The Bishop's Reinforcements Arrive

Heavy, iron-rimmed wheels crushed the dark-purple frozen earth with a piercing creak.

A heavy supply convoy flying the Most Holy Banner pushed slowly 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 vast train 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 drawn from the Penal Camp, along with Church craftsmen.

These had been the reserves meant for three fiefs. Now they had all been committed to Blackpine Fief alone.

Sheen Greenwood.

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

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

Valen had seen too many young noblemen like him in the Blood Moon Wasteland—ones who could not last a month.

Sending these supplies in was no different from throwing them straight into the Long Night's mud pit.

Could this noble bastard actually be Bishop Castian's... bastard? Valen thought, indulging his own nasty humor.

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

The convoy finally broke through the thick, syrupy Gray Fog and entered the edge of Blackpine Fief's Sacred Flame halo.

Valen held his breath, bracing for the stench of rot and the sound of weeping. Instead, he stiffened in the saddle, his pupils contracting sharply.

There were no ruined walls or lifeless desolation. Before him stood a war construction site operating at full speed.

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

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

Refined Steel spikes had been driven upside down across the trench bottoms. 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 such a structure in any Church tactical manual.

More shocking still, several thick wooden beams supported a gallows outside the works, suspending an enormous Third-Tier High-Rank Ghoul in midair.

Valen knew all too well how powerful such a creature was. Here, it had lost every trace of menace. It was merely material to be dismantled.

Below it, bare-chested Convicts and craftsmen, smeared with blood, worked with swift, practiced motions.

Iron hooks hauled tough sinews from rotting flesh and sent them to the workshop. Hammers smashed bone plates to mix with lime for the fortifications. In a corner, a great cauldron bubbled, rendering the rotten meat into thick grease for the Poisonfire devices.

The sight sent a chill down Valen's spine. He was beginning to understand why the bishop had committed so many resources to this boy.

He tightened his grip on the reins, swung down from his warhorse, and strode through the still-bustling worksite toward the silver-haired figure.

There was no fear on Shien's still-youthful face, nor any deliberate flattery:

"Thank you for your efforts, Knight 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 of his earlier contempt had vanished without his noticing.

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

"By order of Bishop Castian, I am transferring the first shipment of defense-line supplies: five hundred Fine-Steel Longswords, three hundred heavy iron-bound Tower Shields, two hundred suits of Chainmail, fifty thousand Armor-Piercing Heavy Crossbow bolts...

"Full rations for the cold, including dried meat, hard flatbread, and two wagons of freeze-resistant ale..."

Valen himself paused for an instant, then continued.

"Also included: twenty wagons of the highest-purity Holy Silver ore! Fifteen wagons of Refined Demon Iron ingots!"

At those figures, Fabien, Ivan, and the others standing behind Shien began breathing heavily.

Shien remained calm on the surface, offering only a faint "Mm."

But beneath that calm shell, his construction-obsessed mind was already racing.

The vast, abstract numbers rapidly broke apart and reassembled in his mind, turning into concrete ways to break the deadlock.

Twenty wagons of the highest-purity Holy Silver ore were far beyond any normal allotment.

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

With that ore, Victor's alchemy workshop would finally be free of its material constraints. Mass production of alchemical weapons would no longer be held back, and the Holy-Silver Bone-Eater Trench, the final layer of the Five-Ring Defense Line, could be completed in full—giving it truly lethal power against High-Rank Werewolves.

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

The material remained tough in the Blood Moon's bitter cold instead of turning brittle. It could support an army-wide upgrade of armor and serve as the framework for the core structure of the Steam Repeating Crossbows.

As the resources came together in his mind, the meat grinder that had existed only in his projections finally gained a real skeleton.

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

Valen reached the end of the ledger. The inventory appeared complete, but he suddenly raised a hand and dismissed his attendants.

He pointed to the very back of the convoy. Two black-canopied wagons, sealed entirely behind heavy lead plates, stood motionless in the wind and snow. Four heavily armored Holy Knights guarded them without taking a step away.

Valen moved 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. "High-purity Sacred Flame Grease. Two wagons."

The air seemed to freeze.

Even the usually steady Fabien lost his composure, letting out a low gasp.

He knew exactly what it was worth. A single small jar could equal a city's tax revenue. Just one spoonful could make the Sacred Flame erupt with Midsummer Radiance powerful enough to suppress a High-Tier Demonic Beast.

During the Blood Moon Season, Blackpine Fief could drive its Sacred Flame Altar straight into an overcharged burst.

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

He drew a deep breath and quickly reached his conclusion. This was more than a generous allocation of resources. It was an irrevocable commitment—a wager.

The bishop had staked the future on him.

Shien put aside his aloof scrutiny, brought his legs together, and pressed his right fist firmly to his chest. Facing the two lead-sealed wagons, he performed the most formal Church salute.

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

He raised his head, battle fervor burning in his eyes. "Tell His Grace the bishop not to worry. His investment won't be wasted.

"In six months, I'll prove it with a field of Heretics' bones. 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.