Horn pushed the empty bowl to the edge of the table, the ceramic bowl made a soft sound as it collided with the mahogany surface.

The wind and snow outside the window had stopped unknowingly, and moonlight cast mottled patches of light through the frosted glass onto the floor.

"Almost three years." He suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a fatigue that even he hadn’t noticed, "When was the last time I went to Mountain County?"

Raphael paused in his movements: "The Secretariat suggests that your energy should be focused on more important matters..."

"More important places?" Horn sneered.

He only just realized that it had been almost three years since he last inspected various places in the Holy Alliance.

Even when inspecting, it was only a stroll around the ry Court Barracks.

Should he roam everywhere like the Wandering Cultivators to manage them?

He couldn’t manage the ry Court Barracks right under his nose, how could he manage other places?

He was still lecturing the Falan people across the land, what a joke.

René’s fingers on his knee slightly curled.

He had just returned from Kasha County last month, and the scenes he witnessed along the way were much more glaring than those in the reports.

Workers were being driven by whips at the canal construction site, claiming to pay wages, but it was no different from a contract of indenture.

In some villages, Wandering Cultivators were carried out on stretchers by villagers, not to mention certain Priest-in-Charge behaving like dictators.

Horn suddenly grabbed the oil paper package, the paper rustling loudly.

"These." Horn nodded toward the pile of oil paper packages, "Are they all?"

René nodded, his Adam’s apple moved: "They all are, but not all are loyal followers; there are quite a few who are..."

"Are those new nobles transformed from old nobles or junior officials who climbed up from the bottom?" Horn finished his sentence, his expression darkened, "Then why have you waited until now?"

René raised his head, looking straight at Horn fearlessly: "I was waiting for you, without your authorization, I can’t move so many people... And I’m not sure."

"Not sure about what?"

"Not sure if you really want to take action against them."

These words were like a piece of ice thrown into boiling oil, causing a noise burst in what was a previously quiet office.

Raphael’s bowl clattered onto the table, Duvalon abruptly stood up, the chair legs scraping the floor with a harsh sound.

Horn, however, remained exceptionally calm. He stared at René for half a second before suddenly laughing.

Rather than anger or disappointment, it seemed more like gratification.

"Are you afraid that I’ve been assimilated by them too?"

René did not avoid his gaze: "Isn’t it possible?"

In the fireplace of the Holy Seat Mansion, the charcoal was making a faint cracking sound.

Horn remembered the young Zelson eating root vegetables in the Gulag, who once said, "As long as everyone can eat well, I’m willing to serve as a beast or horse all my life."

"When that time comes, what will you do?" Horn’s voice was very light.

René’s fingers tightly clutched the corner of his clothing, his knuckles pale: "If I’m certain of that, I’ll request Her Highness Na to quickly return and restrain you."

"Are you crazy?" Raphael couldn’t help but shout, pointing his finger at René’s nose, trembling with anger, "Do you know what you’re saying?"

Duvalon also stood up: "René, you—"

"If there really comes a day when I become like Durdafer." Horn interrupted them, reaching out to gently stroke René’s head, just like when he was at Holy Grail Mountain, "Then do what you must, even kill me if necessary, that wouldn’t be me anymore."

René’s shoulders suddenly trembled, his Adam’s apple moved for a long time before squeezing out two words from between his teeth: "...Yes."

Horn looked at René; all these years of following him through various battles, he had never been afraid, but now he was trembling.

"Next week’s regular meeting, I will host it together with the Believers’ Assembly of the Saint Father’s Association." Horn withdrew his hand, "By then, you can begin to close the net. I authorize you."

Nodding, René stood up and picked up the coat on the sofa to drape over himself.

Just as he reached the door, Horn suddenly called after him: "Wait."

Horn stepped forward and helped him straighten his crooked collar, then brushed away the sandy snow that had unknowingly settled on his shoulder.

"Travel safely, be careful."

A few seconds later, a muffled response came from inside the coat, "...I understand."

The door was gently closed, leaving only three people in the office.

Raphael, seemingly without context, said, "That kid... is stubborn."

"He’s not wrong." Horn sat back on the sofa, poured himself a cup of warm water, "The two of you, there are two tasks."

Duvalon immediately perked up, and Raphael paused what he was doing.

"First, cooperate with René’s actions, transfer the necessary personnel, arrest those who need to be caught, without needing to seek approval, just do it." Horn took a sip of water, "Second, tidy up these bowls and tables, I’ve had a long day, can’t I enjoy a little?"

Duvalon seemed to remember something, chuckling, and leaned mysteriously toward Horn’s ear: "Your Grace, let me tell you something, don’t you think Edwin and Qianqian the Saint Vault Master are a bit close?"

Horn looked at him strangely: "How do you know?"

"By using my deduction." Duvalon raised an eyebrow smugly, "Their hairpins, they’re a matching couple’s set, and..."

"What nook or cranny did you crawl out from?" Raphael laughed heartily listening at the side, "You only know now? This has been known for ages, I thought you were going to tell His Grace some earth-shattering secret."

Duvalon’s mouth formed an ’O’: "No... I thought I deduced it myself..."

Horn couldn’t help it, pointing and laughing at Duvalon, who also joined in the laughter.

The suffocating atmosphere in the office finally eased a little.

Only no one noticed, in the corridor outside the office, René stood in the shadows, tracing a ’屮’ character on his chest with his fingers.

The Cheka chief, who did not believe in gods, prayed for the first time to the Holy Father—hoping that the day Papa mentioned would never come.

Seven days slipped by like sand between fingers, silently and unnoticed.

At the ry Court Barracks construction site, the scaffolding still stood, but the workers’ movements visibly slowed, and the foremen’s tempers were a bit restrained.

His Grace should have just been upset that day, he’d forget in a few days.

The rector of the Monastery of Soil and Wood had already submitted a letter of confession to the Secretariat, penalizing himself with three cups, resolving the matter early.

Zelson thought so too.

He stood in front of the dressing mirror, laboriously buttoning up his silk shirt.

The clothes made last year were now tight as a second layer of skin, with the flesh on his stomach straining the buttons, the third one would not fasten no matter what.

"Damn it." He cursed softly, reaching to tuck in his belly.

He almost squeezed out the precious deer antler soup he had eaten yesterday.

His weight, like a balloon being inflated, had increased by seventy pounds in the past two years. Uniforms he once fit into easily now couldn’t even be buttoned.

After struggling for a while, Zelson decided to take a break.

He picked up an almond biscuit imported from Falan and took a bite with the red tea freshly brewed in the silver tray on the table.

Just to rinse his mouth, sober up.

Yesterday he treated several directors to a meal at the Golden Scale Restaurant, the wine from Flower Hill, tsk tsk tsk...

Why can’t the Holy Alliance produce such wine?

He vaguely recalled someone mentioning the construction site’s issues at the banquet, and he had patted his chest assuring "Don’t worry, all are our own people."

After all, they were loyal followers who came out of Holy Grail Mountain with His Grace, some face ought to be given.

See, how big the problem caused at the time, now it was solved minorly?

Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door.

Zelson continued tidying his clothes in the mirror, casually asking, "Who is it?"

"Delivering peat." The voice outside was somewhat hoarse.

Zelson frowned, he had just ordered peat yesterday, how was it delivered so quickly?

He opened the door, preparing to urge them to unload the items in the backyard.

But outside the door, it was not the coal delivery workers standing.

On the left was a man wearing Night Watcher uniform, his face dark, a loaded spring-gun holstered at his waist.

On the right was a Military Police officer, his military boots shiny, hand resting on the sword at his waist.

Both looked at him coldly, like frost in the winter moon.

With a snap, Zelson’s ivory comb fell to the ground, shattering its teeth into pieces.