When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

In the midday sun, the falcons raised by the noble lords still soared among the towering spires.

Roughly a third of the way up these towers were layers of red rooftops, varying in height.

Fences and low walls formed streets between the crowded wooden and stone houses.

On the pitted and uneven roads, vagrants and livestock mingled, all coated in the same shade of dung-yellow.

When they stood shoulder to shoulder, it was often impossible to distinguish man from beast.

In the concentric circles radiating from the High Fort Church, the outermost ring beyond the inner residential areas was occupied by various workshops.

These included paper mills, leather workshops, blacksmiths, general stores, and, most abundantly, dye works and breweries.

The Thousand River Valley exported over fifty percent of the Kingdom of Laya's dyes and was the kingdom's second-largest exporter of spirits.

Nestled among these workshops was the crooked Mermaid Tavern.

Guild masters with some spare coins during their midday break would come to this small tavern for lunch and drinks.

Apprentices who had just started would stand and drink; paper mill workers wore black, brewers wore blue, dye workers wore colorful clothes, and blacksmiths were bare-chested.

In the tavern's dim sunlight, they leaned together, voices thick with the telling of strange tales and complaints about their wives and children.

"There are more and more vagrants on the streets," a blacksmith, just entering the tavern, eagerly grabbed a drink to wet his throat and said to the owner, "Bacon and meat rolls, Old Deng."

The tavern owner slammed a plate with fried bacon and meat rolls, poured a spoonful of sauce over it, and casually tossed it in front of the blacksmith.

"Things have been increasingly unsettled lately," Segar, the general store owner, mumbled indistinctly, having spooned a piece of blood pudding into his mouth, now full.

The tavern owner, Old Deng, was still clearing empty glasses: "Indeed."

"Hey, have you heard about that false Pope of Gulag?"

"Didn't Archbishop Barnifos send nearly a thousand men to suppress the bandits?"

Ever since the news spread of someone claiming to be the Pope, the citizens of High Fort had been laughing at the joke.

The customer lowered his voice and said mysteriously, "They were defeated."

"Defeated? Who said that?"

"Tsk, it's all over the vagrants' grapevine, saying that the Gulag Pope is the true Pope, the Pope of the Thousand River Valley people."

Upon hearing such topics, the drowsy laborers and master craftsmen who had been leaning against the counter or tables were suddenly wide awake.

Even the customers sitting by the door tacitly closed the tavern doors.

"I'm telling you, these rumors are from the vagrants and serfs who escaped from Gulag, saying they saw with their own eyes the Church's army being instantly annihilated."

"Really?"

"Totally true, it's said to be mystical; the Gulag rebels all have lightning rods bestowed by Messala."

"I've also heard that the lightning rods are incredibly powerful, unleashing a thunderbolt with a wave, instantly killing people."

"That's nothing; let me tell you, the Gulag rebels also raised a young frost giant."

"What's that?"

"A frost giant cub, said to be less than ten years old, but already as tall as two adults."

Segar, the general store owner, said with dissatisfaction, "Aren't these all just rumors?"

"Hard to say." The tavern owner handed a beer to a new customer dressed in black. "This morning, I saw the guards arrest two gossiping vagrants. I wasn't sure before, but now I'm starting to believe it."

"Do you know what's the worst part?" The blacksmith, wearing a leather vest, stuffed a piece of bacon into his mouth and said mysteriously, "When I went to the church today, I asked Father Vesta, and do you know what he said?

He told me that the matter was just a rumor, impossible, absolutely fake news, and he told everyone else the same thing."

"Oh my God."

"Does the chosen Pope of the Thousand River Valley people really exist?"

"How could this happen?"

"I don't understand." A middle-aged man in black robes, who had been quietly drinking, suddenly turned sideways. "Didn't the priest say there's no such thing?"

"Oh hahaha, my friend, that's where you're wrong." A dye worker wearing a red cap laughed from the corner. "Only what the Church denies has credibility."

"Friend, you must understand that some impossible things might actually happen after the Church denies them."

"Years of experience speaking."

The tavern was immediately filled with laughter.

Unlike other places, High Fort City was still under the management of the Church, rather than a city council like Ayer Free City.

So the craftsmen here had some goodwill towards the Pope, but were very disgusted with the local Church.

"Who cares? Once Prince Condé's Holy Knights arrive, they will surely be reduced to ashes." Segar had always been disgusted with secret societies. "I just hope His Highness can come quickly; any longer, and I'll go bankrupt."

"Our Defender of the Faith (Barnifos's nickname) is not having a good time," The blacksmith, having downed his black beer, wiped the foam from his mustache. "He wanted to show off in front of Prince Condé, but ended up exposing his behind."

"Hahahaha."

Everyone burst into laughter, and the tavern was once again filled with a cheerful atmosphere.

"No need to look for it." A middle-aged man wrapped in a hermit's robe and hood pushed away his empty cup and plate, threw a denarius on the table, and stood up to leave.

But the tavern owner stepped forward and grabbed him.

"Hey, who told you it was one denarius?" The tavern owner tapped the cedar wood table with his thick knuckles. "Two denarii."

"Wasn't it always this price before?" The middle-aged man frowned, confused.

"Before was before, and now is now. Look at this, where can you find wine after the flood? You think it's expensive, I think it's even more expensive."

As if resigned to his fate, the middle-aged man fumbled in his pocket for a long time before pulling out thirty coppers: "I only have these…"

"Oh, that's not even enough for one denarius. Fine, fine, count me unlucky." Snatching the coppers from the middle-aged man, the owner waved impatiently, "Bring me the rest next time, get out, get out."

"Speaking of which, Segar, your distant nephew, is his name Horne, right? Has he returned?"

"I'm worried to death. His home is near Gulag Monastery; he might have been washed away by the flood. I was counting on him to provide for me in my old age."

"Don't be so pessimistic, Segar; maybe he was captured by that false Pope."

"Hahahaha!"

Ignoring the crude words of the craftsmen behind him, the middle-aged man in black walked out of the tavern, and a guard, also dressed in black, approached him.

"Your Highness, those drinks and meals are worth at most one denarius. These people are clearly insulting you; should I…"

"What do they know?" Cutting off the guard's words, Prince Condé looked up at the scorching sun. "This year's season is really abnormal; heavy rain in summer, autumn like summer."

Pulling up his hood to cover his face, Prince Condé pressed his hand on the guard's shoulder: "Let's go, we'll go to the church to see Barnifos."

A small town of two or three thousand people clearly could not supply a legion of nearly eight thousand, so Prince Condé had the nine ordinance companies set up camp in the wilderness.

He himself rode an old horse, bringing only two guards, and arrived at High Fort ahead of time.

After all, this was practically his hometown, and Prince Condé still had quite a bit of affection for it. He didn't want to ruin it, ruining his reputation here.

"You go and notify Barnifos first, tell him not to make a fuss. I suspect there are secret society spies in High Fort City.

Tell him to prepare all the information on the Gulag rebels in advance, and I'll take it and leave.

Also, tell him that I won't waste much time with him; I'm not interested in the banquets he's preparing."