Chapter 137: Chapter 137

"It's clear that since the second half of this year, a series of major incidents have occurred in the diocese, one after another. This can be seen as a warning to us from the Sage. In the foreseeable future, there will likely be many more events like these. We must be vigilant, always vigilant!"

He had a point. Jenkins even suspected that every incident that had unfolded on the stage of Nolan City was somehow connected to his transmigration here. But without evidence, he wasn't about to pin the blame on himself. Perhaps Nolan City was just having a run of bad luck.

Jenkins recounted the events of the night he escorted the Soul Box. Regarding the actions of the undead knights, Captain Bincy, like Hathaway, believed they were not there to help at all, but rather to obtain more demon fire seeds to cultivate more of their own kind.

As for the Cursed Item Jenkins had encountered, Captain Bincy actually knew about it.

"Oh, you ran into it too? That's A-11-2-3301, the Malicious Coachman. Quite a few people have encountered it recently, but don't worry. This one is different from the Young Flower Seller last month. You can just ignore him."

"Is he very dangerous?"

"He can transport any passenger who wishes to board to any corner of the world, but they must pay a certain fare."

"Gold pounds? Crowns?"

A mortal's mind can only bear a limited amount of knowledge—that line, too, came from the teachings of the Sage. But it wasn't aimed at ordinary people; it was meant for Enchanters. The teachings encouraged common folk to pursue knowledge but warned Enchanters against memorizing too much lore of a supernatural nature.

Jenkins had always thought this made sense, but it was only after hearing the whispers several times that he truly understood the oppressive weight of such knowledge on the soul.

Come to think of it, today was the last day of the month.

Bishop Parrold was waiting for Jenkins in the courtyard behind the main hall of the church. When Jenkins found him, he was smiling down at a cat, which in turn was looking up at a massive ornament on the church's roof.

"Chocolate, what are you doing all the way out here?"

Jenkins hurried over and scooped the cat into his arms.

"Chocolate seems a bit more intelligent than before,"

the Bishop remarked. He recognized the cat, as Jenkins had brought it to the church when it was just a kitten.

"I've been feeding him some special potions,"

Jenkins replied. The two of them began to walk along the cloister, not heading anywhere in particular, just talking.

"Little Jenkins, you are my pride."

Jenkins didn't reply, unsure of what to say.

"I am proud of you. Truly. My boy, the title of Saint is not something just anyone can receive, not even for offering something special to the Sage. Ultimately, the decision to grant you this honor was the Sage's. I am proud of you, Jenkins."

As he spoke, tears welled in his eyes and streamed down his face. Waving off Jenkins's attempt to comfort him, the old man took a deep breath, gently dabbed his cheeks with a handkerchief from his pocket, and composed himself.

"Today is a good day. A day that will be recorded in the history of the Church. When future generations read our history, they will see the names of everyone who was present today. Alright, enough of that. There was another reason I wanted to see you."

They turned a corner, nodded in unison to a passing nun carrying a flowerpot, and then resumed their conversation.

"You received the title of honorary baron, correct?"

Jenkins briefly explained the morning's events. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novｅlfire.net

"Douglas Gerrod? It was him who came? Oh, I see."

The Bishop's tone was at first questioning, but he quickly understood. As the man who managed the Church's secular authority in the Nolan diocese, he was sensitive to such matters.

He gestured for Jenkins to turn right, into the library. After a brief word with the librarian, he explained in a low voice,

"You should know that on the night of the lockdown, the blasphemous creatures killed the descendants of a great many noble families. While they weren't necessarily the heirs, for such a major event to happen in Nolan City, the royal family naturally had to send someone to offer their condolences. Especially since the truth cannot be revealed to the common people. Sending him was quite reasonable."

"Were there really that many who died?"

The old man stroked his beard, his eyes clouded with gloom. "Most weren't killed by the blasphemous creatures directly. They were transformed into something inhuman and then killed by our people. And that's not even mentioning the third son of the duke who started it all. The children of city hall officials, the descendants of various nobles—they were all involved. Oh, and a cousin of young Duke Francis died as well."

It took Jenkins a moment to recall who the Bishop was talking about—the young man in charge of handling the Francis ducal estate. He was surprised he was still in Nolan after almost a month.

The library, open to all believers, wasn't very crowded. Most of the patrons recognized Jenkins and the Bishop, setting down their books to greet them as they passed. A portly middle-aged man bowed so deeply that his glasses slipped from his face, cracked on the floor, and he let out an embarrassed laugh.

As he instinctively placed a misplaced book back on its shelf, Jenkins's eyes fell upon a thick, black, metal-edged volume on a nearby rack: "The Dark Era: A History and General Knowledge of Heretical Cults." He asked softly,

"Weren't they on their guard at all? Doesn't the Church often preach that bloody sacrifices and strange rituals are the hallmarks of terrifying heretics?"

This was an age where the gods still made their power known. Even as mortal steam power grew ever stronger and steam trains connected the three great kingdoms, religion remained the most powerful force, one capable of challenging the authority of kings.

"The nobility of today... hmph!"

The old man showed a rare expression of contempt, then shook his head apologetically at Jenkins.

"Not everyone is as devout as you, my boy. For those great figures who sleep on beds of gold pounds and can decide the city's future with a few strokes of a pen, the life you're accustomed to—one of devout study and timely prayer—is unimaginable. Mortals are ignorant, which is why we who believe in the Sage must spread the light of wisdom. I heard from Oliver a few days ago that you've been at your post for some time now. Your lessons in etiquette, horsemanship, grammar, mathematics, and combat will be starting soon. Study hard. It is the greatest respect you can show the Sage."