A few days later, a servant rushed in with news: "My Lord, Bishop Augustus of the Holy See of Light has arrived outside the castle with a squad of Pegasus Knights."
Augustus? Leylo remembered how hard he had worked to shift that disaster toward the White Poplar Territory. Why was he back so soon? Leylo had no love for the man—Augustus was a grim, rigid fanatic with a penchant for cremating anyone he deemed "heretical." As a Tier 5 powerhouse, he was a walking natural disaster.
"Invite the Bishop to the drawing room. Treat him with the utmost respect," Leylo commanded. He took a few deep breaths, mentally rehearsing his script before walking toward the meeting.
Inside, Augustus sat cloaked in a magnificent white robe embroidered with golden sun patterns. His presence was commanding, flanked by two polished Holy Knights.
"Greetings, Lord Baron," Augustus said, his voice resonant.
"Bishop Augustus, your presence honors Blackstone Territory," Leylo replied with a respectful knight's salute. "To what do I owe this visit?"
Augustus offered a thin smile. "Baron Leylo, do not be stiff. I come on behalf of the Holy See to reward you. You exposed the heresy of Viscount White Poplar and his blood sacrifices. This was a great service to the Light. I have reported this to His Holiness; formal rewards will follow."
"It is my honor to serve the Light," Leylo said humbly.
"However," Augustus's tone shifted, "Blackstone is a fertile ground for faith. I expect you to select a site immediately to build a Temple of Light, so the radiance of the God may protect your subjects."
There it is, Leylo thought.
He immediately let his shoulders slump, his face contorting into an expression of profound misery. He let out a long, heavy sigh. "Bishop... you have no idea the trouble I am in."
"What difficulty does the Baron have?" Augustus asked, noticing the change.
"To be honest, Bishop, because of that damned Viscount, I am now facing a death sentence!" Leylo paused for effect. "I've received word that the remnants of the Viscount's faction have hired an assassin from the Shadow Blade organization. 'Night Owl' is on his way."
Leylo rubbed his temples, looking genuinely frazzled. "He is a Tier 4 Sky Knight. I have no defenses, my castle is basic, and my strength is low. I can barely sleep! How can I build a temple when I'm worried about my head being separated from my shoulders? I fear if I stay involved with the Holy See's affairs, I'll be dead before the foundation is even laid!"
This was a classic "cry for help" play. The threat was real, but the "helplessness" was a calculated performance.
Augustus's eyes flared with sudden fury. He slammed his hand on the armrest and stood up. "Outrageous! Under the gaze of the Light, these heretics dare to be so bold? To target a hero of the Holy See is to target the Holy See itself!"
He looked at Leylo. "Baron Leylo, rest easy! Shadow Blade is nothing. Since I am here, I shall stay for a few days. A mere Tier 4 assassin... I can crush him with one hand!"
Leylo's heart leaped. The fish has taken the bait.
"Bishop! You... you would truly stay to help me?" Leylo asked, looking like a man grasping a life-saving straw.
"It is our duty to purge heresy and protect the faithful!" Augustus said proudly. "The temple can wait until these vermin are dealt with."
The Refugee Screen
Over the next two days, the atmosphere in Blackstone became tense. A massive influx of refugees from the west began arriving at the castle gates—gaunt, weary, and desperate.
Leylo knew the timing. Night Owl was due to arrive any moment. Blending in with the refugees was the perfect cover for a Tier 4 assassin.
Leylo had Erwin set up a registration point. The method was simple:
Those who could be vouched for by fellow villagers or relatives were moved to the temporary housing area.
Those who arrived alone or with no one to verify their identity were "politely" escorted to a separate area under the "protection" of the guards for further screening.
Erwin wiped sweat from his brow and handed Leylo a list. "My Lord, 473 refugees have arrived. Most are processed, but these eighteen individuals have no one to vouch for them."
Leylo scanned the names. Half a day later, these eighteen "loners" were brought to the clearing before the castle, surrounded by a squad of knights.
Among them stood a middle-aged man with a hunched back and a dull expression, his clothes caked in mud. To any ordinary eye, he was just another victim of the floods. But Leylo noticed his breathing—it was too rhythmic, too controlled for a starving man.