Sheen Greenwood

The distant Most Holy Origin Furnace cast a steady glow across the sky. Below, a column of more than two thousand people advanced in several sections, its head and tail nearly lost to sight.

At the front flew a banner embroidered with the Sacred Flame, marking the Holy City Army led by Bishop Castian.

They wore matching gray-white cloaks with the Holy Emblem of the Most Holy Church embroidered on their chests. The Holy Silver-coated blades of their swords and spears gave off a faint, cold gleam.

As the Church's regular army, they were well trained. Their steps were steady and in unison, and they spoke hardly a word.

Behind them came five newly appointed Long Night Lords and their attendants. By comparison, they were a sorry sight.

Knights rode on horseback, their cloaks in assorted colors and their armor in varying states of wear.

Craftsmen trudged on foot, wooden crates and iron barrels weighing on their shoulders and slowing their steps.

Several carriages were wedged into the column, with family members and clerks packed inside.

Compared with the orderly silence of the Holy City Army ahead, this part of the column looked hastily cobbled together, a jumble without rhyme or reason.

It was the third day after the investiture ceremony. They had set out from the capital of the Kingdom of Austeria as soon as it ended.

After all, every day of delay lowered their chances of surviving Blood Moon Season.

The carriage jolted along the gravel road. Its wheels rolled over loose stones with a creaking scrape.

Inside, Sheen pressed his fingers to his temples.

Several days with almost no sleep, coupled with the carriage's jolting, had left his head aching dully.

A thick stack of parchment documents lay across his knees: personnel records laid out in tables of straight lines.

They were filled with names, ages, places of origin, criminal records, physical assessments, daily habits, medical histories, literacy...

Looking at the neat tables, Sheen recalled the first version of the personnel survey he had crumpled up and thrown away yesterday. It had read like this from start to finish: "So-and-so is from Griffin Village, likes eating roasted squirrels, and was reported by a neighbor for stealing sheep..."

That narrative style of record-keeping made Sheen's head spin. He had redesigned the forms himself and ordered the clerks to conduct the survey again. Only then had he gotten this clear set of records.

Now a glance told him how many people in the column were criminals sent here because they could not pay the atonement tax, and how many were knights who had received systematic training.

This clear, straightforward table design came from Sheen's experience in his previous life.

That was right. He had crossed into this world from another.

A year ago, at an intersection on Earth, an out-of-control heavy truck had struck him and sent him straight into this cruel world beneath a reddish moon.

He had become Count Greywood's illegitimate son, and before long, he had been named a candidate for Long Night Lord.

The official reasons had sounded respectable enough: easing the Lineage's burdens, fulfilling his duty to human civilization, and so on.

In truth, he was merely being sent to plug a gap in the defensive line, with nine chances in ten of dying there.

Every year, tens of thousands fell along the Eternal Night Wall's defenses, one wave after another, like wheat before the scythe.

Nobles were no exception. The Dark Races would not spare someone because he had noble blood.

Sheen's father, Count Greywood, knew that perfectly well. But to him, sending an illegitimate son to the front was the most politically cost-effective choice.

It showed loyalty to the Church without sacrificing one of his few heirs.

Sheen had no choice in the matter. Still, he was not overcome by anger or anxiety.

At this point, rather than curse the world, he would be better off thinking about how to build a fortress that truly belonged to him in that land of death. At the very least, he had to survive this year's Blood Moon Season and live one more year.

Sheen raised his eyes to the window, and a strange layer suddenly overlapped his vision.

The people's outlines remained the same, but numbers of different colors had appeared above their heads.

This was the Golden Finger he had awakened three days ago, the Canon of Grace and Righteousness. From the information it came with, Sheen had worked out its basic functions.

When he provided someone with shelter, resources, or honor, any support, gratitude, or even simple trust that arose in that person would be recorded as Grace Value and appear above their head.

Grace Value could be converted into spendable Reward Value, which he could use to claim something in return from that person.

In Sheen's vision, a number of a different hue floated above every head.

If their Grace Value was negative, it appeared bloodred. That meant they were hostile toward him.

A gray-white number meant they kept their distance, and he could read only the most basic information.

When the number turned pale green, that person felt grateful to him, and he could probe further into their abilities and worth.

As Grace accumulated, the color would deepen.

Once it reached emerald green, he could spend Reward Value to obtain basic skills, physical abilities, or small amounts of information from them.

When the number entered blue or purple, he could replicate the core abilities or talents of their profession, and they would brave life and death for him.

And when Grace crossed its limit and shone Gilded Gold... that represented a debt of gratitude almost impossible to repay.

At that point, a bond would form between them, as though they could read each other's hearts.

He could extract their most essential combat techniques, secret arts, and even unique gifts of the soul. He could also bestow strength and abilities back upon them, as long as they could bear it.

All of this, of course, cost Reward Value. Sheen's total Grace Value divided by one hundred equaled the amount of Reward Value currently at his disposal.

From this, Sheen soon grasped the Sacred Canon's true value.

At the Eternal Night Wall, resources were scarce, time was short, and people's loyalties were uncertain.

In the past, making decisions had mostly meant relying on judgment, or even gambling on luck. Now things were different.

Who was worth investing in, who was merely staying close for the moment, and who was beginning to waver—these were no longer matters of instinct. They were information he could read.

Used properly, it would spare him many wrong turns.

It also drastically shortened the time Sheen needed to grow stronger. Skills that took others years to hone were his to claim directly.

Once he had accumulated enough Grace, he could quickly make up for his weaknesses.

In theory, this Golden Finger could even let him wield the Most Holy Pope's Greater Divine Grace Art with his left hand and a Vampire Duke's Origin Blood Magic with his right. Now that would be something.

But that was for later. First, he had to get through the difficulties before him.

Sheen looked out the carriage window at the column. There were specks of green above the crowd, but not many. Most numbers were gray-white, with the occasional dull bloodred mixed in.

Their Grace Value was almost zero.

That was hardly surprising. He had never dealt with these people before, and now they were following an illegitimate son treated as a discarded pawn to the front line to die. No one would feel grateful for that.

For Sheen, though, it was a danger he could not ignore.

Without gratitude, there would be no loyalty.

And without loyalty, these people would scatter at the first night raid.

By then, he might not even be able to get an order to retreat through to them.

If he wanted to survive, he had to change that.

He needed an opening: a way to assert his authority, win people over with generosity, and earn some Grace Value in the process.

Before they entered the buffer zone around the Eternal Night Wall, he had to bring some other color to this gray-white column.

"Knock, knock-knock."

Just as Sheen was working through a plan in his mind, someone rapped a measured rhythm on the carriage's wooden door.

"Young master, we've reached the rest stop." The voice outside belonged to Griffin, the old steward.

He was a longtime servant of the count's household and one of the few people Sheen knew, though he had always kept his distance.

Sheen was silent for a moment before saying, "Give everyone an extra serving with dinner tonight. When they've finished eating, gather them together."

He paused. "I have something to say."