seven or eight steps before one of them pointed excitedly towards Horn’s direction: "Your Grace is over there. No need to run further."
What’s going on? Horn’s brows knitted; could Prince Kongdai have launched an attack?
"What’s the matter?" Horn t the group while Catherine followed closely.
The black-clad Black Hat Army Cultivator adjusted the hat on his head: "Your Grace, urgent news from Rapids City. Three days ago, Abbot of Blago Monastery, Ludvik, was assassinated by unknown persons."
"What?!"
Horn’s shock and Katherine’s dropping suitcase resonated simultaneously.
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