It was night.

The temporary Holy Hall of the Lazarus Order.

The ascetics dressed simply, after locking dozens of “would-be knights” in the prayer rooms, left to go to the wounded soldier camp to continue aiding those injured soldiers brought off the battlefield.

“I thought this place would be filled with corpses or wounded struggling for life.”

Someone murmured quietly.

Another person responded, “You might not understand the Lazarus Order; they are kind-hearted healers who wouldn’t leave the wounded here to rot and stink.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the clergy of the Lazarus Order are skilled in using various herbs, much like the druids in Celtic mythology, able to heal all kinds of injuries.”

The knights whispered among themselves, faces full of excitement, awaiting the sword-granting ceremony tomorrow.

“Brothers, we should pray!”

Someone reminded.

The group quieted down and began muttering prayers softly.

Derum was among them, and they knelt on one knee around the central shrine, praying. Beside them were rings and shields delivered personally by the herald, each emblazoned with their own designed emblem.

Derum’s shield bore a camel, simple compared to the lions, wolves, leopards, eagles, and other beasts commonly used by his “colleagues,” but he insisted on it.

As a desert nomad, no one knows better than Derum the importance of having a camel in the desert.

Their weapons were taken away by monks upon entry.

Tonight, monks would soak their weapons in holy water, bestowing them with “divine power” to be invincible on the battlefield, before returning them to Losa tomorrow for blessing.

In the prayer room, soon only the pious, or feigned pious prayers of the would-be knights remained.

In front of the shrine stood a white cylindrical shadow screen, before which were inserted over ten slender honey wax candles, burning with thick smoke, blackening the screen, possibly worn with age.

Derum hadn’t read the Bible, and didn’t know what prayers to recite, so he kept repeating his oath of loyalty to Losa.

He wanted to converse, but every knight appeared extremely devout, with no whispering, all clad in white linen robes, kneeling and praying.

He felt starkly out of place among them.

After all, he only conformed outwardly and converted to the “true faith.” Even the priest who baptized him provided Eastern Orthodox fermented bread for holy communion (the Public Teaching uses unleavened bread; a doctrinal dispute, seemingly trivial, but representing authoritative voice on orthodoxy).

He couldn’t distinguish between Public Teaching, Eastern Orthodox Church, Coptic Church, and Apostle factions, nor knew the undercurrents of struggle within.

Yet he felt the Cross Sect was indeed worthy of conversion.

Recalling Marquis Losa’s valiant fight with the Evil Dragon, especially at the end, when the Marquis raised the so-called “Holy Spear” to pierce the dragon head, the scene seemed to unfold before him.

Previously, what he saw of the Fire Worship Miracle was merely Imams pouring black liquid on the pyre at sacrifice, causing the flames to rise suddenly—nothing more.

Perhaps after the enfeoffment ceremony, he should ask a monk to teach him theological knowledge to avoid embarrassment over fermented bread.

Consulting Ulm Knights was also appealing, but their Shayue Tribe already owed too many favors to Ulm.

Derum felt, if it were him, he would surely be tired of it by now. Ulm Knight is fair and kind-hearted, maybe not bothered, but constantly seeking him might disdain Ulm’s view?

Tomorrow morning, Marquis’s sword-granting ceremony is due.

Some speculate the generous Marquis might additionally grant sturdy, ornate half-body plate armor, thereby enabling each to assemble an indestructible full set with purchased accessories.

Others think such expectations overly optimistic; the latest fashionable plate armor, hard even for top artisans to replicate, with only Marquis’s blacksmith workshop capable of producing fine armors.

One piece could exchange for estates with fertile lands.

Derum did not harbor such grand hopes; he sought only to firmly grasp and hold onto the hard-earned title.

He recalled his tribe settled in Hejaz, how the old Sheikh handled those tax-enforcing officials.

Back then, even a mere minor official under Rauf could stand above them, arrogantly demanding—this year must provide an excess of taxes or equivalent livestock, additional mounted soldiers or farmer soldiers to escort supplies.

It was a bottomless pit, devoid of hope.

Conscripts lacking connections or good armor would often be assigned perilous roles destined for death, even if luck spared them, no rewards or recognition followed—a comrade once killed a Crusader knight in battle, yet the achievement was shamelessly stolen by his superior.

This place is truly wonderful.

Derum sincerely marveled, as a foreigner, a Kurd previously worshipping fire paganism, Jeanne Knight Commander’s speech today resonated deeply with him.

Perhaps he was very tired.

Derum gradually fell asleep. In his dream, he wore a bright red cloak and silver plate armor like a mirror, unbeatable on the battlefield. Amid the envious gazes of countless people, he was personally appointed as a Lord by the Marquis.

His brothers were also knighted by him after the war.

When he returned to the tribe, the old Sheikh patted his shoulder, laughing heartily and complimented him, “I always knew you would achieve great things!”

He laughed in response, “Sheikh, I told you, you wouldn’t misjudge.”

This dream was so beautiful that Derum felt quite irritable when he was awakened.

“Awake?”

Opposite him stood a solemn-looking Clergy, his wide vestment robe devoid of any extra decoration, yet clearly indicating it wasn’t attire for Low Tier Clergy.

Beside him, an aspiring knight colleague watched him with a mocking expression.

Darn, I fell asleep during prayer…

A flustered and frightened Derum quickly spoke, “Heavenly Father above, honorable Monk, please forgive my distraction in this sacred sanctuary. I must admit this was my error…”

“No need to worry. Prayer is to draw closer to the Heavenly Father, to feel the glow of His light in this sanctuary closest to Him, rather than spending sleepless nights in ceaseless prayer.”

This seemingly rigid and severe Clergy turned out to be unexpectedly understanding.

Later, someone whispered to him, introducing quietly, “That is the Bishop of the Alandler Bishopric, founder of the Saint Lazarus Order, the Marquis’s most trusted theology master, the most respected benefactor of the poor in Jerusalem—Bishop Urding!”

Derum immediately felt deep respect.

In his simple values, a person kind to the poor is undoubtedly a good person, as they can hardly gain any benefit from it.

…

Ker Morhan.

Losa’s opponent grew from one to three.

Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert, the last three elite swordsmen of the Wolf School Demon Hunters.

His pressure increased, and standing by was an old Demon Hunter, arms crossed, ready to intervene at any moment. He was the mentor of these three “young” Demon Hunters, the most senior surviving Demon Hunter—Vesemir.

His body was marked with scars. If not for activating the Cast Iron Body granted by the Earth Dragon, he would most likely have been overwhelmed to death by now.

“Enough, stop!”

A female voice suddenly erupted.

Everyone turned toward the voice.

Geralt asked in confusion, “Lady?”

“He is my friend.”

The woman standing on a decrepit tower spoke expressionlessly.

“I hope he can undergo special training here for a while. You are responsible for teaching him advanced combat techniques. In ten days, I will return and take him away. At that time, I will test the results of your training.”

“Yes, Lady.”

The Demon Hunters responded respectfully.

“Prajna…”

Before Losa could speak, Prajna vanished without a trace—well, it seems she was still angry.

“Then, how should I be addressed?”

Vesemir asked.

“Losa von Habsburg, just call me Losa.”

Losa paused slightly before asking, “That lady, what is your relationship with her, do you all know her?”

“The lady is just the lady…”

All the Demon Hunters responded ambiguously.

Losa lifted his head, feeling the real sunshine and the piercing cold wind, helplessly laughing, “Alright, the lady is just the lady. Hopefully, we will have a pleasant time over the next ten days.”

“Maybe.”

“Or it might be a terrible time. Accepting special training from us is no simple task.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep