Imperial Calendar, October 6, 1444, early morning, 440 miles away from Joan of Arc Castle.
A sharp whistle sounded in the campsite, signaling morning prayers, as per the schedule, the vast citizens of the Pope Country needed to wake up at this ti.
The first light of gold appeared, and milky white smoke rose straight up to the sky from beneath the food tents.
The elders of the Pope Country erged from the straw huts, keeping their faces taut to maintain dignity, blowing the whistles in their mouths, commanded their fifty or sixty citizens to get up.
Soldiers in black cloaks stepped out of the camp, and villagers wearing various clothes also erged from the straw huts.
They shivered, forming a few ranks in the chilly air, and under the lead of the elders, walked towards the food tents.
It was another new day.
Morning prayer, feeding the horses, treading songs, breakfast.
Everything proceeded in an orderly manner, almost becoming a chanical routine.
Most villagers had sowhat adapted to this life which required little thought.
No hooligans causing trouble, no noble priests collecting taxes, no need to worry about what to do tomorrow.
As long as the ten households listen to the hundred households, the hundred households listen to the Pope, and work diligently, they could receive rewards and promotions.
At this mont, the power center of the entire Great Pope Country, the great Holy Grandson, Eye of God, Chosen Pope, Grand Marshal, first champion of the Special Knight Competition—His Majesty Horn, was sitting in a carriage, sniffing, eating dry bread.
His thigh was wrapped in herbs, and he was even grimacing while picking at a hangnail on his chin.
"His Holiness the Holy Grandson, His Holiness the Holy Grandson." A Public Register Farr squeezed through the crowd, waving a greeting to Horn.
Two Imperial Guards imdiately blocked him with their long spears.
Through the crossed spears, the Public Register Farr asked, "Your Majesty, where did Master Knight Danji go? He arranged to have a roasted rabbit with yesterday."
"Danji didn’t make it to the suspension bridge, he went on ahead. Don’t worry, you’ll see him again in the future."
"What a pity, I even saved half a rabbit’s leg for him." The Public Register Farr smacked his lips, carrying the half rabbit leg, and walked back to his hundred households.
Watching the departing back, Horn turned his head to the elders gathered around.
"Any unusual occurrences?"
"Last night I observed the celestial phenona and found the imperial star wavering, it’s truly an ominous sign." An elder said worriedly.
"Were there any stars last night? Get out of the way, let speak with His Holiness the Pope." Pushing aside the verbose elder, another thin elder reported, "Our few ten households have no issues, it’s just getting colder, need more clothing, quite a few caught colds."
"Alright, Madlan, Madlan! Stop ssing with that needlework, you can’t learn it, go call the tailoring team, make everyone a cloak or vest or sothing, hmm, to differentiate, make vests."
"Got it."
"Is there anything else? If not, we’ll depart as planned yesterday."
According to the regulations designed by Horn, every afternoon when the camp is set up, twenty elders, two Hundred Households Captains, and two Legion Commanders must attend the parliantary eting in the camp.
After determining the marching order and defense situation for the next day, they make early arrangents respectively, and the morning eting the next day is used for small adjustnts.
Of course, as the Pope, Horn’s command authority is also unlimited, so once the whistle is blown, the entire country must listen to .
"Then, let’s set off."
With the whistle blowing, Jeanne took the lead clumsily on her horse, raising the battle flag in her hand to guide the way.
Behind her were three brigades of the Imperial Guard.
Behind the Imperial Guard were armored war chariots, flanked by elder-led citizen teams.
On both sides of the teams were the Black Hat Army tasked with covering, and lastly, two brigades at the rear.
Ahead from here lay the mountainous roads, the narrowest part could only allow three people to walk side by side.
To let the carriage pass, the horses must first go ahead, then the carriage must be pushed manually, or else it would get stuck there.
And unfortunately, Horn’s thigh was injured by the Holy Grandson, so he could only sit in the carriage, otherwise, he would normally walk.
The carriage wheels rolled over the ground with a rattling sound, and with the jolting of the carriage, Horn already started feeling nauseous.
"When did a tombstone appear here, and why is there a rabbit leg on it, who left it there?"
"Can anyone read what’s written on it?"
"Ugh, it seems like, it seems like, oh... I don’t know."
"Move aside, let , it is written—"
"Here lies the last knight on the continent."
............
When the first rays of morning sunlight fell on the Honey River, many refugees had already awakened from their slumber.
They stood up from the straw or even the mud, but compared to before, their once gaunt faces now appeared fuller.
After all, ever since the thod to detoxify potato roots was discovered, they might still go hungry, but at least they wouldn’t starve to death.
Although the creek and forest were patrolled by the Forest Patrol Officer, now with nothing to lose, what did they have to fear?
"Where do you co from?" asked the young refugee, carrying a basket full of potato roots, as he stood in front of two new refugees lying on the ground, unable to move.
"Honey River Town," rasped the elderly man, his voice hissing like broken bellows.
Taking a potato root from the basket, the refugee nad Thomas tossed it to the two who lay limp and unable to walk: "Eat."
"This is a potato root." The elder was shocked as he picked it up, "Are you trying to poison ?"
"Nonsense!" Thomas’s eyes widened, "This is a Saint Sun Gen."
"Saint Sun Gen?" The elder hesitantly caressed it, still not daring to take a bite.
Thomas stepped forward, took it, and bit into it, crunching as he chewed.
"Hey, hey, I never said I didn’t want it," the elder quickly regretted as he watched Thomas chew and swallow in large mouthfuls.
Thomas helped him up and stuffed the half-eaten root into his arms: "Co to our camp, so we can look after each other."
The elder took two bites, then broke off two pieces and fed them to his young grandson before tremblingly following Thomas.
"Brother Thomas," after exchanging nas, the elder asked, "What exactly is this Saint Sun Gen?"
"The Saint Sun Gen are potato roots detoxified by the Holy Grandson. Nowadays, in this great autumn, these roots are everywhere," Thomas said while supporting the elder’s arm, "if it weren’t for the Saint Sun Gen, we would have starved to death long ago."
"And who is the Holy Grandson?"
"You don’t know? Hasn’t this news spread around here?"
The elder sheepishly scratched his head: "I really haven’t heard of it."
"The Holy Grandson is a child from the Thousand River Valley adopted by Miseria out of pity. He is the legendary Chosen Pope of the Thousand River Valley.
It’s said that His Holiness the Chosen Pope Saint Grandson is nine feet tall, with arms thicker than an ordinary person’s thigh, capable of uprooting a great locust tree with one hand."
"Wow, with such might, how could anyone resist?" The elder was astounded.
Thomas was about to respond when suddenly the sound of a whip cracking through the air ca from behind.
His expression changed, and Thomas imdiately pulled the elder and the child to lie down behind the long grass.
But a boy picking up horse manure by the roadside was not so lucky.
Hearing the sound of wheels, he tried to flee, but a bolt from a crossbow on the side of the carriage struck his back, and he fell rigid to the ground.
The carriage sped past in a hurry.
"The road is getting more crowded with refugees," Banifus said impatiently, lowering the curtain after glancing at the bloodied boy through the window.
"What’s the matter?"
"It’s all because of that band of short-haired thieves; otherwise, there wouldn’t be so many refugees."
"Short-haired thieves?" the black-robed monk raised an eyebrow, "What are they?"
"That’s just a nickna for that group of heretical Pseudo-Popes." Speaking of those rascals, Banifus’s usually calm face turned green.
"I’ve asked around; when those rebels join their church, they must cut their hair, so we call them short-haired."
"What do they have to do with these refugees?" the black-robed monk asked.
"Oh, Priest Mizam, you may not know this," Banifus returned to his calm deanor, "without the potato roots, those Public Register Farrs and refugees would have long starved to death and wouldn’t have the strength to cause trouble."
Mizam laughed heartily: "That’s true, Bishop Banifus. It’s not that the prince is arrogant or dismissive; if your territory didn’t have that band of short-haired ones, he’d be quite willing to attend your banquet."
Banifus’s smile froze for a mont. That day, he had waited half a day with a table full of good wine and food, only to receive the ssage "Not interested in the feast."
He even opened a bottle of expensive blue-blooded grape wine.
But he still managed a smile: "Without eliminating the rebels, how could there be a feast? This ti, as Prince Charles chases down the Secret Faction rebels, I must lend a hand.
I’ve already sent 500 rcenaries and ard farrs to search for the Pseudo-Pope in the high mountain plateau as reinforcents for the prince’s strategy."
"Good, very good."
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