Chapter 276: A Greeting

As winter set in, snow drifted down, yet the atmosphere in York City remained fervent, unbowed by the harsh cold.

Just as had been summoned, near the New Year, all the nobles of Greenwood flocked to York City.

Upon entering this tidy, spotless, and refined city, the nobles—already trained in luxury by the merchants under Bevan’s control—were dazzled by the sights. Only a few, with words tinged with sourness, muttered that the city did not appear sturdy enough.

Of course, when they saw the patrols led by knights in full plate armor, with their warriors also clad in full armor, they fell silent.

Within this mere month, rumors had fermented. The nobles had gained deeper understanding of the Church of the Sanctuary, aided by Bevan’s merchants. Naturally, they could not remain ignorant of the Monastery, that most iconic of institutions.

Thus they learned of the Monastery’s occupational divisions, and knew that within its system, knights ranked as the fourth tier.

Yet, the Monastery’s ratings only reflected physical endurance. Compared with true knights conferred by the noble houses, their actual combat ability was somewhat lacking.

But still, knights were knights. When those rated as knights rode past the nobles’ carriages, armored in plate and leading troops of elite warriors, the hairs of the nobles’ bodies all stood on end.

The Honorary Knights Order had been recalled, bringing with them seven personal guards and their knightly retinues, along with three honorary knights conferred by the Senate’s barons, and more than ten Wild Knights hired by Puniel.

Nobles who thought carefully realized that this city, seemingly not sturdy, housed seven Grand Knights, more than eighty knights, and over three thousand elite warriors.

This was not even counting unknown hidden forces, nor the Monastery’s ballistae and catapults.

With such strength, whether the city walls were sturdy seemed no longer relevant.

The nobles’ emotions shifted—from initial shock, to fear, and finally to pride.

After all, this was the power their liege could casually display.

Once they grew accustomed, they began to lavishly spend gold, indulging in York City.

This place had many things unavailable in their own territories.

And unlike the numb commoners under their rule, York City’s civilians boldly ignored noble status. They hawked goods directly, and even discreetly hinted that they could procure military supplies like repeating crossbows. The nobles, of course, grew interested.

During the senators’ banquets, they discussed noble trades, such as the matter of Puniel’s mercenary tavern.

If mercenaries could be eradicated, they would gladly do so. If not, they would not hesitate to borrow their strength.

After all, if they did not, their enemies would.

Beyond such matters, the most important lesson for these nobles was learning the rules of York Territory.

They were not ignorant. In choosing to come, they understood that they must accept these laws—that their own territories would also have to abide by the statutes and Holy Scriptures here.

The nobles of the former Principality of Patlin, once toyed with by the Senate, adapted quickly. Those of the former Principality of Ackerman—unless they became distinguished contributors under York City’s nobles—were forced to adapt as well.

As for losing the ability to freely command commoners, they hardly cared. Normally, such things were left to the local gentry anyway.

More importantly, their own territories lay far from the Church of the Sanctuary. When the time came, would not the rules of their own land still be theirs to dictate?

Three days before the New Year, Richard arrived at York Territory, riding a Dragon-Eagle.

Following Marl’s advice, he descended outside the city, entering on foot while the Dragon-Eagle veiled itself in mist and flew toward Lake Salvador.

Before entering, Richard noticed the York citizens, their faces alight with excitement and nervousness. He was surprised.

In his own lands, even elite warriors felt unease at the Dragon-Eagle’s shadow. Only knights could gaze at it directly.

But here, York’s civilians met its gaze as if they were knights themselves.

…

On New Year’s Eve, as the bell approached midnight, nobles gathered in York Cathedral. Built by Cicero, the grand cathedral—normally spacious—now seemed crowded.

Nearly a hundred nobles of Greenwood’s three principalities, all who yet lived, were here. Both independent and vassal nobles had come.

Agamemnon stood quietly at the front, wearing a Black Priest’s Robe. Beside him, Bishop Claudy breathed heavily.

“Calm yourself. You are the bishop of the cathedral. Such scenes you will witness often in the future,” Agamemnon whispered, soothing Claudy.

“Y-Yes,” Claudy replied, forcing his breath to steady.

Seeing him calm, Agamemnon said, “It is time to distribute the Sacrament.”

Claudy nodded and directed monks to bring forth the Sacrament.

This was not the usual alms-giving kind, but small white loaves sprinkled with Icing Sugar, palm-sized, just enough to fit in the mouth.

Corleon’s will watched as the nobles, appearing to find them delicious, placed the Sacrament into their mouths.

Delicious? Indeed it was. Corleon had once used this very taste to attempt the first Blessing, gaining George, thus truly beginning to grasp power.

But for nobles, steeped in indulgence, such Sacrament was far from exquisite.

Of course—it was only delicious to commoners.

Corleon withdrew his will, his figure appearing in the sixth level of the Clock Tower.

Though the Monastery had refined the art of tower-making many times, the parts within remained unchanged.

Oscar was already waiting.

“This time, will you keep watching?” Corleon asked with a hint of amusement.

“Yes, of course. This time I will not simply faint,” Oscar replied. He wore only a pair of trousers to cover himself, his body covered in blood-painted sigils.

His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at Corleon, while the red markings writhed across his skin.

When Corleon withdrew his gaze, the sigils relaxed, merely squirming sluggishly.

“This time, I will grant a gift to all who hear the bell—from infants to elders, from commoners to nobles. If you remain here, unable to hear the bell, you will only receive it next year,” Corleon said.

Oscar’s body flushed red. He grinned. “More than that gift, I want to see again the sight that once cut away my time.”

“I traded with Richard this time, obtaining Dragon-Eagle blood to strengthen my resistance to Mystery. With my past survival, I will surely endure this second time—and see clearly.”

His expression was wild, uncertain if truly mad or merely warped from staring at Corleon.

“This time is different from before,” Corleon replied.

Last time, Oscar had merely accepted the eyes. Within the Monastery’s system, he was but above demi-god.

Now, Corleon had fully embraced Faith, already equal to Original Sin itself, and about to touch the world’s foundations.

Oscar said, “At worst, I will lose time again.”

“You are so certain I would draw you back?” Corleon asked.

“I still have value,” Oscar replied.

Corleon chuckled softly, saying no more. He raised his hand.

Outside, the hour struck midnight. The bell tolled atop the Clock Tower.

In that instant, a vast, supreme will arose. The world itself seemed frozen.

Corleon plucked a wisp of Oscar’s remaining consciousness. Without this, Oscar would have been erased instantly, his very existence undone.

Even so, all Oscar could retain was this faint shred of awareness. He could no longer see what came next.

Corleon vanished, appearing high in the skies, overlooking the land.

The bell rang in his ears. It was the priests of the Church of the Sanctuary ringing in the churches below, leading prayers. Devout believers gathered within, while others writhed in their homes, covering their ears, torn from sleep.

But ears could not block a sound that pierced to the soul.

With the bell’s toll, Corleon felt many wills fix upon this place—Original Sin sealed away, Lords of Annihilation, great deities risen from Eternal Sleep. They did not interfere, only watched in curiosity.

Corleon smiled faintly. A Light Orb rose before him, Pegira’s Holy Spear.

He grasped it. His golden eyes shone brilliantly, radiance intertwining with the spear’s glow. His gaze pierced the barriers, directly seeing the probing wills.

“……” Pure terror and dread overcame them. They tried to retreat, yet once under Corleon’s gaze, they could not escape so easily.

The spear’s light shot into his eye. Explosions resounded within him, mingled with the roars of furious wills.

Then—all fell silent.

Corleon cared not if they watched. To such beings, there were no secrets in this world.

But he wished to greet them.

Only, this greeting was far too heavy for them.

His golden eyes dimmed, the orb emerging again to float by his side.

Looking down, he saw Heavenly Kingdom light pouring from the skies, illuminating the world. Within it, he saw countless gray threads.

Some were faint, fragile. Among them, Corleon discerned his own golden thread.

That was Pegira’s will—no longer cursed, reshaping the world.

Commoners bound like numbers to soil. Nobles siphoning strength from land. Knights their appointed warriors.

Pegira, born noble, cared nothing for the lowly, nor for politics. His will alone was law, shaping all.

Thus Pegira had been unimaginably strong, forcing even gods and Original Sin into hiding.

But such strength twisted the lives of all beings. Humanity, other races, gods, Original Sin, Lords of Annihilation—none escaped.

Even Corleon could not be sure the threads he saw were all.

Still, the world now began to return to its rightful state.

He seized the Light Orb, reshaping it into a Holy Sword, and swung down.

The gray threads shattered. His sight widened.

Among those remaining was Aivas’s will.

Unlike Pegira, Aivas had sealed magic and buried civilizations.

Now Aivas opposed the being within the Morning Star, one that even Pegira had needed the Holy Spear to resist.

Thus Corleon did not sever these threads.

For Pegira’s will, nobles who revered noble bloodlines would not break free.

For Aivas’s, magi would not relent. They would tear the seals the moment Aivas fell.

But now was not the time for runaway magic and civilizations.

Corleon plucked his golden thread and snapped it.

Pegira’s influence cleared, his own will’s overlay was no longer needed.

He cast aside the Holy Sword, which transformed into a massive cross of light, its tip plunging deep into the earth.

He closed his eyes. When they opened, a Light Orb flew out from within, the orb that had nurtured the Commandments.

He stroked it gently, breathed upon it. The orb expanded, embedding into the giant cross.

Countless threads now bound themselves to the cross.

Pegira’s twisted bloodline nobles had been humanity’s mightiest strength. Without it, humanity deserved a new power.

Feeling the orb fuse with the world, Corleon raised his hand. The golden cross shrank, becoming two intertwined Light Orbs, which entered his eyes.

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