Chapter 33: Priest

Old Jonathan had a total of six children in his lifetime.

Two of them were weak and died young.

One child had bad luck, born in a Catastrophic Year, and couldn’t be raised.

He could only weave a rattan basket, place the child inside, and let it drift down the river, carried away by the current.

Sometimes, he would fantasize that the child was picked up by a kind family, preferably a family of clergy, with loving parents, never hungry or cold, able to attend Church school, and one day becoming a respected priest.

But he knew better.

This was just a hopeless dream.

At that time, how many rattan baskets floated down the river?

More than a dozen, at least.

How many people shared such desperate hopes?

More than just his family.

In the end, the goddess showed mercy and left him with three children.

All were strong, sturdy lads.

Though they had little talent, were clumsy with words, and not clever, at least they were honest people, not criminals.

To live safely and peacefully was already something to be grateful for.

The third was timid, the second was clever, but Jonathan liked the eldest the most because he was exactly like Jonathan himself when he was young.

Impulsive, kind-hearted, loved to stand out, always feeling everything was connected to himself, always wanting to resist authority.

Too similar.

He couldn’t bring himself to persuade him otherwise.

But in truth, he should have tried.

If he had persuaded him, perhaps the eldest’s body wouldn’t be lying before him now.

Village Chief Jonathan stared blankly at the corpse, as if both familiar and unfamiliar.

Was that really his son?

Why wasn’t he moving?

The world trembled.

Noise drowned his ears, and echoes from decades past rang in chaos.

A baby’s cry.

The first call of “Father.”

The barely audible footsteps of a child, sometimes near, sometimes far.

His daughter-in-law’s intermittent sobs mixed within the noise, jumbled yet clear.

“…They said we had to pay tax. The Tax on Moving House… I know it’s required by law… but that was our last food… it was for saving lives…”

“…Joy led people to argue with them, but they were fierce too. Both sides started fighting… the tax officer shoved Joy, his head hit a stone, I went to help, only then did I realize it was a sharp stone, there was so much blood…”

“…No doctor, no priest, Joy kept convulsing, we didn’t dare move him… Now he’s not moving anymore…”

“Shing.”

It was the sound of a sword being drawn.

Village Chief Jonathan grabbed the Hero who was about to leave.

He didn’t know why he felt so calm.

Maybe his tears had long dried up, or maybe he had simply grown used to it.

“Where are you going?”

He asked calmly.

“Teacher, I’m going to demand justice for you! It can’t end like this! He shouldn’t have died like this!”

Jon’s eyes were red, still the eyes of a young man.

“Who are you planning to kill with that sword?”

“I…”

Jon choked.

For a long time, he slumped, then spoke bitterly.

“It must have been the princess’s doing… Teacher, it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault…”

For the first time, Village Chief Jonathan grew angry at Jon.

“Don’t blame yourself for everything. What are we? Are we a bunch of Puffpuffs you raised? Anyone can be impulsive! But you can’t be! Look how many people are watching you! Jon! You are the Hero!”

“But he…”

Jonathan knelt down, closed the unwilling eyes of his eldest son, and tried to stand, but his legs were weak, powerless.

His throat moved for a long time.

He remained on the ground, speaking to Jon.

“My son was a good man.”

“He could wait, but the living cannot. Jon, go do what a Hero must do. Don’t forget us. We will all support you.”

Jon’s eyes burned red.

“I understand. Teacher, I will surely seek justice for you. If the princess ordered this… then I…”

“Then forget this ever happened, do you understand? Jon.”

Jonathan turned back with a stern admonition.

“You must be the Hero. Only then will you have the strength, only then can you do more, save more people. I do not wish to see my son’s death cause enmity between the nation and the Hero, leading to war and suffering.”

“…Nor does my Joy.”

Speaking that name, Jonathan suddenly found himself speechless.

The tears that should have dried long ago welled up in his throat, churning, impossible to swallow or spit out.

He had lost a child, but he still had two more.

And a student with a shining future.

The dead must make way for the living.

Such was the sorrowful and helpless law of survival on this land.

Jon went to prepare the “military food smuggling” plan.

Jonathan felt worried inside, afraid this young man would act as impulsively as Joy, but his legs were weak, unable to follow.

Family members helped him back to his room, then carried the body in.

After a silent moment, they all left, leaving him alone with Joy for the last time.

Jonathan suddenly felt thirsty.

He went to scoop water, his hands trembling.

He spilled half the ladle.

Behind him, Joy’s teasing voice rang out.

“Old man, you’re getting old.”

It was as if Joy was still alive.

But Jonathan did not turn back.

Joy’s voice never sounded again.

Cold water slid down his throat, washing away the swelling stuck in his chest.

After all, his tears had not dried completely.

Much muddy, bitter water finally flowed from those furrowed lines carved by years.

He wiped it away with his filthy sleeve, turned to look at the body, and regained his calm.

What could be wiped away was hidden in his sleeve.

What could not be wiped away drifted down from the clouds.

Thunder rumbled outside the window.

This was the sixth torrential rain in three days.

Each drop fell like an arrow, sharp and urgent, mixed with hail the size of chestnuts.

With such weather, the crops would have been destroyed—but fortunately, many people already had no grain left to lose.

Inside the City Lord’s mansion, Yuna stretched out a slender white hand, testing the rain beyond the window.

She pulled her hand back, frowning slightly.

“The rain is too heavy, unnaturally so.”

“Saintess, do you think this is the work of a demon?”

The local bishop, reporting beside her, asked curiously.

The Saintess shook her head with a laugh, but after a few seconds, she smiled.

“It could be.”

Dams, canals, such imperial waterworks were usually funded by the imperial treasury, laborers dispatched, then managed and built by the Church.

Followers of the Goddess of Light could soothe the exhaustion and pain of workers after overtime.

Followers of the God of Wisdom could draw the best blueprints and alchemize the most suitable construction materials.

Followers of the God of Justice could provide the fairest and most just contracts for every step of the process.

Followers of the God of War… well, they could prevent laborers from rebelling.

But usually, no one dared rebel, so most followers of the God of War gathered in nearby taverns for duels and drinking, or went hunting monsters nearby to hone their martial skills.

This year, the weather was abnormal.

Plus, when they made the design earlier, in order to save on costs, the entire blueprint left little safety margin, causing the Noda River dam to overload and collapse.

Luckily, the local Church was clever enough to immediately produce evidence that Demon King Ria’s men had sabotaged it.

If the rain continued like this…

“Are there any demon spies we caught before left?”

Yuna pondered for a moment, then asked the local bishop beside her.

“We’ve used them all.”

The bishop smiled bitterly.

Yuna frowned deeper.

She turned back, her gaze stern.

“How did you use them up so quickly?”

“As you said, the weather has been abnormal recently. It’s not just heavy rain—there have been earthquakes, droughts, tornadoes… There are even rumors that a ‘True Dragon’ is about to awaken.”

“True Dragon?”

Yuna laughed.

“Such an exaggerated rumor. Never mind, I won’t ask further about how you used them. Get more demon spies quickly— the entire South Frontier Four Territories must be prepared.”

“You mean…?”

“To prevent accidents. No matter what, the Church and the gods must not be disgraced.”

“Understood.”

The bishop bowed, then withdrew.

As he left, he suddenly remembered something and hurriedly turned back.

“By the way, Saintess, the food you asked us to prepare earlier—should we send it to the refugee camp now?”

The Saintess shook her head.

“In a few more days.”

She was well aware of the City Lord and the princess’s movements.

Right now, Jon was at the end of his rope, but had not yet tasted true “despair.”

Let a few more days pass.

Let some refugees starve to death.

Let Jon be stricken with helpless pain.

Then, she would pretend the food had just arrived, deliver it herself, and achieve several times the effect.

In desperate times, with few resources, she had always been this calculating.