[The Hidden One] Episodes 1-3 Author: Blood Coral

【The Hidden Ones】
Author: Blood Coral
Publisher: Hetu Culture

Synopsis:
In 1307, King Philip IV of France suddenly issued a secret order to arrest members of the Knights Templar, with Pope Clement V fully supporting it. The high-ranking
members of the Knights Templar were all arrested. In 1310, the King ordered the execution of most of the Knights Templar, sparing only a few key members to extract information about the location of the Templars' hidden treasure.
Some of the Knights Templar who were not arrested initially attempted to rescue the arrested members through diplomacy, but Philip IV's ruthlessness forced them to face reality, and they decided to rescue their companions themselves.
A year later, they organized a rescue operation, storming the prison and rescuing some, including Simon Aragorn, one of the twelve highest priests.
From then on, the entanglements between the Capetian dynasty, the Papacy, and the Knights Templar, and the establishment of the Rosicrucian Order, became a turbulent chapter in history…

Character:
Nice Hunter Conseil: Son of a baron, mother unknown. (France)
Luke Bateman: Second son of the Viscount, a spoiled brat, rude, reckless, and extravagant. (France)
Istère Nague: Second son of the Viscount, a spoiled brat, skilled in song and various arts. (France)
Metro Diego: A nobleman, without a title to inherit, a follower, quick-witted and well-informed. (Spain)
Palm Granous: A nobleman, without a title, a henchman, quite capable, ambitious, initially sees others as easy prey, but gradually integrates into the circle.
Prince Philip: Prince of the Kingdom of Colunant, nephew of the Grand Duchess of Styria.
Simon Aragorn: One of the twelve priests of the Knights Templar, the protagonist's guide.

Chapter 1 ◆ Inheritance Dispute

The slow, resonant chimes echoed through the town.

Several men in black coats dug up dirt and threw it into a pit, gradually covering a coffin.

The funeral procession gradually dispersed, leaving only a blond boy of about thirteen or fourteen standing there, staring blankly at the crater that was slowly being filled with earth.

Lying there was his father.

The boy's name was Nice Conseil. His father, Henry Conseil, owned over 50,000 acres of farmland in the southwest of the town, making him the largest landowner there.

Two days earlier, on his way back from Resdoc, his carriage suddenly broke down; one wheel fell off. The accident happened on a very steep slope, and the entire carriage overturned. By the time anyone discovered the accident, his father was already dead.

Before the accident, life had been so wonderful, but from that day on, Nice felt as if the sky had fallen, and everything had changed.

Previously, the townspeople had always been exceptionally respectful to him and his father, but now they were all arrogant and haughty. What angered him even more was that a large group of relatives had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

His family had always been a single-lineage line, starting with his grandfather. While other families would gather with large groups of cousins during holidays, creating a lively atmosphere, he was always alone. He used to regret this, but now, these predatory relatives filled him with immense anger. They had taken over his estate, acting as if they were the true masters, taking whatever good things they saw.

But what angered him even more were the servants. Most of them seemed convinced that his distant relatives would become the future owners of the estate, so they flocked to them, eagerly revealing everything they knew about the good things in the house, hoping to curry favor.

If his father were a harsh and ungrateful man, Nice might not have felt so resentful, but his father treated everyone kindly. Their wages were the highest in town, and the servants were never beaten or scolded. Compared to other families in town, his family was practically paradise.

Why didn't good people get good rewards?

Nice couldn't understand this question. ...

Fifty or sixty meters from the cemetery, under a large tree, a dozen or so people stood in a circle.

In the center was a portly middle-aged man in a royal blue shirt, with puffy, swollen eyes that mostly lacked any sparkle, except when money was mentioned, when his pupils would gleam with a sharp light. Beside him were two other men, both dressed in black, wearing square-topped hats, dressed like office workers.

The portly man was the town mayor, and the two beside him were town officials. At this moment, all three of them held a money bag, their eyes scanning back and forth, as if comparing whether the three money bags were the same size.

"This is just a small token; there will be a reward after the matter is settled,"

said a middle-aged man with curly hair, whose face was always smiling and appeared very kind.

"I've never really cared much about other people's promises,"

the mayor replied with a sly smile. He'd heard many people promise how they'd be rewarded after the deal was done, but once it was done, there was usually no follow-up. So now he no longer believed in promises; he believed in getting his money's worth.

"We're also taking a risk with this. What if it doesn't work out in the end..."

A relative nearby couldn't stand it anymore. They'd all chipped in together, already spending quite a bit, yet this pig in front of them seemed insatiable.

Everyone knew this pig was envious of those businesses and wanted a share too.

"How could something go wrong? You bunch of adults, can't you handle a kid?"

The mayor scoffed. He looked down on these country bumpkins; they didn't even understand the principle of sacrificing the small for the big.

"How much do you want, anyway?"

the relative who'd spoken earlier couldn't help but yell.

Upon hearing this, the curly-haired man immediately knew things were going badly. He had originally wanted to make this pig understand that there wasn't only one way, but other avenues to explore. However, this statement turned into a showdown between the two sides.

Thinking about this, he hated the guy who had spoken so casually.

But there was nothing he could do; they had only come together for mutual benefit, and there was little mutual restraint.

The fat mayor raised his hand and then slapped it twice.

The relatives in Nice immediately erupted in an uproar.

"Why don't you just rob us?"

"You're dreaming!"

"There's a limit to how much you can take!"

"..."

They all cursed loudly.

The mayor, with his bulging eyes, looked completely unconcerned. As for taking advantage, he certainly didn't have the same greed as these people; at least he hadn't targeted his own relatives. This was an unjust act, and ill-gotten gains were certainly not to be missed.

He had already planned to take a big bite, then leave this town, buy a piece of land in Franton or Magne, and become a plantation owner himself.

After some haggling, amidst the angry glares of Nice's relatives, a reasonable price was finally agreed upon.

"Go and fetch the child, and also invite the priest here,"

the mayor said to one of the deacons.

The priest was needed because he had to act as a notary in this matter. He represented the church, and no one dared question its impartiality. Therefore, even if someone wanted to overturn the verdict later, they would have to consider the church's reputation.

Like all the towns in the Frankish Kingdom, there was a small church in town. The priest in charge of the church was named Lyle, who had been there for ten years and was a good friend of Nice's father.

"Don't worry? I heard the priest and Henry have a good relationship. Won't he favor the little guy?"

a relative questioned.

The mayor didn't seem to care. He cheerfully said, "Don't worry, the priest is a reasonable man; he understands the meaning of justice."

The curly-haired middle-aged man nodded knowingly.

The church wasn't far from the cemetery, so the priest arrived quickly, and Nice was pulled by the deacon to stand before the group.

The portly mayor had long since suppressed his smile, his face now filled with sorrow, as if he were burying not Nice's father, but his entire family. After a forceful sob, the man spoke in a soul-stirring tone, "I know you're upset, and I know this might be too cruel for you, but there's something I must tell you. There's a serious problem with your identity. We can't find your father's marriage record, and your birth certificate doesn't list your mother. So legally speaking, you're not entitled to inherit anything from the Conseil family, including their property, lands, and titles."

As if struck by lightning, Nice felt the world spin.

He had always assumed these relatives were there to seize custody; he'd heard that story countless times. He never imagined they would be so ruthless, not even bothering with "tactful" methods, but simply trying to take everything away.

Fortunately, at that moment, the priest spoke up, "I know the Baron well. I watched this child grow up; his identity is absolutely certain."

Before he finished speaking, a relative of Nice jumped out, "Henry has never been married. We are his relatives; we know this best. This boy is either adopted or illegitimate. In either case, he has no right to inherit."

"You're lying!"

Nice was utterly enraged. He wouldn't allow anyone to slander his father like this. His father was lying not far away. "Father said that Mother was from a prestigious family in Piastre, and that Father was an inspector in Piastre at the time..."

Nice didn't finish his sentence because a large, thick hand gripped his neck tightly.

He felt all the blood rush to his head, his face turning bright red and then gradually turning purple.

"How can you believe a child's words?"

The curly-haired middle-aged man stepped aside, blocking the priest's view, and pulled him away.

After walking a dozen meters, he turned back towards the church and, after a series of clicks of his tongue, said, "The church seems to be quite dilapidated, which completely fails to reflect God's glory. To show our devotion to the Lord, we have already planned to donate five hundred grosso to the church."

Father Lyle immediately felt something being stuffed into his shovel, which sank down.

It certainly couldn't be a block of iron.

"This matter is actually easy to investigate. Piastre isn't too far; it can be reached in a day and a night by fast horse."

The priest had no intention of backing down.

He wasn't saying this out of a sense of morality; his thoughts were similar to the mayor's. Just thinking about how enormous that wealth was made him uncomfortable. Five hundred silver coins was far too little; it would be more like gold coins.

“We know perfectly well that Henry worked in Piastre. We even went there to inquire before coming here. Two people who worked with him can testify that he was never married. Going there would be a waste of time. Piastre isn't a prestigious place; it's just a bunch of impoverished people. They may have had their glory days, but now they're all fallen on hard times. Those people will tell any lie for money… They don't know about Henry's accident yet. If they find out, it will only cause more trouble.”
The curly-haired middle-aged man spoke with unusual subtlety.

The priest, however, understood everything.

He meant that they had already taken care of things in Piastre, and sending someone there would be pointless. It would only create more people vying for the inheritance.

This was both a warning and a show of weakness, because it meant they genuinely needed the priest's help.

“We must have a serious talk. How do we get the church? We must be full of piety towards God.”

The priest understood, and now it was just a matter of bargaining. ...

The house was deserted, completely empty. Everything inside that could be taken had been taken by his relatives, even the iron pot on the stove.

Nice wandered alone inside.

His relatives all lived on the estate; the most important deeds, seals, and powers of attorney were all there—all the property that should have belonged to him was concentrated there. Besides, it was large enough to house so many people. This house, however, was where his father stayed when he came to town; it only had two bedrooms.

Even though this house no longer belonged to him, he would be sent to the Nangdao Academy in three days.

He certainly didn't believe his relatives would show any mercy; there must be a reason, but he couldn't guess.

A click—the sound of a lock opening startled Nice. The room was too spacious and too quiet; even the slightest sound seemed loud.

He was filled with fear. He had been wondering why they were sending him to the Nangdao Temple, so now he strongly suspected it was all a lie, and that his relatives were plotting to murder him for money.

There was nowhere to hide. Nice took the fuming rod from the fireplace; it was too dirty to have been taken away.

"Young master, are you there? Young master—"

An old woman's voice came as soon as the door opened.

Nice breathed a sigh of relief, his body going limp, almost collapsing to the floor.

It was the housekeeper.

Since his relatives arrived, most of the servants had gone to them, with only a few choosing to leave, including the housekeeper and her husband.

Nice put the fuming rod back in the fireplace and went downstairs.

The housekeeper stood in the hallway, her eyes blurry with tears, wearing a large cloak, a bundle tucked under her elbow, and a leather suitcase in her hand.

"You're leaving?"

Nice was quite sad. He had been raised by the housekeeper, and in this family, besides his father, the housekeeper was the person he was closest to.

"Young master, please take care of yourself from now on,"

the housekeeper said, sobbing, covering her mouth with her hand to stop herself from crying.

Nice felt a pang of sadness.

The two sat facing each other in silence for a long time. Then, the housekeeper gently placed the leather suitcase she was carrying in front of Nice. "Young master," she said, "all these are the master's things, mostly letters. He always asked me to put them away after reading them. I can't read, so I don't know what's written inside. Perhaps this will be useful to you."

Nice took the suitcase, unsure what to do.

Even if there were something useful inside, he didn't know who to ask for help.

The mayor was definitely unreliable, and the priest was no better; he'd overheard their whispers during the day.

The housekeeper could be trusted, but she and her husband were both honest, simple people; they probably wouldn't be able to help.

"What are your plans for the future?"

Nice asked softly.

"My husband and I plan to go back to the countryside. When we bought our freedom, the master didn't actually take our money. On my husband's birthday, he returned the money as a gift. My husband used it to buy ten acres of land in the countryside. That land used to be rented out to others, but now we plan to take it back and farm it ourselves."

"Bless you, you are good people."

Nice kissed the housekeeper's cheek. ...

The housekeeper left, and the house returned to its original silence and emptiness.

Nice sat down on the ground and opened his leather suitcase.

It was a mess, just as the housekeeper had said, mostly letters, all already opened.

It was already dark. There wasn't a single candle or piece of firewood in the house, let alone a lamp. The only light was the moonlight streaming in through the window.

He moved to the window, and in the moonlight, he could barely make out the words on the lettering.

Suddenly, the sound of rapid hoofbeats echoed in the street.

That wasn't just ordinary hoofbeats; the sound was rapid and brief, noisy yet not chaotic. It started far away, then reached his ears in moments, before quickly fading into the distance.

Nice immediately stood up and peered out the window.

He could only vaguely make out a caravan heading into the distance.

After a while, thinking it was over, he heard another round of hoofbeats approaching.

This time, the hoofbeats were somewhat chaotic, but they came incredibly fast.

Not only were there horses, but also several points of white light that accompanied the sound, approaching from afar.

At first, he thought they were lanterns or torches, but as they drew closer, his eyes widened in disbelief.

The points of white light weren't on the ground, but floating in mid-air.

In the next instant, Nice thought he saw angels.

Flying in the sky, with a pair of wings on their backs, radiating white light, they looked exactly like the angels described in the Bible. The only strange thing was that their enormous wings didn't seem to flap up or down.

Nice's eyes were fixed on the sky. As they flew overhead, he finally saw clearly that they weren't angels, but humans.

These people hung from a pair of enormous wings, which resembled kites, clearly made of a woven frame covered with a cloth.

Although they weren't real angels, he was still amazed. He had only heard of people flying in stories before, mostly wizards or magicians, using various methods—some riding brooms, some driving carriages, some transforming into crows or something similar…

This was the first time he had actually seen people flying, using kite-like wings.

Nice's eyes remained fixed on the sky, but he also saw a cavalry galloping past on the ground.

It was definitely not an ordinary cavalry; the riders were all dressed in battle robes, carrying crossbows, and greatswords hung from their saddles.

He didn't know how many people were in the cavalry. It seemed like a lot of people; the thunderous sound of their hooves shook the ground, and plaster was falling from the ceiling.

It took a full half minute for the horse caravan to pass.

The entire town was alarmed; lights shone from many windows, and frightened faces peered out, staring into the street. After a long while, people began to emerge and run into the street.

Nice ran out too; he had nothing left to lose anyway.

More and more people gathered, and the town became increasingly lively. People greeted each other, asking if anyone knew what had happened. However, everyone seemed to be intentionally or unintentionally avoiding Nice.

Unfortunately, no one had an answer, only various speculations.

In their confusion, everyone gathered at the town hall entrance.

About half an hour later, the town hall doors opened, and the mayor, his obese body swaying, emerged, followed by Hawke, the town's loud-voiced official in charge of issuing orders.

Hawke took out his trumpet and began to blow it forcefully, the sound exceptionally jarring in the night.

Setting down his trumpet, Hawke boomed in his distinctively loud voice, "The remnants of the Knights Templar broke into the prison this evening! Sixty-two of the most heinous criminals have escaped! The kingdom and the church are hunting these dangerous elements!"

Hawke raised his voice again, "The king has decreed that anyone who discovers any trace of the Knights Templar remnants must report it immediately. The king will reward them handsomely: two thousand grosso for killing one, and five thousand grosso for capturing one alive. Anyone who fails to report will be punished along with the Knights Templar."

The order was repeated five or six times in one breath.

The townspeople reacted in various ways; some went straight home after hearing it. Whether the Knights Templar had blasphemed God was unclear to the townspeople, but everyone knew of their power. Although the reward was very tempting, one had to be alive to claim it.

However, many, blinded by greed, chased after the caravan. These people didn't expect to kill the remnants of the Templars; capturing five thousand Grosso was far too difficult. They only hoped to find some footprints or something similar.

Some clever people, instead of rushing off, went home and brought out a few dogs.

Soon, the town was filled with the barking of dogs.

Nice had no interest in joining the fray; he had a mountain of trouble of his own.

Besides, the Templars had always been his heroes.

As a child, he had fallen asleep to stories of the Templars and Crusaders, and he had even dreamed of one day joining the Templars. Of course, that was just a dream; he was an only son, destined to inherit the family business, and joining the Templars meant remaining unmarried for life, dedicating everything to God. But this didn't diminish his admiration for the Templars.

A few years ago, he suddenly heard that the king had ordered the arrest of all Templars within the kingdom, declaring the Templars blasphemed God—a claim he found hard to believe. Later, even the Pope made the same judgment; he was truly confused.

The Pope was God's representative on earth; he couldn't possibly be wrong.

It was around that time that he heard something from his father.

His father told him that the most likely reason the king arrested the Templars was to seize their vast wealth. Besides, there were rumors that the Templars wanted to establish their own duchy in Frankish territory. There were

also rumors that the king wanted one of his sons to join the Templars and become the next Grand Master, but was refused, which enraged him.

In any case, according to his father, the Templars were innocent. ...

Back in the empty house, Nice no longer felt the bewilderment and helplessness he had felt earlier. The stories of the Templars he had heard before suddenly sparked an idea in him.

Since he had nothing left, why not just leave?

Like the wandering knights his father had told him, alone, with a sword and a horse, roaming the world.

Suddenly, Nice remembered something.

There seemed to be a sword in the attic; he had played with it as a child.

Thinking of this, he quickly ran upstairs.

The entrance to the attic was in what used to be his father's bedroom, and under the window, there was a hidden compartment that was not easily noticed. Nice used his fingers to pry open an iron ring from a hidden compartment; a rope was attached to it.

He pulled hard.

A section of the ceiling near the corner slid open, and a ladder descended from above.

The room was very dark, and the attic was pitch black, but once the ladder reached the ground, a light came on.

Nice carefully climbed up to the attic; in his memory, it was very low, and he would bump his head

even when bending over. Few people came to this place, so it was inevitably dusty, and things were piled up haphazardly.

But for him at this moment, these messy things were his only treasure.

At the very back, there was a large wooden chest; he remembered the sword was inside.

Nice climbed over and opened the chest. Inside was indeed a sword, a two-handed greatsword for knights, and beside it, a set of chainmail.

Now he only needed a horse.

The stables were at the back of the house, but Nice didn't expect there would be any horses there; his relatives had left him nothing but trinkets.

Nice continued searching the attic. He found some candles and flint, things he could use. He also took a few spools of thread and a sewing kit, which he could use to mend his clothes later.

Although he had never done it himself, he often watched the maids sew and knew how.

In the corner lay a pile of curtains; Nice took one, perfect for wrapping things.

He bundled everything else together, carrying the small package, his longsword tucked under his arm, and descended the attic.

The ladder retracted automatically, the light went out, and the thread under the windowsill retracted.

Everything was back to normal.

Taking one last look at the bedroom, Nice reluctantly carried his belongings downstairs.

From now on, he would travel the world.

He dared not go ahead; the front door faced the street, and if he were seen, he wouldn't be able to leave.

Nice passed through the kitchen into the yard, glancing unintentionally at the stables.

The stable, which should have been empty, now contained a horse.

Nice rubbed his eyes hard, wondering if he was seeing things.

The horse was still there.

Nice didn't know what to say; he could only guess that perhaps it was a blessing from God.

But when he reached the stable, he almost cried out in shock.

Beside the horse's forelegs lay a person. It was an old man, with a full head of white hair, his pale beard stained with blood. His body was covered in blood; everywhere visible was blood.

Nice's mind went blank.

After a long while, he realized that this was likely the remnant of the Knights Templar mentioned in the earlier orders.

Almost without thinking, Nice rushed to the old man's side, intending to pick him up. Unfortunately, he wasn't strong enough; he could only lift the old man's upper body.

Circling the old man once, he tried to crawl on the ground and slowly move the old man onto his back.

Carrying the old man on his back, Niss headed towards the kitchen, but hesitated just before entering.

The house was empty; unless they hid in the attic, he wasn't sure the ladder could support two people. Besides, even hiding in the attic wasn't safe; his relatives had been knocking and searching for the hidden room during the day, and if they did it again tomorrow, the attic might be discovered.

Niss turned and walked towards the back of the yard.

There was a winery behind the yard.

His father and several other lords in the neighborhood had a large business, not relying on the income from the land for their daily expenses, but making money through business, and that winery was their biggest source of income.

However, few people knew this.

To avoid inconspicuousness, the winery was initially built small, with only two fermentation pits, but in reality, there were eight more fermentation tanks extending all the way down into the yard. With so many fermentation tanks, it was one of the largest in the area, and the family could produce at least fifty barrels of wine every year.

All of this was orchestrated by his father. To maintain secrecy, he even sourced the grape juice for winemaking from separate, unidentified estates.

The winery's door, usually closed, was now wide open, the lock clearly forced open.

Without a doubt, Nice knew this was the work of his relatives.

A pungent, intoxicating odor wafted from the open door, so strong it made him want to sneeze.

Nice kicked the door open, and what he saw was a heartbreaking sight.

Places visited by his ravenous relatives were either spotless, leaving nothing behind, or a complete mess; the winery clearly belonged to the latter. The floor was littered with scattered wine lees, and long sticks and brooms lay strewn in the two fermentation vats.

Clearly, the relatives suspected his father had built a secret chamber here, and were poking and prodding the vats with long objects.

Nice stared at the tainted fermentation vats, a deep, indescribable sadness washing over him. His family's most prized possessions were these fermentation vats, and these two were now completely ruined. If anything dirty was thrown into them, the resulting liquor would have a strange taste.

The brewery was sparsely furnished, containing only the fermentation vats and a large copper boiler for distilling the liquor. Unfortunately, a large hole had been poked in the boiler wall with a shovel, clearly indicating that someone suspected treasure was hidden inside.

In a corner of the workshop, many empty barrels were piled up; it wasn't time to distill the liquor yet.

Seeing that most of the barrels had been smashed open, Nice felt a surge of anger rise within him once more. Even if there was deep-seated hatred, there was no need to go to this extent, especially since those people were his relatives.

"One day, I'll make you all suffer a terrible death,"

Nice vowed through gritted teeth. ...

There was indeed a hidden room in this place.

Nice put the old man down and carefully pushed a row of wine barrels against the wall.

The barrels, seemingly buried under the others, were easily pushed aside, revealing a dark opening.

Nice dragged the old man down the steps leading to the opening.

The steps weren't long; below was a narrow tunnel barely wide enough for one to stand upright. Every five or six meters along one wall, a water tap protruded.

This hidden room had been there when the brewery was built, to produce the wine.

Nice put the old man down and sat on the steps, panting heavily. He was exhausted.

Not only was he exhausted, but he was also starving. Most of his servants had gone to live with his relatives, and a few had left. He hadn't eaten or even drunk anything since noon.

Nice stared at the water taps, smacking his lips repeatedly. There were tons of liquor inside, but unfortunately it hadn't been distilled; he absolutely dared not drink it.

Suddenly, a soft groan reached his ears.

The old man had woken up.

"Water—"

The old man's voice sounded weak.

Nice looked around; he was looking for the package. He had retrieved a silver flask from the attic, intending to use it as a water jug.

He slapped his forehead; he had thrown the package into the stable when he carried the old man.

"Wait here, I'll be right there."

Nice stood up and ran up.

As soon as he left, the old man opened his eyes.

Although he seemed very weak, the old man wasn't completely immobile. He had actually woken up when Nice tried to pick him up. But out of caution, wanting to know what the little guy planned to do, he had pretended to be unconscious. Only after Nice hid him here did he realize the little guy's good intentions.

After a while, Nice returned, holding a gleaming silver flask. He brought the flask to the old man's lips.

The old man gulped down the water, as if he had never tasted anything so good in his life. In the blink of an eye, the entire pot was empty.

"Want some more?"

Nice asked.

"Get me up,"

the old man said.

It was clearly a request, but it sounded like a command. The old man gave Nice a sense of quiet authority.

Nice helped the old man up and made him sit against the wall. Nice looked at the old man's wounds, which were definitely the most horrific wounds he had ever seen. In many places, you could see the bone.

"Are you alright?"

Nice asked.

"I'm fine. These wounds aren't new. Most of them are the work of those people from the Inquisition. In the past three years, several people younger than me have died, but I'm still alive."

The old man spoke with unusual ease.

The Inquisition was a place that made people tremble with fear, but this old man didn't seem to care at all, which made Nice admire him even more.

"Where is this?"

the old man pretended not to know.

"My family's brewery, but it won't belong to me for long."

Nice seemed a little uncomfortable when he mentioned this.

"What trouble have you run into?"

The old man intended to return the favor. Although his own situation was extremely precarious, he considered Nice's troubles insignificant.

This was a case of being blinded by status, and thus blinded by judgment.

In fact, the old man had already roughly guessed what was going on when Nice swore an oath.

Ironically, Nice's troubles and the Templars' troubles were practically identical—both had a large fortune being coveted.

However, the Templars were facing a coalition of a secular monarch and the Pope, who controlled the army, the Papacy, and the Inquisition. Nice, on the other hand, was facing a group of relatives and a few minor officials in the town, whose henchmen were nothing more than ungrateful servants.

In the old man's eyes, these people were utterly insignificant.

"My father died in an accident not long ago. Immediately after his death, a group of relatives appeared. I had never heard of them before. The worst part is that they actually said I was a bastard..."

Nice recounted his ordeal.

He had been keeping these words bottled up inside, wanting to confide in someone, and the old man was clearly an excellent listener, listening attentively without interrupting.

When Nice finished speaking, the old man took another sip from his water jug before saying, "Thank you for saving me, and I will do my best to help you. However, the most important thing now is that you get rid of that horse. It has the Templar Knights' mark on it, and if anyone finds it, we'll both be in big trouble."

Nice was startled. He then remembered that the old man and the horse had been able to run into the stable, meaning the back gate wasn't locked.

This must be the work of those relatives again.

He jumped up and rushed forward.

"Wait,"

the old man shouted, "If you don't want anyone to follow the hoofprints all the way here, let me finish."

Nice quickly retreated.

"Now listen to me. First, go find some oil paper… or something else, anything that can block the smell and can be burned later…"

the old man instructed the boy very carefully.

Nice listened patiently; this was far more interesting than any story.

Watching Nice leave, the old man struggled to sit up straight, his hands clasped tightly to his chest. A moment later, a hazy white light enveloped his body. Under this light, the wounds began to writhe, occasionally oozing pus and blood—a horrifying sight. But upon closer inspection, one could see that all the wounds were contracting and gradually healing. …

In the stable, Nice looked at the horse with deep regret.

It was a fine horse, its four legs long and powerful, its coat as smooth as silk, reflecting the moonlight.

His father had owned several fine horses, but compared to this one, they were nothing.

However, fear ultimately overcame his regret.

He covered the horse's back with a curtain he had just taken from the attic; the curtain was covered in dust, enough to mask the horse's scent.

He still had four torn pieces of curtain fabric in his hand. He carefully wrapped two of them around the stirrups. After finishing that, he began to wrap the curtain fabric around his hands. The old man had just said that all the parts that would come into contact with the fabric had to be covered.

With his tightly wrapped hands gripping the reins, Niss pulled his horse out the back door. The back door was indeed open, the lock on it pried open.

He left the door ajar, mounted his horse, and trotted along the main street out of town.

He wasn't afraid of being discovered, because there were many others like him riding recklessly outside town, all delusional dreamers hoping for a bounty.

Niss didn't go far, walking about two kilometers along the main road before turning onto a side path leading to a river.

The old man had instructed him to do this; he would have to wade through the river on his return.

Along the way, Niss remained constantly aware of his surroundings; he was doing something extremely dangerous.

All around was silent, save for the hooting of owls.

Niss followed the owl's call, as the old man had also told him: if an owl hooted, it meant no one was there.

Sure enough, as soon as he approached, the birds immediately fell silent.

He rode for about two kilometers more until he heard the babbling of flowing water ahead.

This was the river he was looking for.

Or to be more precise, it was a ditch, artificially dug for irrigation; the water was shallow, barely reaching his knees.

Ness dismounted and pulled a wooden spike from his back—a broom handle he'd whittled from a fermentation vat, its tip unusually sharp. He

could simply plunge the spike into the horse's rump, and it would bolt wildly along the road. ...

The river water was icy cold; it was only early spring, and the weather was still chilly. Ness felt his legs were about to go numb.

The further he went, the more uneasy he felt.

Had he done something wrong?

That was definitely a very intelligent horse; it seemed to know what he was going to do, and it had been looking at him with such innocent eyes that it softened his heart, and he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

In the end, he hid the horse in a grove of trees. He thought that if no one found it, he might have a chance to come back and get it.

Nice knew in his heart that this was just an excuse, an excuse to comfort him.

He had regretted his journey back countless times, but now it seemed too late to turn back. He didn't want to wade through the water again; his feet felt like they didn't belong to him anymore.

Looking at the distant shadow of the mill, Nice knew the town wasn't far.

As he approached the edge of town, many flickering lights appeared; the townspeople were searching for remnants of the Knights Templar with torches.

Finding a dry spot, Nice spread the curtain on the ground and stepped onto the bank. This was also the old man's instruction.

He dried his frozen feet with the curtain, finally feeling a little better.

He sat on the ground for a long time before putting his socks and shoes back on. Before going home, he had to destroy the last thing that might expose him.

The curtain was carefully folded up, including the four strips he had torn from his clothes to wrap his stirrups and hands, which he then wrapped tightly around the splinter.

When Nice emerged from the path and returned to the main road, he lit a torch.

Approaching the town, he saw a large iron frame at the entrance; those who had found nothing had thrown their torches into it before entering.

Torches were dangerous; carelessly discarded ones could start a fire.

Nice threw his torch into the frame as well.

Watching the raging fire completely engulf the last remaining evidence, his anxiety finally subsided.

Slipping back into the yard through the back door, Nice, as the old man had instructed, flushed the entire yard with well water. Then, using a long stick from the fermentation vat, he scooped up some lees and sprinkled them like pepper in the yard, stable, and doorway, finally stamping some footprints on them haphazardly.

After doing all this, he finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Nice picked up his suitcase and bundle and went into the brewery. He wanted the old man to help him see if there was anything there that could change his fate. ...

As soon as he entered the secret chamber, Nice saw the old man standing beside a tap, holding a silver jug. Wine was flowing from the tap into the jug. "This can't be drunk!"

Nice exclaimed.

"Don't worry, I know what I'm doing,"

the old man said with a smile. He looked much better than before; not only did he appear quite energetic, but his wounds had also almost healed. After filling the jug, the old man drew a cross on it with his finger.

Suddenly, the spout lit up, and light shone from within, as if it contained flames rather than wine.

When the light went out, the old man raised the silver jug: "Now you can drink."

He tilted his head back and took a swig, then exhaled, saying, "This is quite good. If it were wine, it would be even better."

"That was...?"

Nice pointed at the old man in astonishment.

"It was divine magic. I am a priest,"

the old man explained.

Nice now understood why the old man had said that several people younger than him had died, yet he had survived to this day. As a priest, he could certainly heal his own wounds.

"I'd like to ask you to take a look at these things for me,"

Nice said, carefully placing the suitcase at the old man's feet. "What's inside?"

the old man asked.

"Letters, letters from my father,"

Nice said, lighting a candle.

The old man didn't refuse; Nice had saved his life, so he naturally felt obligated to repay her.

There was no table or chair in the secret room, so the old man placed the candle on a step and leaned against it for a little more comfort.

He looked at things quickly, glancing at most of the letters casually before setting them aside, only occasionally examining them closely, those of which he carefully set aside.

Time passed, and the candle burned shorter and shorter.

When only a third of the candle remained, the old man stopped and rubbed his eyes.

"Do you want to hear the truth or a lie?"

The old man put down the last letter, offering such a strange choice.

A very uneasy feeling rose in Nice's heart.

"A lie must be more appealing,"

Nice asked tentatively.

"You're very clever."

The old man nodded. "You don't need to worry about being kicked out. Your father actually prepared everything for you. If it weren't for this accident... perhaps it wasn't an accident at all..."

The old man seemed to have thought of something.

"Can I take back everything that's rightfully mine?"

Niss was instantly excited, unaware of the old man's last muttered sentence.

"That's right, whatever your relatives took, they'll return it all, and you'll even get compensation. However, that's just the beginning of your troubles."

The old man looked at Niss, unsure if the boy was worth his effort.

Niss had just saved him, for which he was deeply grateful and also felt a sense of goodwill towards Niss's kindness. His earlier request for Niss to dispose of the horse was actually a test, to see the boy's courage and ability to carry out his orders.

The Knights Templar were not simply a band of pious warriors, but one of the most powerful armies in the world.

Among armies of the highest rank, the Knights Templar's size was far smaller than other armies, making their elite status unparalleled. Every member of the order had to be capable of independent command.

This was why joining the Knights Templar was no easy feat.

"Why do you say that?"

Niss asked, not losing his senses despite the excitement of potentially getting his property back.

The old man seemed somewhat satisfied with this reaction.

"Property is the source of trouble. Without it, you'd at most be sent to the Nangdao Academy. But after getting your property back, you might not even be able to save your life,"

the old man said calmly.

Nis's face turned deathly pale. He didn't think the old man was trying to scare him; the bruises on the back of his neck hadn't faded yet, and the relative had been choking him to silence him. But he sensed that these people wanted him dead. That way, there would be no trouble at all.

"So, what should I do?"

Nis was completely lost.

During the day, he had indeed been very concerned about the property, but now, after experiencing all this, he suddenly realized that the world wasn't just this one place.

Even without any connection to the Knights Templar, just thinking about the brewing techniques his father had unintentionally taught him, he could survive on his own.

"That depends on whether you're willing to give up something,"

the old man said leisurely, taking a sip of his wine, acting as if it were none of his business.

The more the old man acted this way, the more Nis trusted him.

"Give up what?"

He had already made his decision; nothing could be more precious than life.

The old man drew a circle with his finger: "Give up everything—the house, the land, the money, and even this workshop."

Although he was somewhat prepared, Nice couldn't help but mutter, "How is this any different from the original outcome?"

"Of course not. The original outcome benefited your relatives, but if you give it up voluntarily, you can exchange all of this for something." The old man pointed out the key.

"What can I get in return?"

Nice's experience was limited, and he wasn't good at this kind of subtle conversation.

The old man found it difficult to answer this question, because what he could get in return was definitely not something tangible. After thinking for a long time, he finally answered, "What you can get is a broader future."

These words sounded vague, but for Nice, they were enough, because he believed the old man wouldn't lie to him.

"How do I do it?"

Nice asked.

Having gained unconditional trust, the old man's goodwill grew even stronger.

The old man already had a plan in mind; he had already devised a solution when he heard Nice recount her ordeal.

In terms of intellect, even Nice's relatives combined were no match for the old man.

"First, you must relinquish your inheritance rights. One of your relatives will inherit the land and title, but that's all they'll take. Everything else is yours, including property, manors, houses, workshops, and all your servants. You can donate all of this to the church in exchange for membership. That way, you can become a priest directly, because you paid money."

The old man's face was full of mockery. Although he himself was a priest, he had no goodwill towards the upper echelons of the church.

Nice didn't object to donating all his property to the church; at least it was better than letting his relatives benefit.

"Why not give the land to the church too?"

He even wanted to give up the land; none of his relatives were good people.

"Land doesn't belong to an individual. If you relinquish your inheritance rights, either the king will take it back, or one of your relatives will be appointed to inherit it,"

the old man patiently explained.

“I’d rather the King take it back,”

Nice said, carefully observing the changes in the old man’s face. King Philip IV and the Knights Templar were mortal enemies, and the old man’s injuries were, in a sense, all thanks to His Majesty.

The old man was well aware of the boy’s thoughts, and he was both amused and exasperated.

“Haven’t you thought about revenge?”

the old man asked.

Nice looked puzzled. He wasn’t stupid, but he couldn’t understand the connection between giving up the inheritance and revenge.

“Your relatives must have a secret agreement. Who gets the land and the title? Who gets the other property? It must have been planned beforehand. Now only one person has benefited, and the others have gotten nothing. Believe me, the Church will definitely uproot every single seedling in the land. What do you think your empty-handed relatives will think?”

“They will be furious,”

Nice grinned, understanding the old man’s meaning. “They will be extremely jealous and hate the person who gets the land to the core.”

“Just wait and see the dogs fight!”

the old man said in a low voice.

"What should I do?"

Nice asked impatiently, eager to see what would happen.

"Go find the priest in the church..."

the old man began to instruct.

He only got a few words before Nice interrupted him: "That guy's no good."

"I know, in this corrupt age, most clergy have rotted away. They'll do anything for money."

The old man only mentioned clergy, not priests.

Clergy refers to those in the church responsible for missionary work—priests, bishops, archbishops, and so on, with the puppet pope at the very top.

"Then why are you telling me to find him?"

Nice couldn't understand the old man's thinking.

"Have you ever owned a dog?"

the old man asked again.

Nice was even more confused. Why was he suddenly talking about dogs? But he still honestly answered, "Yes."

"If someone throws a bone to a dog, making it bite you, what would you do?"

The old man wasn't asking for an answer; he continued, "Would you throw it a bone too?"

He laughed, "And if that person throws another one? Would you throw another one too? Wouldn't that just be letting the dog get away with it?"

Nice seemed to understand somewhat; he even felt that the priest did indeed resemble a dog.

"What would you do?"

he asked.

"If I were you, I would turn around and grab a stick. Dogs are smart; you don't even need to hit them with a stick. When they see you pick up a stick, they'll definitely behave."

The old man spoke with unusual malice. During the three years he was imprisoned in the Inquisition, he suffered immense torture, nearly dying several times from those instruments of torture. It was impossible for him not to harbor resentment.

The old man was talking about Nice's situation, but in his heart, he was thinking about how to seek justice for himself and for the Knights.

After a long pause, he picked up a letter and presented it to Nice: "Your father had prepared this stick long ago, but his unexpected death prevented him from giving it to you."

Nice hadn't had time to read all the letters before, and some of them were written in a very cryptic and unclear way, leaving him completely bewildered. He had only read a small portion before his head started spinning.

Taking the letter from the old man, he carefully opened it.

It was a letter from a priest named Trinidad Gonoz to his father, mentioning that his spirit wished to baptize Nice, along with some pleasantries. It seemed the priest and his father had a good relationship. Knowing

Nice wouldn't understand, the old man explained, "If I remember correctly, the bishop of the Langler diocese was named Trinidad Gonoz. He rose through the ranks quickly and has a bright future."

"I knew it! I couldn't be an illegitimate child!"

Nice exclaimed excitedly; this was his biggest worry.

The old man watched Nice vent her frustrations, his face devoid of joy, his eyes filled with pity.

Nice gradually sensed something was amiss, and looked at the old man with suspicion.

"I don't want to lie, but I'm afraid your relatives' suspicions are correct,"

the old man sighed. "Remember when I asked you if you wanted the truth or a lie?"

"This letter... could it be fake?"

Nice's smile vanished.

"It's most likely fake, but in the church's baptismal records, there probably is a record proving that twelve years ago, Trinidad Gonoz, who was then just a priest, presided over your baptism. I've said it before, this is a corrupt age. Since clergy can be bribed, falsifying records isn't difficult for them."

The old man was all too familiar with these tricks.

"The bishop himself must know the truth,"

Nice clung to her last hope.

Unfortunately, the old man wouldn't grant her wish.

"Who would remember a baptism performed more than a decade ago? Besides, your father even prepared letters like this for you; he must have made sure everything was flawless."

Nice took a step back. Compared to the slander from his relatives, the old man's simple words were far more damaging.

"Why are you so sure this is fake? Why are you so insistent that I'm an illegitimate child? My father…"

Nice didn't know how to begin.

The old man looked into Nice's wounded eyes. Although he felt a pang of reluctance, he ultimately decided to kick the little guy into the abyss.

This was also a test.

"Alright, listen."

The old man sat up straight, suddenly becoming serious.

He picked up a pile of letters from the sorted stack.

Nice flipped through them.

They were the kind of letters he couldn't understand at all.

These letters were very strange; they were more like poems than letters, filled with flowery phrases, but the content was completely empty, and he had no idea what they were saying. The only thing he was certain of was that the letter was written by a woman, because the paper was pink and had a pleasant fragrance, and the handwriting had a soft, supple feel.

The old man had clearly arranged the letters chronologically. The earliest letter was from fifteen years ago, and the last one was ten years old. "This woman should be your real mother,"

the old man said with unusual certainty.

"I can't see anything. There's nothing on it,"

Nice said, somewhat confused. What made the old man's judgment?

"It's written in a special code. I can only barely decipher some things myself. The Inquisition are the real experts in this area; they might be able to understand it completely."

The old man wasn't trying to frighten Nice; he was telling the truth.

However, any normal person, upon suddenly hearing about the Inquisition and knowing they were connected to that organization, would turn pale with fright.

"You said my mother was a witch or a heretic,"

Nice said, his face now extremely pale.

"More or less. Was she a witch? I'm not sure, but she was definitely a heretic, as was your father,"

the old man said, his tone still firm.

"You're lying. Are you worried I'll report you, so..."

Nice thought of this possibility with a hint of malice.

The old man didn't seem to care; the little boy's reaction was exactly what he expected.

"These codes were invented by an organization called the Symbolic Society."

The old man's expression became unusually solemn when he mentioned the Symbolic Society.

Nice sensed this solemnity. He kept repeating "Symbolic Society," and for some reason, the name made him feel mysterious and powerful.

"It's a secret organization. Ordinary people don't even know it exists. Even among the lower-ranking members of the church, very few have heard of it. Only after reaching a certain level are they qualified to know about it. When members of this organization communicate with each other, they use all sorts of codes and symbols. The letters in your hand use only a relatively low-level code. If you join the church, you'll definitely have the opportunity to deal with the Inquisition. At that time, you'll know whether what I'm saying is true or false."

Nice was almost convinced that it was true.

Compared to being a bastard child, the identity of being the child of two secret cult organizations, although more dangerous and more shameful, made him feel much better.

After a while, he staggered towards the steps, clearly intending to go out.

"Where are you going now?"

the old man asked.

"Didn't you tell me to go find the priest at the church?"

Nice turned to look at the old man.

The old man shook his head, clearly not believing it was the right choice. "It's so late now, and besides, you're not in a good mood."

Nice touched his cheek.

His cheek was cold; even without a mirror, one could guess that his face was pale.

He had experienced and learned too much today, far too much for him to bear.

"Go tomorrow. Before you go to church, think carefully about how to talk to that priest..."

The old man suddenly sighed. Even with his guidance, expecting a minor to face a group of malicious adults was a stretch.

"Let me do you another favor! I don't know if this will be good or bad for you?"

The old man pulled Nice closer.

"Kneel on the ground, relax your body,"

he commanded .

Nice did as he was told.

The old man placed his hand on Nice's head, and a glowing, mysterious character appeared on his hand.

It was definitely not from any particular country; it was incredibly complex and seemed alive, constantly changing.

Nice felt dizzy and lightheaded, as if his head was filled with lead.

At first, he tried to stay awake, but gradually, he couldn't hold on any longer, and his head slumped onto the old man's lap.

He fell asleep…

Chapter Two ◆ The Protective Umbrella

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” A rooster's crow startled Nice awake. He sat up and looked around. He was no longer in the secret room below, but lying on a row of wooden barrels in the distillery. A burlap sack, which had been thrown in a corner, was now quite clean, covering his body.

The silver flask he had taken from the attic was on his right. Upon seeing it, his stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten since noon yesterday, and twenty-four hours had passed since his last meal.

It wasn't good to drink on an empty stomach, but he couldn't care less now. He gulped down two mouthfuls of liquor, and Nice immediately felt his stomach warmer, but he also felt a pungent intoxication.

Now was not the right time to go to church! He remembered the old man's instructions from the previous night: to think carefully about what to say before going. Suddenly, Nice found his mind unusually clear, his thoughts flowing rapidly, and many things he hadn't known before suddenly surfaced in his head.

His ability to sense this unease was the best proof of his own unease. If it were the old him, he certainly wouldn't have noticed anything amiss.

A growing sense of doubt arose, and the answer flashed through his mind immediately. This must have been the old man's doing.

The last thing he remembered from last night was the old man making him kneel before him, placing his hand on his head, then his consciousness becoming hazy, and finally, he fell asleep.

He considered going down to the secret chamber to ask, but then remembered it was already daytime, and if his relatives came, he and the old man would be in big trouble.

Just thinking about the large reward promised by His Majesty the King, and recalling what he had seen last night—those people floating overhead, radiating white light, looking like angels—he immediately realized he was caught in a terrible mess.

Compared to his dazed state yesterday, he now understood how dire his situation was. He was now equated with the remnants of the Knights Templar, and his head was now worth five thousand rosoles.

In an instant, he recalled his mysterious past.

Last night, in his dazed state and heightened by excitement, he hadn't thought things through carefully. Now, recalling the old man's words and those incomprehensible letters, he increasingly felt that it might be true.

At the same time, memories of his father began to surface.

There were still some doubts. In his memory, his father enjoyed interacting with the church, not only being acquainted with the town's priest but also having close relationships with several teachers, frequently donating money. However, he had never seen his father pray, because his father never forced him to. His occasional prayers were entirely due to the steward's influence.

Suddenly, another doubt arose: he had visited other people's homes with his father and seen their children listen to stories from the Bible before bed, but his father's stories were either historical or folk tales, occasionally including ancient myths.

The more he recalled, the more complex the details became, and Nice dared not think any further. "Gurgle..."

The rumbling in his stomach brought Nice back to reality.

Regardless of the truth, regardless of whether his father was connected to the mysterious "Marked Society," it was all too distant for him now. The most important thing was to reclaim everything that was rightfully his and teach those relatives a lesson. But right now, the most important thing was to fill his stomach.

The church was located at the western intersection of the town, some distance from the other houses, perhaps representing the church's superior status.

At the church entrance, a hunchbacked man with a head full of burns was sweeping the floor with unusual care.

Nice only knew this man was called Hunke, a stranger, and didn't know who had abandoned him in the town.

When they first saw him, he was charred and barely alive. The local priest took him in, treated him, and pulled him back from the brink of death. Later, seeing he was homeless, he simply let him stay at the church, doing chores like washing and cleaning.

Because of this act of kindness, the people here believed in the priest's goodness and compassion, and until yesterday, Nice had believed so too.

What happened yesterday made him realize that the priest was no good at all, and now he was even more aware of how terrifying this guy was.

His relatives and that pig-headed mayor were all obviously bad guys, so people would definitely be wary of them and wouldn't believe everything they said. But Father Lyle was different; he was a hypocrite, absolutely impeccable on the surface, you could even call him a saint, so many people would believe him. Only

now did Nice understand why the old man had told him to find the priest. As long as this guy could be persuaded, no one else was a threat.

His choice to come at this time was also a well-thought-out decision. It should be right after morning prayers, the priest should still be in the church and hadn't had breakfast yet, but it was hard to say what would happen later. If this guy didn't want to see him, he could definitely come up with all sorts of excuses.

Hunchback Soul saw Nice approaching from afar and quickly stopped him. He tilted his head and said with great difficulty, "The priest can't help you either. He guessed you'd come back to him, but it's no use..."

Nice wasn't annoyed by the hunchback's obstruction; he was no longer the same person he was yesterday. In Hunke's cloudy eyes, he saw pity, and in his lisping voice, there was a hint of comfort.

This was a man of hardship, and also a truly good man.

Nice suddenly realized that he had never really looked at this man properly before. Like everyone else in town, because of his ugly hunchback and horrific burns, they would avoid Hunke whenever he approached, as if avoiding a plague. They were completely unaware that Hunke was the most devout person in town, praying more often than the priest and more earnestly and attentively than anyone else. In his spare time, this hunchback would clean the church, making the floors and chairs look as if they had been waxed.

"You're a good person, don't worry! The priest won't blame you. I've found evidence to prove I'm not an illegitimate child."

Nice knew that the hunchback had stopped him from going in on the priest's orders, and those words were also what the priest had instructed him to say. Upon hearing Nice say that he had solid evidence, the hunchback was stunned, because the priest hadn't told him what to do if Nice had evidence.

Seeing the hunchback's hesitation, Nice knew his chance had come. With his mind clearing, Hunke's movements became much more agile. He shrank back easily, slipping under the hunchback's elbow and strode into the church.

It was a small church, with only a wide door and a bell tower over three meters high; the whole structure resembled a farmhouse.

The church had only two rooms. The larger outer room was for worship, with a small door leading to the inner room—the priest's quarters.

Morning prayers had just ended, and the priest hadn't finished tidying up, so he was still in the outer room, which Nice saw as soon as he entered.

Nice noticed that the priest's face changed slightly when he appeared, a fleeting hint of displeasure flashing across his face. While directed at him, it was more directed at the poor doorman. Clearly, the man was annoyed that Soul hadn't stopped him.

However, being a skilled hypocrite, the priest knew how to conceal his displeasure, so it vanished as soon as it appeared.

"I'm very sorry, I believe Hunke has already told you, I really can't help you. Their accusations are fatal; whether from a legal or moral standpoint, illegitimate children have no right to inheritance."

The priest cut him off immediately.

That wasn't evidence, just one side of the story. Nice had expected the priest to say this; he had anticipated all sorts of possibilities before coming, and he had a corresponding countermeasure no matter what the priest tried to evade the issue.

"I have solid evidence. I found the priest who baptized me, and I believe the church must have a record of my baptism; a simple check will prove it's true."

The priest hadn't been prepared, but his mind was quick. He hurriedly said, "That's useless. A record of baptism doesn't mean your actions were legal. It only means that your sins were reduced somewhat by baptism, so you should thank the church."

Nice completely ignored his words and continued, "The person who baptized me was a friend of my father; I believe he should know my situation."

The priest frowned; the little guy seemed different today, and he suddenly felt uneasy.

However, it was too late to change his stance now; he had already accepted bribes.

"This could be considered evidence, but it's a stretch. Even close friends can make mistakes, like in your case. You need your parents' marriage certificate and birth certificate."

The priest didn't dare to give a definitive answer; this was based on his years of experience. Many things that seemed certain could go wrong for various reasons, so it was always necessary to leave oneself some leeway.

But to ask him to stand on the little guy's side and oppose his relatives was something the priest absolutely could not do.

Upon hearing this, Nice was somewhat surprised; it was unexpected. But then he understood something else: why had the old man told him to find the priest? Besides the fact that this hypocrite claimed to be capable, another important reason was that hypocrites often hesitated and liked to have their cake and eat it too.

“My father married my mother while he was in office. A simple check should reveal the witnesses to the marriage. As for the birth certificate, my relatives have probably destroyed it, but the church should still have a record. Have someone check the churches where my father served; they should have results.”

“What you’re saying is theoretically correct, but the problem is I have no authority to investigate these things. Child, I really can’t help you.” The priest turned to go into his room, feeling somewhat overwhelmed.

Nice didn’t stop him, but continued, “The priest who baptized me was named Trinidad Gonoz. Ten years ago, he was just a priest in a small chapel in Meg Lane, but now he’s a priest in the Langgo parish.”

The priest, halfway through his turn, suddenly froze. Even if he were allowed to leave, he wouldn’t dare.

“Believe me, even if you gain the territory, you won’t be able to keep him.”

This time, the priest spoke the truth.

“I know, so all I need to do is take back everything that belongs to me, and then I will donate it all to the church. I will join the church and dedicate myself to God. Of course, the territory cannot be donated; for that, I will relinquish my inheritance rights. However, as the price for relinquishing my inheritance rights, I will have the right to designate an heir. This will depend on the performance of my relatives. Whoever satisfies me will be eligible.”

When Nice said the last sentence, he almost changed his mind at the last minute, but in the end, he gritted his teeth and chose the old man's method.

The priest felt a chill run up from the soles of his feet. He looked Nice carefully and confirmed that this was not another person. But his intuition told him that the little guy in front of him was completely different from the young master Conseil he knew before. He even hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to call the people in charge of the inquisition to have them check whether the child was possessed by a demon. Although he himself could not sense any evil power, some demons were very well hidden.

However, the bishop of the Langgo diocese that Nice had mentioned earlier made the priest extremely wary.

Seeing the priest's hesitant expression, Nice knew that now was the time to deliver the final blow.

"I hope you can uphold justice and fairness. If you deem it inappropriate, I will have His Excellency's men take me to Langgo, and I will give them half of my property... Unfortunately, this would leave only half of the property available for donation to the Church." This was a threat, a blatant threat, and a very real one.

The priest knew very well that not only the Church Father of Langgo, but even the Bishop of his own diocese, would surely banish him to some absurd little village on the border if they knew he had caused the Church to lose such a large sum of money.

Almost instantly, a murderous intent arose in his heart.

He didn't need to do it himself; just telling his relatives in Nice would ensure the little guy wouldn't see the sun rise tomorrow.

However, this thought vanished in an instant.

He hadn't originally intended to side with Nice because there was no profit to be made, and the odds weren't high. But now the situation had changed; the little guy held an ace in his hand, and it would bring the Church enormous benefits. Although such a large sum of money would certainly have to be handed over, a portion would remain, far exceeding the returns promised by the little guy's relatives.

At this moment, he was somewhat relieved that he hadn't accepted the money, and that when discussing payment with those people, he had used the pretext of building a church, never mentioning a single word about money. Otherwise, with that person holding something against him, he probably would have had to inform them by now.

If things were exposed then, he wouldn't just be exiled to a remote area, but would be tied to a stake and roasted into jerky.

The sound of horses' hooves interrupted Nice's conversation with the priest.

Both were surprised. Had remnants of the Knights Templar passed through the town again?

This time, however, the sound of hooves wasn't hurried; it wasn't like fleeing, nor like a chase.

The priest, wondering what had happened to ease the tense atmosphere, noticed the timely arrival of the cavalry. He abandoned Nice and walked out of the church.

Nice followed, running out.

He wasn't threatening the priest; the inheritance was no longer important to him. His gaze was fixed on something far ahead.

He ran out because he had a terrible premonition. He had a premonition that something bad would happen since he hadn't disposed of the horse as the old man had instructed.

A cavalry unit was slowly entering the town. The entrance was blocked, and two groups of men could be seen flanking the town, encircling it.

He knew his worst fears had come true.

Suddenly, Nice's pupils contracted. He saw a group of people being ushered into the town.

Before, he would have simply recognized them as important figures, but now, he immediately recognized seven paladins—four paladins, two high priests, and a bishop.

Nex didn't know how he distinguished them; he only needed a glance to understand their identities. In fact, it was difficult to differentiate them by appearance alone. These men were fully armed, clad in heavy armor, wearing helmets, with shields and weapons hanging from their saddles.

It was an intuition, as if he dealt with these people daily, able to discern their identities from their every move.

He hadn't possessed this ability before, clearly related to the old man.

The old man had not only made him smarter but also filled his mind with knowledge that wasn't originally his.

His former possessions were soon gone, while knowledge that wasn't his now resided within him—such was the unpredictability of life. However, now was not the time for lamentation.

Nex's mind was now brimming with methods for apprehending criminals, undoubtedly instilled by the old man. The Knights Templar were a military organization; arresting and killing were commonplace.

The thought of those methods sent chills down Nice's spine.

The simplest and most direct method would be to search every corner of town, leaving no stone unturned. A more sophisticated approach would be to bring in some dogs. The most ingenious method, of course, would be to use divine magic or spells.

This team included two high-ranking priests and a bishop, capable of casting most divine spells.

Nice didn't know if his family's wine cellar could evade the search, or if the old man hiding inside would be discovered.

If the old man was exposed, Nice would be doomed.

Just then, a very audacious idea suddenly popped into his head.

It was absolutely insane; Nice was startled himself, but in an instant, he felt it was feasible.

It was precisely because of its madness that it would surprise everyone, leaving no one astonished.

Nice angrily approached the priest, bowing his head and asking, "Will that bishop be staying here?"

The priest, sensing Nice's approach, was now somewhat afraid of the young man.

He had expected Nice to bring up the inheritance again, but this was an unexpected question.

The priest wasn't surprised by the question itself, but by a particular detail.

"How did you know there was a bishop here?"

the priest asked.

"I had a feeling. Don't forget, my father and Bishop Gonoz were friends, and I've listened to his teachings before, so I have some understanding of the identity of clergy."

Mei was intelligent enough that lying was very easy for her.

Nice's words made the priest dare not have any more suspicious thoughts. Besides being a member of the church, only those who frequently saw bishops or other clergy members could possibly have such knowledge.

With this understanding, the priest's attitude immediately softened: "What are your thoughts?"

"If His Excellency the Bishop needs to stay overnight in town, my house is absolutely the most suitable, especially now that all the furniture has been moved out. It's empty and perfect for redecorating. Have the wealthiest families in town each contribute a few pieces of their best furniture, and I believe His Excellency will be very satisfied."

Nice spoke his thoughts leisurely.

Hearing this, the priest felt a chill run down his spine.

He knew this was revenge, naked revenge.

After the Baron's death, not a single person in the town showed any compassion or pity; many took advantage of his misfortune, even more sought to profit from him, while others simply watched the spectacle.

The little fellow, with such high-sounding reasoning, had managed to make everyone in town pay the price.

The priest pretended not to hear; he didn't want to provoke public outrage. Afterwards, the little fellow could abandon everything and enter a monastery, while he would remain in the town.

Seeing the priest's lack of reaction, Nice continued, "The reason I donated my property to the church was entirely due to your teachings."

The priest understood; this was a promised benefit, but also a threat. He either wouldn't get on this pirate ship, or he would gain nothing, and the latter might even face the little fellow's revenge.

Just thinking about the immense pressure Nice had just exerted on him terrified the priest.

The little fellow was quite shrewd; at such a young age, he already understood the art of using both kindness and power, and was adept at leveraging influence. With a bishop backing him, and seemingly about to connect with another bishop, his future was undoubtedly bright and promising.

"This is primarily God's will; it is God who has influenced you. My teachings are insignificant."

The priest's words were tantamount to accepting Nice's proposal, and at the same time, indicated that he dared not take credit.

"My relatives have taken a great deal of property that should have been given to the Church. I believe that the arrival of this bishop is also God's will."

Nice also intended to vent his anger.

"Greed is one of the original sins and will inevitably be punished. And seizing a legitimate inheritance is also a serious crime in the Kingdom's code."

Having decided to stand on Nice's side, the priest no longer cared about offending those people. He had already foreseen that everyone, including the mayor and the two deacons, would meet a terrible end.

Even if they got through this hurdle now, once the little guy grew up and established himself in the Church, the ensuing retribution would destroy countless families.

What if the little guy joined the Inquisition out of hatred…

The priest dared not think further. He seemed to see God opening a room in the depths of hell, just waiting for someone to move in.

After a quiet day, Nice's house became lively again. A group of well-dressed servants were busy inside, carrying and lifting clothes, beds, tables, chairs, and other items. All the furniture was inlaid with gold and silver, enamel-painted, and exquisitely beautiful.

Just as Nice had said, under this pretext, the best furniture and decorations from the town's wealthy families were "borrowed."

The thick carpet on the third wall belonged to the timber merchant, Hervinga; the paintings on the wall were from Maleniga's collection; the sculptures were moved from the town hall…

Nice acted like a steward, directing the servants. Anyone who was slow would be punished immediately, at least twenty lashes.

These were all former servants of his household. Just a few days ago, he had been very gentle with them, because his father had always told him to be kind to others.

Unfortunately, while he was kind to others, they didn't necessarily reciprocate.

Immediately after his father's death, most of these people fled to his distant relatives. When the relatives came to steal the goods, many of them were accomplices. They knew everything about the goods and were eager to impress their relatives.

Nice wasn't demanding; he didn't need everyone to be like a steward. Even if these people sided with his relatives, he didn't care much, but betraying their former master was intolerable.

The punishment was only just beginning. Nice watched the people work while stroking each familiar item.

The porcelain tableware, silver kettles, and quilts were all his father's favorite things. The bookshelves on the shelves were also his collection accumulated over many years. In the corner, there was a large chest containing the returned precious jewelry, bolts of silk, and other valuable items.

When it comes to recovering stolen goods, no one is more powerful than the Church. They have more than a dozen divine spells to determine whether someone is lying. In front of these priests, there is no way to hide any secret.

Nice had already heard that there was a great deal of crying at the manor at noon.

He also knew that the recovered stolen goods were far more than what those people had taken.

Who dared to question the Church's justice?

These properties nominally belonged to him and would be donated to the Church in the future. He had long guessed that this would be the outcome; this was his revenge.

Suddenly, Nice felt someone approaching him. He turned around and saw one of his distant relatives, whose name seemed to be Maud or Nord. His deepest impression of this person was that he was sleazy and stingy; he was absolutely the most despicable person. However, these people were all equally despicable; the others were either arrogant and domineering or hypocritical and treacherous—they were all cut from the same cloth.

Nice had no intention of dealing with this man. He turned back to supervise his servants' work. The man was incredibly shameless; knowing Nice didn't want to talk to him, he still tiptoed over and stood bowed before Nice.

"My dear nephew, I know I was wrong yesterday. Those people are all scoundrels; they actually tried to seize your property. I had no idea they had such plans. Otherwise, I would have fought them to the death. How could I have done such a thing?"

This guy had absolutely no shame.

Nice still ignored him.

This man had expected this; he knew Nice couldn't be dismissed with just a few words, so he had plenty of patience.

"Actually, I'm not here to seek your forgiveness, but to tell you something: there's definitely something fishy about your father's death. The axle of the carriage he rode in had been tampered with, sawed open."

This fellow revealed his most important trump card.

Sure enough, as soon as he finished speaking, Nice's face changed drastically.

The old man had told him that once the inheritance rights to the land and title were revealed, his relatives would definitely engage in a dog-eat-dog show, attacking each other and revealing each other's secrets. But he never expected that his father's death was indeed not an accident, but a premeditated murder.

Nice didn't know that the relative who came to inform on him couldn't be sure that his father's death was murder. This accusation was more of a baseless rumor, without any supporting evidence, but neither of them cared about that. What the relative needed was just a weapon to attack, a pretext to disqualify others from the inheritance, and Nice had already sworn to make his relatives pay the price.

"Think about it again. Wasn't that servant in charge of the carriage the first to leave you and side with someone? Do you know who I'm talking about? Baden Rozar and Magnik are his cronies. Do you remember how they treated you yesterday? Magnik had you by the neck, wanting to kill you. I suspect he was the one who directly attacked you. I don't know if there are other spies among the others, but Old Vic and Betty are definitely in the know..."

Nice had been listening the whole time. He knew some of it was true and some was false.

This guy was trying to drag all the other relatives into it first—either spies or insiders—leaving only himself uninvolved. Nice didn't care to distinguish between truth and falsehood; they were all the same anyway, none of them were good.

Seeing Nice's changing expression, the man knew his words had worked and said with feigned arrogance, "I'm not after anything, just reminding you to be careful."

Nice had no interest in this nonsense. At this moment, his mind was filled with the cause of his father's death.

He needed to find out the truth.

If it was indeed premeditated murder, he would make the mastermind pay the price. But reason told him that now was not the time; he had to deal with the crisis at hand. Any complications would only cost him his life, leaving him no chance for revenge.

Seeing his servants had everything arranged and the entire house spotless, making it look even more magnificent than before, Nice dismissed them all.

He sent the hunchbacked Soulke to deliver a message to the bishop, while he himself took a jar, a jug of water, and some food from the kitchen, crossed the courtyard, and entered the brewery.

The brewery ruins had been cleaned up; the rubbish in the fermentation vats had been removed, and a wooden plank lay on the ground near the secret door.

Nice laid the jar on the plank; he would sleep there that night.

Just as he was about to lie down, he saw the secret door slowly slide open, and the old man emerged from the hidden room.

To Nice's astonishment, the old man had completely changed; his face now looked exactly like the housekeeper's husband.

The housekeeper's husband was always running around collecting debts, and Nice had barely seen his face, let alone this old man. But in an instant, Nice remembered the series of strange things about him—those sudden flashes of inspiration, that previously unknown knowledge—all of it must be the old man's doing. If he could give, he could certainly take.

"Give me something to eat first; I'm starving,"

the old man said, snatching the food bowl from Nice while he was distracted.

Nice didn't argue. Although he hadn't eaten dinner, he had eaten his fill for breakfast and lunch, so he wasn't hungry. He knew the old man must be starving; he knew how unpleasant hunger was. Just

as he was about to go to the kitchen for more food, he saw the old man put down the bowl and mutter to himself, "I can't eat too much. I've been imprisoned for over three years; I haven't had a proper meal in a long time. A sudden overeating will surely kill me."

Hearing this, Nice's admiration for the old man grew even stronger.

He had only been hungry for a day and already felt terribly uncomfortable. When the priest offered him food in the morning, he had a huge appetite and ate until he couldn't eat anymore.

The old man had been starving for over three years, yet he managed to stop after just a small taste—what incredible self-control!

Since the old man refused to eat more, he naturally didn't hold back. After all, these were delicacies prepared for His Excellency the Bishop, something he would never normally be able to enjoy.

While eating, he asked, "Aren't you afraid of being discovered?"

"This is the safest way. Your family just went through a lot; the servants have all left or scattered. No one will recognize me. Besides, there's that bishop guarding the door for us."

The old man lay down on the wooden plank, completely unconcerned. Indeed, he didn't look like a prisoner at all. There were no wounds on his body, and his clothes had been changed to clean ones.

"What I'm worried about is whether that bishop will notice something."

Nice wasn't quite sure who was more capable, the old man or the bishop.

"If it were those paladins or knights who moved in, I might be a little worried. Their hearing is extremely sharp; they could definitely hear us talking here. That bishop doesn't have that ability. He might be able to do it with divine magic, but I'll sense it as soon as he uses it."

The old man had his confidence, a confidence born from countless brushes with death. Although their ranks weren't that different, his daily experience of fighting amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood made him far superior to those who rose to bishop status through missionary work.

Suddenly, a smile appeared on the old man's lips. He listened intently for a moment, then whispered, "I'm afraid His Excellency the Bishop is more worried about being watched than you are."

"Why?"

Nice was puzzled this time.

The old man said mysteriously, "You'll find out soon enough."

Not long after he finished speaking, a commotion arose ahead, indicating the bishop had entered Nice's house.

The house and workshop were quite a distance apart; normally, nothing should have been heard, but he could vaguely make out voices inside.

There were priests' voices, some unfamiliar ones, and the mayor's voice mixed in—the pig seemed to be trembling, his voice shaking slightly.

Nice turned to look at the old man. He knew this was another of the old man's tricks, somehow making his hearing so acute.

"The more dangerous the situation, the more you need to understand your surroundings. Taking a risk is worthwhile,"

the old man said, seizing the opportunity to teach Nice a lesson.

This was a conclusion he had drawn from countless near-death experiences; simply hiding would often result in being caught like a turtle in a jar.

About half an hour later, the voices in front gradually subsided, and the priest and the strangers left one by one.

The old man gently nudged Nice and pointed to the courtyard.

From a small window on the side of the workshop, one could see what was happening in the courtyard. The nanny beside the priest quietly slipped into the courtyard and quietly opened the back door.

A carriage entered the courtyard through the back door. When the carriage came to a stop, the door opened, and a person stepped out. This person was completely wrapped in a large, airtight cloak, even their face was hidden by heavy veils.

However, Nice could still tell from the way they walked that they were a woman.

"I said, this is a decadent age,"

the old man whispered in Nice's ear.

Whether intentionally or unintentionally, as the old man spoke, the nanny in the courtyard looked over, as if he had heard the commotion.

Nice was startled, but he quickly realized that the old man was calm and composed.

Then, he understood why the old man had done this.

In the public's mind, fugitives should hide in the shadows, afraid to show their faces, and certainly wouldn't have the mind to indulge in such romantic affairs. Therefore, the more they act this way, the less likely they are to arouse suspicion.

The woman in the large cloak entered the house through the kitchen door.

The servant beside the bishop followed behind, giving the brewery a cold glance before entering, as if issuing a warning. After he went inside, the house became completely silent; not even a footstep could be heard.

This was the effect of divine magic; many spells could isolate an area from the outside world.

Nice's mind was already filled with this knowledge; he knew that such spells required someone to maintain them.

Since the bishop wanted to enjoy himself, he certainly wouldn't do this arduous task, so it must have been the servant beside him maintaining the spell. With this spell in place, those outside couldn't hear what was happening inside, and those inside couldn't hear what was happening outside.

The old man remained silent for a moment, seemingly observing something. After a moment, he smiled and said, "Alright, now we can speak loudly without worrying about the people inside hearing us."

At this moment, Nice finally understood the purpose of the old man's series of actions.

Ordinary hiding is simply finding a hidden place to hide. A more sophisticated hiding is placing oneself in broad daylight so that one is not seen. And the highest level of hiding is to make the other party blindfold themselves and cover their ears.

Chapter 3 ◆ Search

"Now I'm going to teach you a technique,"

the old man said. Unlike before, his mouth didn't move at all; his voice went directly into Nice's brain.

"This is called telepathy. You don't need to speak; you communicate directly with your mind. With your strength, you can't do what I can; you can only master some of the most basic techniques."

"Aren't you worried about something going wrong? What if someone notices..."

Nice felt that the old man was taking too much risk.

"There's no other way; I have to do this. These techniques can also be used to resist divine arts like 'mind torture.' Everyone in town will definitely have to go through this test." The old man was quite helpless. In fact, he should have done this last night, but he didn't have the ability.

The key is to divide the little guy's consciousness in two, separating it into a deep consciousness and a shallow consciousness. The deep consciousness is used for thinking, where it's relatively safe, while thoughts of expressing themselves to others are placed in the shallow consciousness. This divine art doesn't consume too much holy power, but it requires extreme caution. The brain is the most complex organ in the human body; a single misstep can lead to problems.

Yesterday, he had just escaped from prison, injured and exhausted, extremely weak, and naturally dared not act. Now, he has rested for a whole day, eaten a full meal, his injuries are almost completely healed, and his energy and strength have returned to normal levels, finally giving him the ability to do so.

Hearing the old man's words, Nice's heart tightened.

He certainly knew what "mind torture" was. Not only had the old man instilled this knowledge in his mind, but during the day, he had personally witnessed the church's priests using this divine art on his traitorous servants and relatives to reclaim the property that had been stolen from him.

Under this divine art, no one could lie.

"Mind Torture" is only the lowest-level divine art among interrogation-type divine arts. There are many higher-level divine arts; the most powerful can directly read another's memories to find what they need. They can even travel back in time and see past events.

Yesterday, he knew nothing, which is why he was so audacious. Now, the more he knows, the more timid he becomes.

He even wonders if, if he had known all this beforehand, he would still have saved the old man? Would he have simply betrayed him for the five thousand Grosso bounty?

Repeatedly familiarizing himself with the newly learned techniques, Nice relied solely on his subconscious to think, which made him feel somewhat awkward.

Although he learned it quickly, the difficulty lay in making it a habit; he had to maintain this state even unconsciously.

"Talk to me for a while. You won't achieve anything by practicing on your own,"

the old man said telepathically.

He wasn't looking for idle chatter; this was entirely for Nice's sake. No matter how much one practices divine magic, it can't compare to actual application.

The best proof was the bishops. Regardless of how they rose to bishop status, or how foolish they might be, as long as their strength reached the bishop's level, they wouldn't be far behind. One reason was that they frequently had to preside over rituals, often performing "blessings" and "blessings" for the people. Even the simplest rituals involved casting over a dozen divine spells; with practice, one naturally becomes proficient.

The old man's suggestion perfectly aligned with Nice's thoughts. During the day, he had suddenly heard that there were other reasons for his father's death, and at that time, he wanted to ask the old man about it.

“A relative told me that my father didn’t die in an accident, but was murdered. Someone deliberately caused the accident on the carriage…”

Nice told him everything he knew.

“You’re saying your father died in a carriage overturn?”

The old man frowned. He had heard Nice mention this last night, but hadn’t paid attention to the details. “Did he drink alcohol?”

the old man pressed.

“No.”

Nice was certain of this. His family brewed wine, but his father always only drank a little; it was more like tasting the wine than drinking it.

He hadn’t known why before, but last night the old man mentioned that his father might be a member of that mysterious organization called the “Marked Society,” and he had a guess. Perhaps his father restrained himself like this because he was afraid of revealing his identity if he got drunk.

“That’s impossible. I told you yesterday that your father was likely a member of the ‘Symbolic Order.’ During the day, I studied these letters and notes again and found some clues. Your father should be a follower of Mercury, the messenger god of the Symbolic Order.”

The old man shared his new discovery, which he had originally planned to discuss after leaving the area, but now he couldn’t wait.

“Mercury? An ancient pagan god?”

Nice had often heard his father tell stories about this deity, so he knew a little about him.

In his mind, Mercury was definitely not a powerful god; he was just a gofer. At this moment, he was a little puzzled. How could the Symbolic Order be related to an ancient pagan god? The old man knew the boy’s confusion, so he had to explain.

"The predecessor of the Symbolic Order was the Pantheon. In ancient times, people had all sorts of beliefs. When the belief in God dominated everything, the gods of other pantheons became heretical gods, and those who believed in them were labeled as heretics. To survive, these heretical believers went underground. Because they could no longer worship idols, they used symbols instead, which is how the name 'Symbolic Order' came about."

"Are the members of the Symbolic Order very powerful?"

This was what Nis was most interested in. However, he didn't have high expectations for Mercury, the messenger god. Among the gods, this messenger god, while not exactly incompetent, was notoriously useless. His greatest strength wasn't his power, but his cleverness. This question was difficult for the old man to answer.

Eight centuries ago, when the Symbolic Order was still the Pantheon, it had already publicly gone underground, making them very difficult to find. Furthermore, even if they were found, it would depend on which deity the followers were. Followers of gods like the god of love or the god of forging would be largely irrelevant, but those of the god of war, the god of wisdom and goddess of war, or the sun god would certainly face a fierce battle. As for the followers of Mercury, the messenger god… it could be said that these were the most cunning members of the “Spellmark Society.” Their combat strength wasn't weak, but it wasn't particularly formidable either. What was troublesome was their mastery of stealth and escape.

Finally, the reason the old man found it difficult to answer was that the Knights Templar had never dealt with the “Spellmark Society,” and he would never speak carelessly about things he didn't know.

After thinking for a long time, he could only offer some theoretical insights: "It's hard to say. The 'Symbolic Order' can't openly preach, so they can't gain faith power, and therefore can't convert it into holy power. That's their weakness. However, most members of the Symbolic Order are of bloodline, and the gods have bestowed upon them special talents... I think their strength shouldn't be too bad, otherwise they wouldn't have survived to this day; they would probably have been wiped out by the Church long ago." Nex recalled his father, whom he remembered as not being particularly strong. As a lord, he was supposed to be conscripted when war broke out, but his family was wealthy, and his father always paid for military service instead. They didn't even have a private army.

Seeing Nex lost in thought, the old man pointed out what seemed strange: "Mercury is the god of messengers, and also the protector of merchants and thieves. His followers are mostly agile, quick, and skilled at dodging and running. It wouldn't be easy for them to fall to their deaths..."

"What if the axle was deliberately sawed off?"

Nex deliberately brought up this crucial point. "That's impossible. I can tell you this: even if the priest in your town suffered a soul-like accident, he wouldn't be in much trouble. The power of divine magic is far greater than you imagine."

The old man was very confused. He knew that the members of the Symbolic Society were considered clergy, and even if they lacked combat strength, their superior survival skills made them more likely to survive than others. The fact that

he, a frail old man, had survived in the Inquisition's prison while many stronger young men had died was proof enough.

"But my father is indeed dead."

Nice said, his whole body trembling slightly. He had already considered one possibility.

The old man had thought of that possibility even earlier than Nice: "There's probably more to this than meets the eye. He must have made some kind of enemy, most likely a shady one. Otherwise, he wouldn't have needed to resort to such methods; he could have just informed the Inquisition directly."

"Was it also the Symbolic Society?"

The only shady enemy Nice could think of at that moment was this mysterious organization.

“Every organization has its internal conflicts, especially the Symbolic Order, which is an organization of believers of ancient gods. Many of those ancient gods were originally enemies, so the relationships between the members of the Symbolic Order are very complicated.”

The old man had clearly considered this point as well.

“It’s also possible that someone else was behind it. There are many forces in this world that are not tolerated by the Church, and quite a few that are enemies of the Symbolic Order.”

His last sentence was just a supplement; in his opinion, the possibility was not very high. The Symbolic Order had been lying low for more than six centuries, and the feuds all started six centuries ago. Some of those enemies had vanished into thin air, while others had long forgotten their past grievances.

“Could you tell me more about these forces?”

Nice had sworn to get to the bottom of this matter, and the only person he could rely on was the old man before him.

"I don't know much. The Templars' enemies have always been the Saracens. Mysterious organizations like the 'Symbolic Order' would never bother us, and we have no interest in causing them trouble. The Inquisition deals with the 'Symbolic Order,' and only they know the most about it." The old man wasn't making excuses; he was telling the truth.

Hearing about the Inquisition, Nice's face wasn't as pale as before, but his expression was somewhat unnatural.

After all, it wasn't a pleasant place.

Early the next morning, another rooster's crow woke Nice from his sleep, followed by the barking of dogs from all directions. Those were definitely not the town's dogs; there weren't that many dogs in town.

Nice jumped up; he knew what was coming was inevitable. After breakfast, Nice climbed to the roof of the brewery. He saw squads of soldiers enter, storming into the houses and driving the people out. The people in the two houses next door were also driven out. The soldiers didn't dare to come this way; that bishop was indeed a very useful shield. About half an hour later, several soldiers led a dozen or so dogs into the town. These dogs were absolutely terrifying; they were enormous, standing over a man's height, as strong as a small calf, with huge heads, drooping cheeks, and two sharp teeth protruding from their lips, their eyes fierce and menacing.

Most of the townspeople kept dogs, and the dogs in the town all lay obediently on the ground upon seeing these dogs, their bodies seemingly trembling.

A knight rode behind the pack of dogs; he was clearly the commander in charge of the search. Nice's pupils constricted; he saw the horse he had hidden in the riverside woods that night being led over. A dozen dogs immediately surrounded it, sniffing and probing. The horse seemed terrified, neighing and backing away.

"Two men, one dog, split up and search every house in this town,"

the knight ordered. The soldiers who had driven the townspeople out of the houses came forward. Following orders, they split up in pairs, each with a dog, and began searching. Nice's house was among the first to be searched.

This wasn't because anyone suspected him, but because once the house was searched first, the servants could immediately come and clean, and the cook needed to prepare. The bishop had gone to church early that morning and wouldn't return until noon; everything had to be completed before his return.

When the two soldiers led the dogs into Nice's house, it was the servant beside the bishop who opened the door.

"Search everywhere, search thoroughly, but you'd better keep your hands and feet clean. Also, keep your dogs on leashes; don't let them break anything. Even breaking a plate is a price you can't afford to pay for,"

the servant coldly ordered.

The two soldiers were secretly annoyed, but dared not disobey. One of them had to bend over slightly and grab the dog's collar directly with his hand. This made it easier to control. The search began in the living room.

Besides a long table and two rows of chairs, the living room also contained a Bavarian-style cabinet displaying a complete set of ceramic tableware—a display of wealth.

This was also the most suspicious part; if there were a secret room in the living room, the door would usually be behind it. In someone else's house, the two soldiers would certainly have moved the 　　cabinet, but they dared

not now. As Nang said, even breaking a plate wouldn't be something they could afford to pay for. The two men, leading the dog, sniffed around the cabinet. "This was just moved in yesterday," Nang said impatiently. 　　Yesterday, not only had Nice supervised the servants' work, but he himself had also been watching, and he had thoroughly searched the place. If remnants of the Knights Templar were hiding in this house, and suddenly burst out at night to kidnap the bishop, he would be in big trouble, so he had searched very carefully. 　　Because he had already searched repeatedly, Nang was extremely displeased with another search; it was tantamount to a lack of trust. 　　The two soldiers, unaware of the underlying reasons, sensed the man's impatience. Not daring to offend him, they led the dog around the living room, and seeing no particular reaction, went upstairs. 　　Unbeknownst to them, the dog had faintly smelled something, but it was very faint and mixed with other odors, making it difficult to pinpoint the scent. 　　After rescuing the old man, Nice had entered and exited the room several times. At that time, the old man was covered in blood, his wounds festering and stinking, the smell indeed very strong, clinging to Nice and carried into the room. 　　Fortunately, the entire room had been thoroughly cleaned yesterday to prepare for the bishop's arrival; Nice had even ordered the servants to wax the floors, stairs, and windowsills. 　　To outsiders, Nice seemed to be using this as an excuse to torment his former servants, and also to curry favor with the bishop. No one suspected that he was actually trying to cover his tracks. 　　Upstairs were two bedrooms, a study, and a small lounge. The soldier stepped forward, standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms. 　　"His Holiness slept here last night. He searched every nook and cranny; there's absolutely no suspicion." 　　The soldier wouldn't let them in because there was a woman inside. 　　Such things were commonplace in the church, but being exposed in public wasn't exactly honorable. Moreover, besides the woman, the jewels, silks, and other valuables recovered by the church were piled up in the bedroom, available for the woman to enjoy. Such matters couldn't be made public. 　　The two soldiers were very sensible; besides, they didn't believe the escaped Templar remnants would be hiding in the bishop's bedroom. 　　Since they couldn't search this room, they searched the other two. The two soldiers didn't know that there was an attic in that bedroom, and it was tainted with the scent of the fugitive they were searching for. Nice could find excuses to erase the scent from other places, but he couldn't do that to the ceiling or the attic; he couldn't very well have someone wax the ceiling. 　　Nangshi knew of the attic's existence; such a simple secret room couldn't possibly escape the divine magic's detection. He went up to check and found nothing suspicious. 　　The existence of such a secret room wasn't unusual; any family with a little money would build one to store valuables or important items. Moreover, in his opinion, this attic wasn't particularly hidden. The only potentially exposed area had been concealed; the rest was perfectly fine. After rescuing the old man, Nys had only been to the attic once, passing through the kitchen, hall, stairs, and the bedroom; he hadn't been anywhere else. 　　Finding nothing inside, two soldiers led dogs into the yard through the kitchen door. The backyard contained only the stable and brewery. 　　The stable was no longer empty; four horses and a carriage now stood there. The dog rushed into the stable, sniffed around the carriage, and then barked wildly. It had caught the scent it was looking for—the same scent on the four horses and the carriage. 　　The four horses, already uneasy at the sight of such a large dog approaching, became even more panicked, kicking and barking wildly. 　　"Back off, back off, back off!" 　　the soldier leading the dog shouted, desperately trying to pull it away. Before he could get the dog far enough away, the soldier who had been inside the house stormed over, fuming. He didn't say a word, only glaring angrily at the two soldiers.

The two soldiers, already on edge, hadn't noticed the dog's reaction, assuming the four horses had provoked its aggression.

By this point, they had no interest in continuing the search; the stable held little secrecy. It was just a roof, with gaps everywhere from the lack of cleaning, letting in sunlight. Below, there was only a manger and a few pillars, some black beans spilled in the manger, not even a haystack. The only possible hiding place was the wagon.

The two soldiers knew whose wagon it was; there was no way the escaped convict could be hiding inside. Now only the brewery remained unsearched.

Upon entering, they were met with a strong stench of fermented grains. The dog immediately sneezed; for its keen sense of smell, the intense odor was suffocating.

The dog, almost devoid of its sense of smell, aimlessly sniffed around the brewery. No matter how hard it tried, its nose was filled with that overwhelming odor.

The old man had already stood up and was waiting there respectfully. Nice also climbed down from the roof.

The two soldiers, now wiser, simply ignored Nice and the old man.

Yesterday, the bishop had directly ordered them to arrest people in order to recover stolen goods, so they were aware of this family's situation.

The little guy was sleeping here, obviously to make room for the bishop, and the old man beside him was one of the little guy's few loyal servants.

The two men led the dog around the brewery, even driving it into the fermentation vat. The smell inside the vat was even stronger, and the dog was unlucky; by the time it came out, its nose was completely useless.

After a round of searching, naturally, they found nothing, and the dog was finally led to Nice and the old man. The little guy was somewhat nervous, but no one suspected him. Even an adult would feel a chill run down their spine seeing such a large dog standing before them.

The dog sniffed frantically, but couldn't detect anything. Its nose had long since become desensitized to the stench, and even if it hadn't, the smell of the fermented wine had seeped into their skin, masking all other odors after two nights of sleeping there with Nice and the old man.

"Nothing found?"

In Nice's living room, the bishop sat in the center, tearing at a fat chicken on his plate and stuffing bread into his mouth.

He spoke slowly and deliberately, clearly not concerned with the result. "Yes, the entire town has been thoroughly searched several times, some suspicious areas have even been dug up, but still nothing has been found," reported

the knight in charge of the search, who had no appetite. Despite being a group, they were actually divided into two factions.

The Knights Templar were, after all, the Church's military force, and apart from Pope Clement and his close associates, no one wanted to push too hard. Therefore, the Church had sent a considerable number of high-ranking members, but they all adopted a perfunctory attitude.

The knights were the king's men, determined to bring the remnants of the Knights Templar to justice.

"Have the townspeople been questioned?"

the bishop asked, turning to the two high priests. "Yes, they've all been questioned, but nothing has been found. Many of them did leave town the night before last, but they were out searching for fugitives and prison breakers for the bounty,"

one priest replied.

"Are the other manors nearby searched?"

the bishop continued. "They've all been searched, but no clues were found. However, one manor is in complete disarray. The owner just passed away, and the manor is full of his relatives; a whole bunch of servants don't even know each other,"

the priest continued. He understood the bishop's meaning; the church members were always very cooperative.

"Is it possible that a fugitive took advantage of the chaos in the manor to secretly switch horses and escape our pursuit, which is why a Templar Knight's warhorse is wandering around the town?"

The bishop turned to the knights. "Of course, this is just my guess, and it might be wrong."

This was definitely a plausible explanation. It could not only explain why the warhorse was abandoned, but also why they had searched the entire town without finding any Templar Knights remnants.

More importantly, this explanation would allow everyone here to escape. Since the fugitive had already escaped, no matter how carefully they searched, they wouldn't find anything, so naturally no one would be responsible for a wasted trip.

"Is that how it's resolved?"

one knight asked, bewildered. The other knights exchanged glances.

They weren't stupid; they could see that the group opposite them was just going through the motions. They knew this was wrong, but the problem was, if they refused to do this, they would have to find the fugitive and take all the responsibility.

If doing this would bring significant benefits, then so be it; unfortunately, capturing a fugitive is hardly a great achievement.

Seeing these stubborn, indecisive individuals, the bishop remained unconcerned.

"Of course it's not resolved, which is why we'll be staying here a little longer,"

he said gently.

He indeed didn't intend to leave too soon; he needed to preside over Nice's initiation ceremony. The important thing, of course, wasn't the ceremony itself, but that after initiation, the little boy would donate all his property to the church. Those responsible for inventorying the property would certainly reap huge profits.

"Those who caused the Templar remnants to escape must pay the price. I also heard that they even used illegal means to try and seize a poor child's inheritance, even destroying the child's birth certificate and baptismal record—this is truly heinous,"

another priest said through gritted teeth, as if he too felt the pain.

However, everyone understood that this was also using the situation as an excuse, partly to find a scapegoat for the failed search, and partly to gain even greater benefits.

Both charges were serious. Assisting the remnants of the Templars in their escape goes without saying. Nice was a nobleman, and plotting to seize a nobleman's property and land was a capital offense.

With these two accusations, given their methods, they could definitely squeeze money out of the stone. This time, finally, no one objected.

Even the knights agreed to the bishop's proposal; they didn't actually want to go to war with the Templars, having dealt with them many times before and knowing their formidable power.

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