Distribution and Backing

The faint scent of sacred incense rose from the burner as it smoldered. Its smoke curled through the air but never dispersed.

Bishop Castian sat upright in the broad, high-backed chair at the head of the tent.

The Holy Silver Scepter lay across his knees, and his spotted fingers tapped lightly along its cold patterns.

"Tap, tap, tap."

The monotonous tapping was the only clear sound in the tent. Each strike drove like a nail into the taut nerves of the lords seated below him.

Apart from that, only a few breaths remained, each desperately muffled.

Castian's cold, sharp eyes settled on Eric and Thomas.

"Before the Holy City Army's knights bore down on you, the two of you rolled around in the mud like maggots fighting over rotten meat." The bishop's voice was quiet, but cold enough to pierce bone.

"You threw the dignity bestowed by the Sacred Flame into the muck and treated its glory like a rag for wiping your boots. If the defense line weren't short of men, the two of you should have been in Roland's pile of ashes."

Eric's and Thomas's legs went weak. All color drained from their faces, and cold sweat ran down their cheeks.

The bishop gave a cold snort and looked away.

The scrutiny that had nearly crushed the breath from their lungs eased a little, then fell on Kevin.

"As for you, Kevin, at least you remembered you were a noble and didn't fall apart on the spot like they did." Castian's tone remained indifferent. "But that is nowhere near enough."

Kevin lowered his head, fists clenched, not daring to answer.

"That little bit of cleverness might serve you well in a place like the Royal Capital." Open mockery colored the bishop's voice.

"But at the Eternal Night Wall, all your schemes will do is let you choose where to bury your bones."

As his words faded, the air in the tent seemed to grow colder still.

Only when the bishop's gaze reached Sean did his ice-carved face soften slightly, a rare sight.

"Sean Greenwood." Castian gave a small nod.

"You held your line, kept the camp's chaos from tying your hands, and didn't lose a single person. In this entire camp last night, you were the only one who acted like a true Long Night Lord."

It was the only thing he said that could be called praise.

Castian then announced how Roland's estate would be handled.

"The more than two hundred knights left by the Augustine Lineage have all been entered into the Criminal Register. As for the baggage, provisions, and wagons they left behind..."

The bishop raised a hand and pointed at Sean.

"You choose first, Sean. You may take half." His tone was casual. "Kevin may choose half of what remains."

Castian did not even glance at Eric or Thomas.

"As for whatever is left after that, you two can divide it yourselves."

Those few words stripped the two men of their dignity like a knife.

Eric's and Thomas's faces shifted between livid and deathly pale.

The venom in their eyes nearly spilled over, but fear sealed their throats. They even kept their breathing shallow, terrified of making a sound.

Standing to one side, Kevin stared at Sean's back. It felt as though a heavy hammer had struck his chest.

His instincts as a noble let him see the true meaning of this division at once: Bishop Castian was publicly backing Sean.

He was raising this illegitimate son to become the true leader of their group.

Kevin knew that once Sean took command of those men, his strength would far surpass that of the other three.

Bishop Castian surveyed the varied expressions below him, and his dry lips slowly curved into a smile without a trace of warmth.

"The Augustine Lineage's mansions in the royal capital, its underground vaults, and its private soldiers and serfs scattered across the provinces have, as of moments ago, all passed into the hands of the Holy War Council."

The bishop's aged fingers tapped lightly on the head of his scepter.

"Every last one of those people will be branded as criminals. This vast worldly fortune will be converted into sacred silver, provisions, and arms.

"Based on your conduct from here on, I will gradually allocate those supplies to everyone present."

At those words, the air in the tent changed at once.

Eric and Thomas, who moments ago had still been trapped beneath the shadow of Roland's gruesome death, snapped their backs straight.

On this wasteland, where Aberrants could tear them apart at any moment, one more mouthful of food or one more steel sword meant one more breath of life.

"Don't celebrate too soon."

Castian's cold voice cut through their quickening breaths.

"Since you've reached out to accept the Sacred Flame's gifts, the Lineages behind you should show some sincerity in return." The bishop leaned forward slightly, his shadow swallowing the entire table.

"Return to your tents and write to your Lineages at once. Tell your fathers and brothers to double, at minimum, the number of veteran knights, blacksmiths, and laborers they send to the Graymist Defense Zone before spring."

The lords understood the meaning behind his words almost at the same time, and they were beside themselves with joy. The bishop meant to have the Church pressure their Lineages into sending more troops and support to aid them.

The pressure would be pushed back onto their distant Lineages. Those who stayed here would receive only soldiers and supplies.

And if anyone back home objected? The Church did not care about such things.

No one dared refuse. In this world, the Church stood supreme; even nobles were no more than slightly larger ants.

The suffocating atmosphere left by that gruesome death slowly dispersed amid this naked exchange of interests.

Eric swallowed. His eyes were already growing red.

If he could secure those supplies, he might expand the number of Third Tier knights under his command to two hundred. Then the men he had lost yesterday would hardly matter.

Tap.

The bishop's scepter struck the ground lightly. The dull thud cut Eric's fantasy short.

Castian leaned back in his chair, his voice cold and merciless once more. "Eric, Thomas, stop trembling. The one thing the Eternal Night Wall has no shortage of is worthless men who do nothing but wail."

He seemed about to say more, but shook his head in the end. "Enough. You may leave. Shien, stay."

The two men acted as though they had been granted a pardon. They scrambled to their feet and stumbled out of the tent, not daring to linger.

Only Kevin stopped before crossing the threshold.

He turned back and looked long and hard at Sean, who still stood where he was.

Kevin's own forces had suffered terrible losses, while Sean's were almost unscathed.

And with the bishop's undisguised favoritism just now...

The boy, only fourteen years old, now stood firmly above them all.

Kevin swallowed the bitter tangle of feelings in his throat and gave Sean a slight nod.

Then he turned and walked into the cold morning mist outside.

The heavy curtain fell, shutting out every sound from outside. In the spacious tent, all that remained was the occasional tiny spark crackling in the incense burner.