The Bishop's Support Arrived

Heavy iron-rimmed wheels crushed the dark-purple frozen earth with a grating crunch.

A heavy supply convoy flying the Most Holy Banner crept through the bottomless fog of the Graymist Defense Zone like a bloated python.

Holy Knight Valen led the convoy. His brow stayed furrowed throughout the journey, and he kept looking back at its unusually long line of wagons.

Thirty percent of the allotted refined steel and high-purity Holy Silver ore, two wagons of undiluted Sacred Flame Grease, and a thousand serious offenders and Church craftsmen drawn from the Penal Camp.

These resources had originally been earmarked for three fiefs. Now they were all being poured into Blackpine Fief.

Sheen Greenwood.

As far as Valen knew, he was just a bastard who had only recently turned fourteen.

No matter how impressive the battle reports looked, they were only words on paper.

He had seen too many young nobles like him in the Blood Moon Wasteland—boys who could not last a month.

Sending these supplies in was no different from throwing them into the mire of the Long Night.

Could this noble bastard actually be Bishop Castian's... bastard? Valen thought with a twisted sort of amusement.

"Whoa—" Valen tightened the reins, and his warhorse snorted a cloud of white mist.

At last, the convoy broke through the thick, viscous Gray Fog and crossed into the glow of Blackpine Fief's Sacred Flame.

Valen instinctively held his breath, bracing for rot and screams. Instead, he stiffened in the saddle, his pupils contracting sharply.

There were no ruined walls or signs of death. Before him was a construction site working at a furious pace.

Everyone was hard at work building several staggered, bottomless zigzag trenches.

The outer slopes had been repeatedly coated with lime, icy water, and waste oil, forming shells smooth as mirrors. Firelight reflected off them with a cold sheen.

The trench bottoms bristled with downward-pointing refined-steel spikes. Half-buried among them were alchemical clay jars that gave off an acidic smell. One wrong step would set off a chain of explosions.

Valen had never seen a layout like this in any Church tactical manual.

What shocked him even more was the massive Third-Tier High-Rank Ghoul hanging from a gallows built of thick logs outside the trenches.

Valen knew exactly how powerful such a creature was. Yet here, it had lost all power to terrify. It was merely raw material being taken apart.

Below it, bare-chested convicts and craftsmen worked with brisk efficiency, their bodies smeared with blood and filth.

Iron hooks tore tough tendons from rotting flesh and sent them to the Workshop. Heavy hammers smashed bone plates to mix into the lime used for the fortifications. In a corner, a great cauldron boiled the decaying meat down into thick grease for the Poisonfire devices.

A chill ran down Valen's spine. He was beginning to understand why the bishop had invested so many resources in this boy.

He gripped the reins tighter, swung down from his warhorse, and strode through the busy construction site toward the silver-haired figure.

There was no fear on Shien's still-youthful face, nor any attempt to flatter him:

"Thank you for the effort, Sir Valen. These are exactly what Blackpine Fief needs most right now. Bishop Castian's support has come at just the right time."

Valen's breath caught. The last traces of his disdain had vanished without his noticing.

He opened the thick parchment ledger. His voice steadied again, but now it carried more weight:

"By order of Bishop Castian, I hereby deliver the first shipment of defensive supplies: five hundred Fine-Steel Longswords, three hundred heavy iron-rimmed Tower Shields, two hundred sets of Chainmail, fifty thousand Armor-Piercing Heavy Crossbow bolts...

"A full allotment of cold-weather rations, including dried meat, hard flatbread, and two wagons of frost-resistant ale..."

Even Valen paused for a moment there before continuing.

"And twenty wagonloads of the highest-purity Holy Silver ore! Fifteen wagonloads of Refined Demon Iron ingots!"

As the figures piled up, Fabien, Ivan, and the others behind Shien began breathing heavily.

Shien remained calm on the surface and merely gave a faint "Mm."

But beneath that composed exterior, his mind was already racing with plans to build.

The enormous, abstract numbers quickly broke apart and reassembled in his mind, becoming concrete ways to break the deadlock.

Twenty wagonloads of the highest-purity Holy Silver ore were no ordinary allotment.

They were strategic resources Castian had forcibly diverted from the secular Kingdom.

With this ore, Victor's alchemical Workshop would finally be free of its material constraints. Nothing would stand in the way of mass-producing Alchemical Weapons, and the Holy-Silver Bone-Eater Trench, the final layer of the Five-Ring Defense Line, could be completed. It would give them a truly lethal weapon against High-Rank Werewolves.

The fifteen wagonloads of Refined Demon Iron ingots filled another gap.

The material remained tough in the Blood Moon's freezing temperatures instead of turning brittle. It was enough to upgrade the entire army's armor and serve as the framework for the Steam Repeating Crossbows' core mechanisms.

Once he had fitted all those resources together in his mind, the meat grinder that had existed only in his plans finally had a real skeleton.

When Blood Moon Season came in six months, he could face the tactically minded Commander deep in the Gray Fog head-on.

Valen reached the end of the ledger, apparently finished, but then he raised a hand and dismissed his attendants.

He pointed to the rear of the convoy. Two black-canopied wagons, completely sealed with thick lead plates, stood silently in the wind and snow. Four heavily armored Holy Knights guarded them without moving an inch.

Valen stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Everything in the ledger comes from the public allotment. Those two wagons... the bishop set them aside for you from his personal share."

He paused. "Two wagonloads of High-Purity Sacred Flame Grease."

The air seemed to freeze.

Even the usually steady Fabien lost his composure and let out a low cry.

He knew all too well what it was worth. One small jar could equal a city's tax revenue. A single spoonful added to the Sacred Flame could make it blaze with Midsummer Radiance powerful enough to suppress High-Tier Demonic Beasts.

During Blood Moon Season, Blackpine Fief could force its Sacred Flame Altar into overdrive.

Shien stood silent for a moment. At last, a small crack appeared in the detachment he had maintained.

He took a deep breath and swiftly reached a conclusion. This was more than preferential treatment. It was a binding commitment, a wager.

The bishop had staked the future on him.

Shien dropped his aloof, appraising manner. He brought his legs together, pressed his right fist firmly to his chest, and gave the two lead-sealed wagons the most formal Church salute.

"Sir Valen, please convey my highest respects to Bishop Castian."

He raised his head, his eyes alight with fighting spirit. "Tell His Grace he can rest assured. This investment will not be wasted.

"In six months, I'll prove it with the bones of Heretics strewn across the ground. This fief will become a steel nail in the Eternal Night Wall that no one can pull out."

Valen watched the boy in silence. The last of the doubt in his eyes disappeared.