Chapter 47: A Sobering Word

Early the next morning, Aurora slipped out of camp with Vapgis, Keen, and Juliet, using the excuse of going hunting in the woods.

The tent grew quiet. Balian turned over, trying to find a comfortable position, and his ribs immediately reminded him what a price felt like. He grimaced and lay back down, staring blankly at the canvas above.

His stomach gurgled. Not from hunger, but from an upset.

Last night’s boar meat had been a disaster. The marquis’s accompanying cook must have thought the boar meat was too gamey, so he dumped in half a jar of horseradish and black pepper, then poured a thick layer of sauce of unknown origin. The spices were so strong that one bite could make a person choke with tears.

Balian had forced himself to eat most of the plate, and now his stomach was churning, like a frightened little boar rooting around inside.

Despite the discomfort, his mind, as if possessed, drifted to Aurora.

Last night, she had cut a small piece of meat with her knife and fork, chewed twice, her expression perfectly caught between politeness and disgust. Then she quietly put down her knife and never touched the dish again for the rest of the evening.

Aurora was picky. Once you knew her long enough, you learned that if something didn’t suit her taste, she would rather starve than eat another bite.

So had she actually gotten enough to eat last night? She had led the group out early this morning, and there wouldn’t be anything decent to eat in the woods.

Balian’s hand unconsciously clenched his blanket.

Then he remembered how Aurora had walked out of the tent without looking back after the meeting last night, bickering and laughing with Vapgis, never once glancing his way.

He let go.

For a man, concern without ability was the cheapest thing. Instead of worrying here about whether she had eaten enough, he should think about how to become stronger.

‘What use is concern? Can I fly over and cook for her? I need to get stronger. If I get stronger, she won’t have to go out and go hungry.’

After a while, the tent flap was lifted from outside, and a lean man slipped in sideways.

The newcomer was in his early thirties, with dusky skin, high cheekbones, and deeply sunken cheeks. He looked like someone who had spent years sleeping rough. He wore a faded gray clerical robe with the church’s holy emblem on his chest. In his right hand he carried a tightly wrapped leather satchel that clinked, likely containing potions and holy tools.

“Are you the wounded one?” The priest looked him over, set the satchel on the table, and briskly rolled up his sleeves. “Open your clothes, let me see the injury.”

Balian untied his upper garment as instructed, revealing layers upon layers of bandages and herbal packs. The priest tore off the bandages in a few quick moves, glanced at the bruised, purple ribs, and let out a hiss.

“Two cracked ribs, a large area of soft tissue contusion, plus a few old injuries that haven’t healed properly. Who hit you?”

“With the king’s guard captain.”

“Oh, so you’re that presumptuous Balian.” The priest replied casually, not particularly surprised. “Alright, first I’ll use a healing spell to set the cracked bones, then two rounds of lesser restoration to reduce the inflammation and bruising, and finally a blessing to stabilize it. You’ll be able to run by tomorrow.”

He pressed one hand to Balian’s chest and murmured a prayer. A warm white glow flowed from his palm, and the moment it seeped into the skin, Balian felt the stabbing rib in his chest heat up and itch, followed by a strange sensation of bones being pushed back into place by a hand. It wasn’t exactly pain, but it sent goosebumps all over his body.

When the healing spell finished, the priest immediately cast a lesser restoration. This spell was much gentler, like warm water pouring through the chest. The bruising and swelling faded visibly.

“Okay, rest for a bit.” The priest withdrew his hand, flexed his wrist, and sat down on a nearby stool. Channeling divine power was draining. After several consecutive divine spells, a thin layer of sweat had formed on his forehead. “Let me catch my breath, then I’ll give you the second round.”

Balian thanked him and looked down at his wound. The large purple bruise had faded to a light yellow, and it didn’t hurt much when he pressed it. This priest was genuinely skilled.

“I’ve seen plenty of injuries like this on the battlefield.” The priest pulled a waterskin from his satchel, took a gulp, and said casually. “Though usually they’re from orc warhammers. It’s rare to see one from a fellow soldier.”

Balian let out a dry laugh, not knowing how to respond.

“The whole camp was talking about you yesterday.” The priest screwed the cap back on and looked at him sideways. “A hero candidate challenging the guard captain, and at the critical moment shouting the marquis’s daughter’s name. Damn, that’s better than any bard’s tale.”

Balian’s ears grew warm.

That was a signal Aurora had arranged with him beforehand. It wasn’t some shonen manga scene where he powered up by shouting his lover’s name at the critical moment.

But others didn’t know the inside story. They also didn’t know Aurora had cast several buff spells on him beforehand.

They really believed Balian had powered up and taken down Lancelot.

“What are people saying?” he couldn’t help asking.

The priest glanced at him, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. “Do you want the good or the bad?”

“Tell me both.”

“Well, the good is that some people think you’ve got guts. A squire daring to fight a knight for real, charging in while shouting his lady’s name, that’s a real man. That’s what my commander said.” The priest raised one finger, then a second. “The bad side, more people think you overstepped your bounds. A squire of common birth, in front of the king, queen, and all the nobles, calling the marquis’s daughter by name? Frivolous, no sense of rank.”

Balian’s expression flickered.

“Quite a few people say it’s a toad wanting to eat swan meat.” The priest’s tone was calm. “What bothers them even more is that the king didn’t punish you, and on top of that, he plans to knight you. Now everyone thinks you’re getting special treatment.”

The priest leaned in and whispered slyly, “Some even think you’re the king’s bastard! Everyone knows King Louis is tight with Marquis Olivia. Maybe you were sent to be raised by him! Oh my, that’s the best part!”

“Special treatment? That was the prophecy given by Her Holiness the Goddess Incarnate. Her Holiness Celestine said it herself: Aurora and I are chosen by the goddess, destined to marry. I am a hero candidate. This is the goddess’s will. Why would the nobles oppose it?”

The priest took a mouthful of water, chuckled, and almost choked. “Young man, you’ve spent too long in the church and around the marquis.” He screwed the cap back on and tapped his fingers on his knee twice. “Who do you think the nobles fear more? The goddess far up in the sky, or the pope sitting in the holy see?”

Balian said nothing.

“The goddess won’t take away your land for disobedience, nor will she strike you with lightning for wrongdoing. But the pope will. Fail to pay your tithe, excommunicated. Refuse the church’s orders, excommunicated. Offend the pope’s favorite, still excommunicated. Once an excommunication order comes down, you can’t even get a sip of water in all of Fran and the Orthodox world.”

The priest spread his hands. “So you see? The prophecy of the goddess’s incarnation, to the nobles, well, nothing special. The incarnation says hundreds of things every day. Are they all the goddess’s will? I tell you, only what the pope recognizes is the goddess’s will.”

He lowered his voice. “Some people are even using the prophecy to gossip about the marquis and his daughter. They say the Olivia family has terrible luck, a fine young lady, and the goddess has singled her out to marry a blacksmith’s son. Tsk tsk.”

Balian clenched the corner of his blanket.

“I’ll be a noble soon,” he said. “His Majesty has decided to knight me.”

“Knight?” The priest raised an eyebrow. “What kind of noble is a knight? No hereditary title to speak of, just a thug! The knight’s fief is His Majesty’s gift. While you live, you till that land. When you die, the fief reverts to the crown, and your son won’t get a single copper.”

“I’m going to marry Aurora in the future,” Balian said. “Our children will have Olivia blood. And if I earn enough merit, I can rise from knight to count, and from count to marquis…”

“Stop, stop.” The priest raised a hand to cut him off, his expression like that of someone listening to a green recruit brag. “First, you can’t do it. The nobles of the entire kingdom will unite to suppress you. A knight of common birth wants to become a count? Guess how many people will trip you up behind your back. The skills you learned in the church can’t even get you a seat at the table in the nobles’ political games.”

He raised a second finger. “Second, even if, I say even if, you really become a count or higher. So what? In the nobles’ eyes, the blood in your veins is still commoner blood. If you marry the Olivia family’s daughter, they won’t think any more of you for it. Instead, they’ll look down on your wife along with you.”

The priest slapped his knee. “Your children will be the same. The nobles will say the Olivia bloodline has been tainted. That kind of prejudice can’t be washed away in three generations. Maybe by your grandson’s generation, after a few good marriages and some money greasing the wheels, they might grudgingly change their tune. Maybe. But your generation has no chance, heh.”

The tent fell quiet for a while.

Balian looked at the wiry priest and asked, “How do you know all this?”

“I’m the chaplain of the Black Hound Knights.” The priest stood up, rolled his shoulders, and prepared to begin the second round of treatment. “Our commander is also a knight of common birth. He was knighted over a decade ago. In terms of military merit and seniority, who can say he’s not qualified? Yet he’s still just a knight. Noble banquets don’t include him, noble daughters don’t marry him, and the noble circle doesn’t accept him.”

He pressed down on Balian’s shoulder, signaling him to lie down. “I’m not trying to discourage you, kid. Some things are better known early than late. Compared to my commander, you’re in a better position. Keep an even keel. Don’t expect too much, or you’ll be disappointed.”

Warm divine power surged into his chest again. Balian closed his eyes and let the restorative warmth wash away the remaining bruises.

The priest’s words were like a bucket of cold water poured over the flames that had just kindled in him. He wanted to retort, but he couldn’t find the words.

The treatment ended quickly. The priest packed up his satchel and nodded at him. “Rest well. You’ll be able to get into trouble tomorrow.”

The tent flap fell, and footsteps faded.

Balian lay on his bed, staring at the canvas ceiling. His chest no longer hurt, but his heart felt heavy.

Before he could sort out his thoughts, the tent flap was lifted again.

This time, a young man in the uniform of a royal attendant stepped in, a lily emblem representing King Louis pinned to his chest. The attendant bowed respectfully.

“Lord Balian, His Majesty summons you. Please follow me.”

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