A light breeze drifted by.
Blake came to a halt, his gaze falling on the fountain before him. Carved from stone, a lion's head with its jaws wide open spouted clear, cool water that cascaded into a trench on the ground and flowed away into the distance. He reached out, letting the chill of the water seep into his palm, and let out a soft sigh.
Truly, the power of that bizarre Source Device had exceeded all his expectations. Though he had only built a small-scale city so far, its infrastructure was remarkably complete—every road and drainage system was flawless. Blake had even sent someone to inspect the sewers, only to discover that beneath what should have been flat, empty earth lay an extensive network of interconnected waterways, more than sufficient to drain all the wastewater produced by the entire city. He could not begin to fathom how the Source Device had accomplished such a feat.
It was mid-afternoon, the hour when the refugees finished their work and headed home. As Ophelia had predicted, after a night of "agonized deliberation," Keith had finally agreed to transfer ownership of the Neverwinter Hand Trading Company to Blake. The refugees now had new jobs: a portion of the able-bodied young men had been assigned to work in the quarry and lumberyard, while the rest were divided into groups according to their skills and trades. Those with prior business experience were recruited into the Neverwinter Hand Trading Company. Even the women and elderly had returned to their old occupations—bakeries and grocery stores had begun to open one after another. Most of these shops were funded by the Neverwinter Hand Trading Company and operated by the refugees. Unlike ordinary shops, however, a large portion of their profits had to be paid to Lord Blake. After all, the refugees were still slaves, not commoners—and Blake had no intention of granting them freedom so soon.
People only ever cherished opportunities that came at a cost; they never valued what was handed to them on a silver platter. Blake was certain that if he declared the refugees free men, they would flee to the bustling big cities in search of a new life by the next day. But by forcing them to stay and work for him in this way, after several years, even when they regained their freedom and accumulated some property, whether they would still be so eager to leave would be an entirely different question.
What surprised Blake most, however, were the original inhabitants of Twilight Town. Some of them had made their living as farmers, but their farmland had been destroyed when the town was razed. Undeterred, they had taken the compensation Blake had given them and hired many refugees to reclaim and cultivate new fields, allowing them to continue their livelihoods. Clearly, these people were not content to remain mere farmers—they were determined to rise up and become landowners.
A deep, resonant bell tolled. People streamed away from their workplaces in small groups—some heading to the square to enjoy a leisurely afternoon, others hurrying back to their new homes to tend to their parents or children. When they caught sight of Blake, every last one of them instinctively stepped back, keeping a respectful distance. Though few of the refugees had actually met the lord face-to-face, nearly all of them knew that there were very few nobles in this city called Valhalla. Thus, the identity of this young man dressed in noble's attire with a longsword hanging at his waist was obvious.
The refugees' feelings toward this young lord were complex, to say the least. On one hand, they were deeply grateful for the far better treatment he had given them than they could ever have imagined, and they held him in high regard. On the other hand, they felt the innate fear of commoners toward nobles. Moreover, Blake had never shown them a warm, approachable side, leaving many of the refugees uneasy, afraid of inadvertently offending the lord and stirring up trouble. After all, the reputation of nobles included many things that inspired fear. So now, even though they saw Blake, the refugees only dared to watch him from afar, their eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity, awe, and unease—and nothing more.
Blake strolled leisurely down the street, nodding in satisfaction as he watched the city grow more vibrant by the day. He had never intended to build a bustling, prosperous metropolis; instead, he wanted a place of peace and tranquility. At first, he had worried that the influx of refugees would disrupt Valhalla's serene atmosphere, but now it was clear that these people had been completely captivated by the city—and had even changed a great deal because of it.
"My lord, what brings you here?"
A lively voice suddenly sounded beside him. Turning, Blake saw the red-haired female swordsman clad head to toe in silver armor standing before him.
"Nothing much," Blake shrugged, answering Judy's question casually. His gaze then shifted to the group of young men standing a short distance behind her. Barely out of their teens, they wore simple leather armor, their youthful faces still bearing the traces of adolescence. Recruited from among the refugees and townsfolk, they were part of a training program Blake had ordered: refugees with prior combat training or experience as reservists or soldiers were selected first, then trained alongside the town's militiamen to defend the city. While Blake knew there was practically no force capable of threatening Valhalla, he still wanted these new residents to understand one thing—only with their own hands could they protect their home.
"How are things going? Are these boys holding up?"
"Not at all, my lord," Judy replied bluntly, not mincing her words. Though she was far smaller in stature than the men now that she had regained her human form, none of them dared to contradict her assessment. After all, she had easily knocked every single one of them to the ground with just one finger. Even if she called them worthless, they had no way to fight back.
"They are not even worthy of being called soldiers yet. Even those who have received some training are still just commoners. To give these men any real combat ability, they need strict training and rigorous trials—and even then, I do not hold out much hope that many of them will pass."
"Just proceed with the usual methods," Blake said, dismissing her complaints with a wave of his hand. He knew full well that her mindset was still stuck in the chaotic war years, but those days were nothing like the present. The knights of the former main battle legions were now rare treasures on the continent. Even the elite soldiers of today's armies would seem no better than cannon fodder or commoners in Judy's eyes—a seasoned warrior who had fought in the wars of the chaotic era. To say nothing of these reservists.
Blake could almost picture it: when Judy spoke of "some real combat ability," she meant the level of a High-Rank Swordsman. But expecting these ordinary men to attain High-Rank Swordsman status through training was practically impossible. If Judy truly held them to that standard, Blake was certain that every last one of them would fail miserably.
"I think you understand what I mean, Judy. After all, times have changed... What's going on?"
Blake's words trailed off mid-sentence, for he noticed that the once-quiet city gate was now surrounded by a large crowd. The loud hubbub suggested that some kind of commotion had broken out. A frown creased his brow—he did not want any trouble in his city, especially not now.
"I'll go check it out," Judy said, having also noticed the disturbance at the gate. She bowed to Blake, then turned and strode quickly toward the commotion. Blake gently brushed his fingers over the hilt of his sword before following at a leisurely pace.
"This place is a den of evil!!"
As soon as Blake reached the edge of the crowd, he heard a man's voice ring out.
"Innocent souls ensnared by deception! Open your eyes! See through this false pretense! Feel the evil that lurks within! This land is ruled by darkness and wickedness! Flee this place while you still can!!"
"Who are you people?!"
Judy's voice cut through the man's diatribe the moment he finished speaking.
"What are you doing here?"
"Hmph..."
The man ignored her question, letting out a cold snort and falling silent. The previously noisy crowd quieted down as well. After all, if there were two people the refugees had grown most familiar with these past few days, it was Miss Judy and Miss Ophelia. Now that Judy was here, they quickly clammed up, eager to see how the young lady would handle the situation.
Judy, standing in the middle of the crowd, was seething with anger. In fact, the moment she laid eyes on these men, she had recognized their identity—they wore pristine white robes embroidered with a golden sun along the edges, the unmistakable symbol of the Holy Grace Church. Wraith Warriors had always hated the Holy Grace Church with a passion. Judy thought she had been more than polite by not drawing her sword and attacking them on the spot, but now they had the audacity to stir up trouble here? It was simply intolerable.
Yet despite her questioning, the men remained silent, forming a circle around a gaunt, elderly man in the center. He wore the same white robe as the others, but unlike them, his robe collar was trimmed with three golden stripes—the insignia of a bishop in the Holy Grace Church.
Contrasting sharply with his immaculate white robe was the old man's dark, withered face, which looked like a statue carved by an unskilled apprentice, its features twisted and mismatched. A thin goatee jutted upward, mirroring the arrogance of its owner. When Judy spoke, the old man did not even deign to glance in her direction. Instead, he paused for a moment before turning back to the crowd, raising his hands high.
"Miserable souls! Your eyes are clouded by sin! You cannot see the truth before you! Wake from this evil dream...!"
"You!!"
Judy gritted her teeth, her hand tightening around the hilt of her sword as she struggled to suppress her killing intent. She knew full well that this was Blake's city. As a warrior, she excelled at fighting on the battlefield, but in the face of such a situation, she was clearly at a loss. After all, she lacked Charlotte's cunning and Ophelia's political acumen. She had thought that as the captain of the city guard, these men would show her some respect. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that she would be completely ignored by these fools? By these bastards from the Holy Grace Church?!
"Arrest them!!"
Enough was enough. Judy gave the order, and the soldiers beside her immediately swarmed forward. But no sooner had they reached the priests than the old man suddenly raised his staff high above his head. A brilliant flash of white light erupted from it, and the soldiers felt an invisible, powerful force surge toward them. Caught off guard, they were all thrown backward, several stumbling and falling to the ground. The surrounding crowd burst into laughter—though no one quite understood what was happening, the scene unfolding before them was highly amusing.
They're asking for death!!
Judy's anger flared even hotter. The Holy Grace Church had always been the mortal enemies of the Wraith Warriors—and now these priests had dared to set foot in Valhalla! Judy and the other Wraith Warriors had grown deeply attached to this beautiful, elegant city. Here, they found peace for their tormented souls. Living in Valhalla, they even felt the lingering malice in their hearts fade a little. For this reason, the Wraith Warriors cherished the city dearly, regarding it as their true home. To see these men from the Holy Grace Church stirring up trouble here only fueled Judy's rage further.
She could hold back no longer. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her sword, ready to draw it.
"What's going on here?"
Blake's voice suddenly cut through the tension.
At the sound of his voice, the previously chattering, laughing crowd fell completely silent. They turned quickly, parting a path for him with expressions of awe and fear, and Blake's figure stepped into view.
Earlier, Blake had intended to stay hidden in the crowd and observe the situation, but he had not expected the Holy Grace Church to be so brazen on his territory. He knew full well the Wraith Warriors' irreconcilable hatred for the Holy Grace Church—on any other day, he might have turned a blind eye and let Judy vent her frustrations. But not now. Valhalla was still in its infancy, and the people's loyalty was fragile. If blood were spilled in the streets like this, it would only make the situation worse. So Blake made the decisive decision to intervene.
"My lord," Judy said, quickly calming down the moment she saw Blake. As a seasoned warrior, she knew how to control her emotions. In the space of a single breath, the killing intent in her heart vanished completely. Gone was her earlier impatience and anger, replaced by calm composure as she spoke.
"We found these men stirring up trouble here, spreading rumors and inciting panic among the people. We tried to arrest them, but they resisted..."
"Hmph!"
The old man let out another cold snort, clearly dismissing Judy's words as irrelevant. But Blake paid no heed to his attitude. Instead, he turned to face the priests, studying them carefully before breaking into his usual elegant smile and bowing slightly to the group.
"Greetings, honored guests of the Holy Grace Church. I am Blake, Lord of Twilight Forest. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"
"We have come by the divine will of Mana to purify this land of darkness and evil, young man," the old man finally deigned to respond. After all, no matter how arrogant he was, he was now facing a noble lord. While he could afford to ignore a mere "soldier" like Judy, even as a bishop, he could not disregard a member of the nobility.
"Darkness and evil?" Blake raised an eyebrow. "I am afraid I do not understand your meaning, Your Eminence."
"This is a land cursed by sin!" the old man declared, raising his hands high once more. "Here, the living shall be afflicted by curses, haunted by the shadow of death! I have come to save you—to save these poor lambs on the brink of falling into darkness! In the name of the divine Mana, I bring you light!"
"What an entertaining tale," Blake said, a faint smile playing on his lips as if he found the old man's words utterly ridiculous—which, in truth, he did. Judy's expression had already darkened considerably, and the surrounding crowd had begun to murmur among themselves.
"However, as amusing as your story is, I must remind you that according to the rules, if you wish to preach here, you must first obtain the permission of the lord. And if my memory serves me correctly, this is the first time we have met, is it not?"
"We have already obtained the permission of the Lord of the Byrd family, young man," the old man retorted, still keeping his gaze fixed on the sky and refusing to look Blake in the eye. But this meant nothing to Blake.
"I apologize, Your Eminence, but I must correct you," Blake said calmly. "Twilight Forest is my territory—the territory of the Felix family—not the Byrd family. I think you may have confused who you need to report to."
The old man froze, his eyes widening in surprise. For the first time, he tore his gaze away from the sky and fixed it on the young man before him. He had never imagined that this young man would dare to so brazenly claim ownership of this territory in front of him and the entire crowd! It was beyond his wildest expectations! According to the information the Church had obtained, this land should have belonged to the Byrd family! Even if Blake was now the lord, he was still a noble under the jurisdiction of the Byrd family! That was why the old bishop had invoked the Byrd family's name—but he had never anticipated that the young man would openly lay claim to the territory as his own. By the grace of Mana, was he not afraid that the bishop would report this to the Byrd family? If the Byrd family found out about this, would he still be able to keep his title as lord?
"Very well, then..." the old man began, his voice trailing off.
"I apologize, Your Eminence, but I cannot grant you permission to preach here," Blake interrupted him abruptly.
"As the lord of this land, I will not tolerate anyone attempting to stir up unrest and unnecessary panic among my people. Therefore, you may leave now. I trust you will not behave like common hooligans and refuse to depart?"
The old bishop's expression finally darkened. Seeing the change in his demeanor, Blake suppressed a chuckle. In truth, he had already guessed the true purpose of their visit.
Ever since he had annihilated that group of Holy Grace Church members in the heart of the Source Device, Blake had known that the Church would come knocking sooner or later. After all, a Holy Grace Knight might not have counted for much in the past, but in the current state of the continent, they were a rare and valuable fighting force for the Church. For one to disappear without a trace would certainly arouse the Church's suspicions. While no one had actually witnessed what Blake had done with the Source Device over the past few weeks, rumors had undoubtedly begun to spread. And the Holy Grace Church had likely heard these rumors and suspected that Blake had obtained the Source Device. Thus, they had sent these men to test him and gauge his response.
Blake was certain that the old man's arrogant attitude was a deliberate ploy to provoke him, to test his limits. If Blake was indeed responsible for the Holy Grace Knight's disappearance, these men would likely "disappear" as well after coming to Twilight Forest—and the Holy Grace Church would then confirm their suspicions and target Blake directly. That was their plan. If, on the other hand, the men encountered no resistance, they would grow bolder, laying the groundwork for a full investigation here in the future. Neither scenario was one Blake wished to see.
But Blake had no intention of playing by their rules. In fact, the moment he had identified their true intent, he had already prepared a script of his own.
"You have shown no respect for my territory, my people, or my subordinates. Therefore, I do not welcome you—or the Holy Grace Church."
With that, Blake extended a hand, making a polite gesture of dismissal.
"You may leave now. I hope we will never see your faces here again."
The old bishop took a deep breath, his arrogant demeanor fading considerably. He stared at Blake with a meaningful look before turning and walking away without another word.
"You will regret this decision, young man," he said, his voice cold and sharp—the last words he left for Blake.