Chapter 159 — The Sortie

But Philip, who was likewise devout and followed the knightly code, greatly admired Light's words. The young and rigid knight seemed to have forgotten that he had just drawn his sword to duel the man; now he praised him: "Truly the words of an upright man. Pastor Light, you are not only a good cleric, but you also have the spirit of a knight!"

Gao Yang, meanwhile, looked Light up and down, his mind racing.

His first instinct was to refuse this odd Holy Light priest.

A military operation—even a small one to wipe out a band of mercenaries—should be rigorous and solemn. A Holy Light priest suddenly asking to "cut in line" made Gao Yang instinctively feel it was inappropriate, but after thinking it over a moment, he decided there was no harm in bringing the priest along.

Perhaps this was a good chance to observe the man, and Light was right that a chaplain was quite necessary.

Though the soldiers had all brought healing potions brewed by Pi Yun and his assistants, having an additional professional healer in the ranks was naturally better. The old druid was at this time conducting a crucial experiment to mass-produce the plant-growth potion and could not accompany them, so Light could fill that gap nicely.

So long as the priest could follow orders.

"Rest assured, this is not my first time serving as a chaplain," Light said, smiling confidently at Gao Yang's requirement. "The central region may be peaceful, but lords there often organize troops to wipe out bandits and monsters in the mountains, and I was frequently sent by the church to serve as chaplain. I am very familiar with all of it."

Gao Yang looked at the pastor's rippling muscles and strongly suspected whether the man went along to march with the army or to lead the charge himself...

In the end, a rather peculiar Holy Light priest joined the ranks.

Under the gaze of the residents, the force set out.

At that same moment, beyond the woods and open fields north of the Whitewater River, beyond the refugees starving on those fields and the greedy brutes who treated them as prey, the hereditary castle of the Kant family stood quietly on the hill beside "Quilin Town," just as it had for centuries past.

This glorious family had ruled this land for over three hundred years. Before the Cecil family declined, it had already existed here as one of the few "independent nobles" of the Southern Marches; and after the Cecil family fell, the Kant family had fortunately weathered the storm that overturned the whole situation of the Southern Marches, still rooted firmly here, enduring to this day.

Three hundred years of time was enough to weather even the most splendid and majestic fortress. Despite repeated renovations and repairs, Kant Castle could not avoid showing its aged, worn face. Its tall, narrow windows, built in the traditional style, were set high into the thick stone walls, so that even at noon every room in the castle was filled with shifting, shadowy darkness.

Old and infirm, Viscount Victor Kant sat in his study. A thread of sunlight slipped in through the narrow window behind him, making his stooped figure seem all the more gloomy. Head bowed, he leafed through a stack of parchment he had just finished writing—pages covered in symbols of unclear meaning and words that looked like mere scribbles. Then he raised his head and looked at his steward, who was as old as he was: "Mr. Carter, have those 'hounds' found new prey?"

"Yes, my lord," the old steward said with a slight bow. "In the forested hills to the south. A group of malnourished homeless folk. They have no idea of the fate about to overtake them—but the hounds have not yet made their move."

"They want money, more money," Victor Kant's head trembled slightly, as though in anger, yet his tone carried a note of amusement. "A dog needs the reward of food before it will work hard for its master. Two-legged dogs are no different... So give them their 'food.' Mr. Carter, send men with purses to find those hounds. Tell them to move at once and bring those refugees to me. If they delay any longer, there will be no next time. It is the frost month now—they should be well aware that the chances to earn this kind of money are running out."

"Yes, my lord."

The old steward left. Victor Kant lowered his head again, burying himself in those disordered symbols and lines. The midday sun struggled through the narrow window into the study, dim and blurred as though filtered through a thick, viscous fog.

And in that dim, blurred sunlight, Victor Kant's shadow stretched long across the desk, wavering and indistinct, not resembling a human form at all...