The Holy Crusade Army was steadily conquering the Snake-Man Swamp.
Byron stood on the cold, damp mudflats at the swamp's edge. Murky water seeped over the edges of his worn straw sandals, bringing a bone-piercing chill.
His dark brown robe of coarse hemp was covered in mud spatters and moisture. Its broad hood concealed most of his face, leaving only his deeply wrinkled chin and cracked lips exposed.
With his back hunched and his hands tucked into his sleeves, he gazed with cloudy eyes into the depths of the swamp, where poisonous miasma mingled with gunsmoke. He looked every inch a weather-beaten old farmer whose back had been bent by life's burdens.
Nothing about Byron's appearance suggested a High Priest.
Of course, he was not a High Priest. He was merely a former one.
Now Byron was just another member of the Holy Crusade Army-somewhat unusual, but without any authority.
This was His Majesty Chris's punishment, and Byron dared not resist. It was also the main reason he had accepted Lord Diu Ni Leimu's orders and come here to work.
The tyrannical monarch had already shown Byron mercy. He had to be grateful.
In the distance, artillery thundered intermittently from the Holy Crusade Army's positions. Every explosion sent a faint tremor through the mud beneath his feet.
Byron could now clearly feel the earth's pain.
It was not the pain of war. To the earth, war was nothing more than a fleeting itch. This was a deeper, more fundamental corruption and distortion.
The swamp occupied by the Snake-Men was like a festering sore, constantly eating away at the earth's vitality.
An exceedingly faint glimmer flickered in Byron's cloudy eyes. He slowly crouched and gently pressed his callused, mud-stained right hand against the cold, slippery mudflat.
There was no chanting, no