When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

"Is this Pope too shameless? He actually came up with a best two out of three setup?"

The villagers complained as they bent down to pick up potato roots from the stream.

The villagers next to them echoed in agreement, starting their daily rant against the Pope.

After all, since Armand became a gold-medal scripture chanter, his daily activity has been to fabricate fake news and small jokes about the Pope of the Holy See.

Like, in the Holy See City, the happiest thing is when the religious inquisition knocks on the door and you can say, "You've got the wrong house, Tom is next door."

Or that the most common thing in the Holy See City is temporary difficulty.

But when it came to promoting Horn himself, it became stories of bravely admitting mistakes after chopping down a cherry tree, or meticulously washing dishes seven times for hygiene.

Constantly giving the Pope a little Gulag shock, Gulag meals are free, and there are oilskin packages hidden in the Gulag sewers.

It must be said that the speed and quality of Horn's production of these little jokes far exceeded the expectations of Armand and others.

These jokes have spread like a virus throughout the entire territory of the Great Gulag Papal State, and everyone knows them by heart.

In these little jokes, the fear of the church is gradually disintegrating amidst jokes and war.

"Is the Pope going to start playing race walking now that he sees he can't beat us?"

"Hilarious, how could the church lords be faster than us? I might be a little afraid of knightly competition, but running away? I'm their ancestor."

In the distance, under the towering monastery walls, milky white smoke rises from the thatched sheds.

Carrying baskets on their backs, filled with potato roots, the villagers continued to talk as they walked.

Since Horn announced to them that there would be a second special race walking event, this event has become the biggest topic of discussion for everyone in the Gulag Papal State these past two days.

"What is the church anyway? How many Popes have been replaced in the Holy See City, one after another? Have they changed? It's just the same old wine in new bottles."

"What was that old Pope's name again? John VIII, right? Did he have the ability? This kind of battle itself wasn't well-founded, and he's still being shameless, he has no face."

"What if he doesn't admit defeat in the end?"

"Humph! Not admit defeat? First ask if the flail in my hand agrees." A Black Hat soldier waved the flail in his hand.

Another Black Hat soldier who had just joined the army said with admiration, "Our Great Papal State is invincible."

"It has to be our own Pope from the Thousand River Valley."

Strolling along the path in the woods, the villagers talked and laughed, frogs hopping back and forth on the path.

They could see the smoke there, indicating that dinner was about to begin.

Smoke, for many vagrants and serfs, is a rather unfamiliar term.

Because for them, firewood is also an additional expense.

Often, they take their grain to the mill to exchange for bread, so they don't have to spend extra money on firewood.

On the lord's land, even a newly grown shrub branch belongs to someone.

In their Papal State, they can eat hot meals every day, and they can eat their fill, and they get rewarded for their labor every day.

Lazy people are punished, diligent people are rewarded, and if they encounter unfair things, Lord Danji will handle them fairly, without showing any favoritism.

When they return to their small sheds, they can sing hymns together, drink hot soup, and talk and tell jokes happily.

Generals, marshals, elders, bishops, those distant terms are so close that they can see them when they look up.

If someone had told them a month ago, they would never have believed they would have such a life.

That's why they firmly believe in those Holy See jokes and Holy Grandson stories, because the Holy Grandson really gave them enough to eat and good clothes to wear.

"Eighty mu(亩: unit of measurement for land area) of good land, and a gentle mother-in-law..."

"Children can grow up smoothly to adulthood, and when they reach adulthood, they can build houses..."

"Grow your own grain, and you'll get more if you work harder..."

Sitting on the hillside, F里克 hummed along.

"Are you slacking off here? F里克!" F里克's hand holding the wine glass trembled, almost spilling the wine.

Madelan sat down helplessly beside F里克: "You can't always slack off like this, even if you're my own uncle."

"You brat, which eye of yours saw me slacking off? I finished my work before I came here to rest, don't look down on me." F里克 straightened his back and cursed angrily.

Madelan glanced at him sideways: " Humorous."

F里克 did not respond to Madelan's mockery, he just sat upright on the muddy grass, looking into the distance.

The setting sun appeared and disappeared, shining on F里克's shoulders, the evening breeze gently rising, shaking the grass leaves on the ground.

F里克 hunched his back, like a stone statue carved from black stone.

"Kid, have you thought about what to do in the future?"

"Just be a good cardinal for now, F里克 old man, you're not still afraid of the church, are you?"

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F里克 did not speak, he still held up that glass of wine.

"Do you think Misaila is really kind?"

"Why are you suddenly talking about this kind of topic, do you not want your life?"

Turning his head, F里克 chuckled: "If Misaila was really kind, why would you be a fugitive? Only I know how great your bread bakes."

"When these things are over, when Dean Hu Annuo clears my name, I'll open a bakery, F里克, I'll be generous and allow you to be my apprentice."

"Get lost, get lost." F里克 cursed unhappily.

He looked up again, an unknown migratory bird flew across the sky, he closed his eyes, but could only hear the croaking of frogs, and the rustling of the wind through the trees.

"F里克 old man, what's wrong with you?"

"In the beginning, we just wanted to live." F里克 swayed the wine glass in his hand, "That dog Durdafu wouldn't release grain, so we stormed his monastery, what crime did we commit?"

The earthy smell of grass and trees filled his nose.

"Later, Durdafu died, but he died as he deserved, he starved so many people to death, and we didn't kill him, what crime did we commit?"

F里克's neck was already red before he even drank any wine.

"They didn't care about anything, they just sent troops to suppress us, we just resisted a little, they wanted to kill me, couldn't I block them?"

"F里克 old man, what are you talking about? This is just a special race walking competition..." Madelan quickly stepped forward and supported F里克's back.

But F里克 still didn't care, and continued to roar at the empty valley in front of him:

"What have we become, even if you said to put me in prison, or, or exile me, I wouldn't have any objections, I surrendered, but they still want my head, they still want to come, they still want to come..."

"I just want to live, why is it so difficult? What crime did we commit! What crime!"

F里克's voice echoed and drifted away in the valley.

"What crime did we commit?" The dark beer in the Chinese fir cup floated with murky foam, F里克 took a sip of wine and lowered his head.

The echo in the valley gave him the answer.

"What crime?"

ps there will be another chapter later, it's half written, I'm going to have dinner first.