A Hospital in Another World?-Chaper 829: A Heart Towards the Church, Two Hands Prepared for the Council

The Duke of Nederland's roar brought immediate silence to the small meeting room. His face was stern, and his gaze swept sharply from left to right:

"Do we have spellcasters? I know that you, including myself, have each funded some clerics. But, if we truly go against the Church, do you think these priests and bishops will stand by us or the Church?"

Earl Doddremet and Earl Delft lowered their heads together. Earl Flanders grumbled unwillingly:

"There are other spellcasters too..."

"Yes, there are." The Duke sneered:

"One? Or two? What level? Are there any above level five? Above level ten? Even if there are, can they compare with the Church in terms of experience, equipment, and unique spells? Just Nederland's archbishop alone is a level 12 powerhouse!"

As nobles, they always had some privileges. Secretly raising a few mages, warlocks, or bards who knew a bit of magic, as long as they didn't cause too much trouble, the Church generally turned a blind eye.

After all, these spellcasters were at most used to set up a small secret chamber for the lord, provide personal protection, blow some cool air in the summer, or heat a stove in the winter.

On journeys, they might scout ahead, cast a divination when facing a problem, or concoct some kind of potion for an elderly and frail noble...

They often appeared as advisors, private tutors, or "that strange person living in the castle tower." They didn't dare openly practice magic or recruit disciples. As mages, they didn't even dare to build a mage tower!

When it came to the battlefield, such spellcasters were practically useless.

"We're by the sea, any spellcaster with some ability has already gone across the channel..."

Earl Flanders murmured, head bowed. Beside him, Earl Ostend glanced sideways: 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

Indeed, the narrowest point of the channel is only over 30 kilometers. A good swimmer with a wooden barrel might swim across under the cover of darkness. Anyone with some skill and ambition wouldn't stay here waiting to die.

The Church's blade was always hanging over their heads...

"And healing. When the fighting starts, will you need healing, or will I need healing? Are there enough healing scrolls? Enough healing potions?" The Duke's face grew darker, his tone increasingly severe:

"When people start dying from sickness and injuries here, and the Church offers healing if they surrender, how many do you think will run over?"

"This..."

This was indeed hard to say. Birth, aging, sickness, and death arouse primal fears in humans. For a child burning with fever, a poor peasant woman who can't afford treatment might kowtow until her face bleeds on the church steps;

For a dying old man, the most honest farmer might grab a pitchfork and storm the church;

And in war, for their own brother, a team leader who has always looked after them, the lowest soldiers might band together to overturn a priest's tent...

If all the healers left, it was uncertain how many would follow them and how many would defect.

"And the people. How many of your subjects devoutly believe in the Radiant Lord?" Seeing Earl Orange still somewhat dissatisfied, the Duke's tone deepened:

"If we openly confront the Church, how many of those barefoot farmers, those fisherwomen mending nets in their mud huts, those bread vendors on the street, will inform them?"

"Then... what do you suggest, my lord?"

Earl Ostend, sitting on the edge, gripping his wife's hand tightly, finally spoke up after the Duke listed all the difficulties:

"Do we just endure?"

"What you can't achieve on the battlefield, you'll never get at the negotiating table." The Duke of Nederland got up from the table, paced a few steps with his hands behind his back, then returned from the other side of the room:

"If we can't win, we must endure. Endure, plead, petition the king and the Church—"

"Organize a noble delegation, as large as possible, and go together." He turned and looked each one in the eye until every earl nodded affirmatively before continuing:

"Everyone goes to petition;the king and the Church will give us some face. Meanwhile, we secretly build our strength and educate the people. These commoners will only stand by us when they know they can't survive and it's clearly the Church's fault."

"That's not enough."

Earl Flanders murmured. This edict hit his properties the hardest, causing the most damage. Resentful, he had already assessed his forces several times on the way to Nederland City. Now, he gritted his teeth, deciding to make a significant sacrifice:

"I can contribute 500,000 gold coins, including equivalent supplies, to hire spellcasters and buy potions."

"I can also contribute 200,000."

"I'm poor, only 100,000..."

Several earls chimed in disorderly. The Duke of Nederland listened silently, finally sighing:

"Your willingness is appreciated. But, with such a large volume, who can we buy from?"

The room fell silent. As noble lords, buying some healing potions from the Church wasn't unusual;buying large quantities would definitely alert them—

Why are you stockpiling potions when you can pray at the church for healing?

Are you up to something?!

Moreover, aside from healing potions, they needed other spell tools and to hire spellcasters. The only buyer capable of handling such a large transaction was obvious.

"Who will do it?"

With hands behind his back, the Duke faced the crowd, his gaze unfocused, not fixed on anyone. Yet all the earls collectively turned to Earl Ostend:

After knowing each other for so many years, who didn't know who? Your wife is a mage;if not you, who else?

Earl Ostend squeezed his wife's hand, lowered his head in silence. After a moment, the Duke coughed, took out a scroll from a corner of the room, and spread it on the table:

"This is a serious matter. I, William Oran, swear here that if any word of today's plan leaks, may I and my family perish instantly!"

He cut his finger, leaving a bloody fingerprint. The scroll flashed and a charm flew into the Duke's body. The earls looked at each other, then one by one came forward to swear with blood:

With magical assurance, they didn't have to worry about traitors unless absolutely necessary!

Earl Ostend and his wife were the last. After swearing and pressing their bloody fingerprints, he stood straight and looked around, speaking softly:

"I'll handle contacting the Council. I have a way to gain their trust."