The rainwater cascaded down the church’s eaves, pattering against the windows.
Outside, the sky was a dim white, even colder and more dreary than usual, prompting everyone present to don extra coats.
Tommy rose from his chair and moved forward to close the window, then sat back down, glancing from side to side.
A group of refugees now occupied Durdafer’s beloved "Scriptorium," which was actually a dining room table covered with exquisite food.
White bread, fish soup, cheese-baked chicken, roast suckling pig, creamy mushroom soup.
Each dish gleamed under the light of the silver candlesticks.
These refugees were the initiators of the recent riots and key members of Tommy’s team.
They wore finely crafted clothes seized from the monastery, yet their bent backs and bizarre postures made the garments look crumpled, resembling servants who had stolen their master’s attire.
Covered in gravy, they didn’t know how to use knife and fork, instead grabbing and picking up the food with their hands.
Eating with gusto, they rolled up their sleeves and loosened their collars, smearing greasy sauces from their cuffs to their armpits and even their crotches.
Their shouting and drinking filled the dining room, and they even demanded bringing in a few Liu Ying to drink with them, their rowdy behavior splattering wine all over the walls, carpets, and even Miseria’s portrait.
This was naturally Tommy’s gang savoring the fruits of their victory.
As for the other refugees who instigated the riots, Tommy generously opened the granary, giving them enough stale old black bread to last two days.
Compared to their previous starvation, it was a great mercy, yet they didn’t even kneel in gratitude, which made him feel aggrieved.
In Tommy’s view, only those who actively attacked the monastery should receive anything, while the rest could starve to death.
If it weren’t for Madlan and that damned Knight Commander Danji’s insistence, they wouldn’t have shared these precious provisions with the refugees.
Tommy was formerly a rogue smuggler, whose trade involved smuggling food and slaves to Black Snake Bay, thus connecting with the Secret Faction.
These provisions, once the floods subsided, would be worth a considerable sum whether smuggled or sold directly.
Yet, they were handed out to the poor, truly sinful.
Sitting at the head, Tommy turned to Chervis and asked, "Ahem, how is His Highness the Chosen One doing?"
Chervis replied, "I’ve looked into it; it’s witch’s sickness, an old ailment of our Secret Faction."
The so-called witch’s sickness or witch’s curse occurs when someone spends a long time around a witch and comes into contact with their blood, sweat, or skin flakes, causing fever and rash.
Many in the Secret Faction contract this illness when careless around the witch.
After contracting witch’s sickness, most people die, and only a few survive; they usually become the witch’s familiars.
Almost all wizards have the bloodline of the witch’s familiars, which is where their ability to use magic largely comes from.
Tommy turned his head to Grampwen: "Is that Witch Jia Li and that, um, Jeanne, all arranged?"
"Hiss." Chervis jumped in, "Lady Jia Li seems to have been driven mad by Holy Water; she can’t even speak now."
"Oh, oh, oh." Tommy sighed in relief, "Too pitiful, and what about another, Lady Jeanne?"
Grampwen nodded: "They’ve both been placed in the best rooms, but Jeanne got His Highness Chosen One into her room, and they’ve been sleeping together for the past two days."
"Damn the goat, so he got the witch disease by bedding a witch."
"This Saint’s Grandson bedding the Saintess, what further woes lie ahead."
"Spewing rhymes, trying to be a priest, eh?"
"What’s this Saint’s Grandson anyway?" Tommy asked, puzzled at his subordinates’ discussion.
Grampwen quickly recounted the tales of Horn from Jeska, René, and Duvalon’s words, and even brought out proof found in Horn’s pocket.
There were six sheets in total, but five were soaked and ruined in the "King versus King" duel, leaving only one proof from the Ruo’an Faction still readable.
After hearing Grampwen’s account, Tommy clicked his tongue in wonder.
It really had to be the Ruo’an Faction, daring to handle such deadly business as beheading.
Then there was himself, at most nibbling a torch, incomparable.
No wonder people could reach high positions within the Secret Faction, while he remained but a small errand boy.
"Let’s not mention this for now; how about discussing what to do next?" Grampwen said anxiously.
Whenever this came up, Tommy got a headache.
According to the original plan, by now, they should have already pushed Madlan into the position of the Thousand River Valley Bishop or Pope.
Yet with Horn being the superior version, along with the resurrection rumors circulating, people refused to accept Madlan as the Thousand River Valley Pope.
If this continued, Horn would have to take the fall.
These high-ranking Secret Faction members always had someone else take the blame, never themselves in the pit.
When the time came to answer for it, these fellows would find themselves in a predicament.
Moreover, the arrangements for this master had to be proper.
Although Tommy often claimed to be of the Secret Faction, most times he was an outsider’s outsider, where had he seen high-ranking Secret Faction members with witch guardians?
Although this man had only a few days to live, if they served him well and he left a favorable letter before dying, the benefits would be immense.
Tommy dearly wished for advancement, preparing for retirement to Black Snake Bay.
In Black Snake Bay, a damp and rainy place full of venomous creatures and monsters, at least it wouldn’t fear having property swallowed by lords or the Church.
Could monster venom be more poisonous than lord’s poison?
In this matter, the Secret Faction had a much better reputation than the Church.
After Grampwen spoke, the entire scriptorium hall fell silent, filled only with awkward breathing.
Tommy said nothing, nor did the others; everyone knew well, nobody wanted to be the pioneer, in case they were resented.
Seeing no one speak, after pondering for a long time, Grampwen slapped his thigh and stood up.
"Presently, the old ways probably won’t work; why don’t we just push that Horn fellow to become Pope?"
In Grampwen’s view, the kid had the witch’s sickness and wouldn’t live many days.
"Alright!" Tommy’s eyes lit up at the chance to dodge the bullet, "In that case, I’ll entrust this whole thing to you!"
"I didn’t mean that." Grampwen was stunned, looking at Tommy as if seeing him for the first time.
"Ah, little Grampwen." Tommy said earnestly, "You proposed the idea, surely you’re the most familiar with it; it’s only fitting to leave it to you."
Grampwen pleaded: "But how can I manage everything alone?"
"See, it’s not about us demanding of you, not one thing dictates giving you anything necessarily, right? It’s all about human endeavor; you won’t know until you try."
"Yes, yes, we’re just here to lend a hand and offer suggestions at most."
Looking at the sly smiles of these old foxes, Grampwen was helpless; his wife’s illness depended entirely on magic, otherwise he’d never have joined the Secret Faction.
"Fine." Bearing the throbbing vein, Grampwen agreed, "Then I’ll ask you all for suggestions? Let’s make a hypothetical; if someone wanted to make His Highness Horn the Pope, how do we get him to agree?
We can’t force him; he has a witch with ridiculous combat power guarding him."
Their initial intent was to use the ancient electoral method, combined with Madlan’s indecisive nature, to rack him up on ties of family and friendship so that he found it hard to refuse.
Refusal would mean tearing faces, then they’d resort to strong-arm tactics.
But when the target became Horn, they were astonished to find those methods seemed useless; what could they do?
By then, the previously silent Chervis’s eyes gleamed, he lightly coughed and said in a hoarse voice:
"About this, I do have an idea, ahem, no, no, no, let’s say someone has such a plan, you know His Highness the Holy Grandson came from a place called Red Mill Village..."