Chapter 326: The World Doesn’t Care

“This has nothing to do with you,” said Priest Agamemnon directly.

In truth, he was somewhat caught off guard now.

The revelation had been given directly to Bishop Jeven, who then sent him the letter with special note that it was a revelation from the Lord. Agamemnon had immediately given Administrator Piero the command.

But when he went to the Clock Tower to seek instructions from the Pope, he was unable to make contact.

So, when Piero asked him, he had scolded him on the spot.

Piero lowered his head, not daring to say more.

Looking at the lowered head of Piero, Agamemnon calmed himself, thought for a moment, and said, “Supplying materials to the Northland will be enough. The Fishmen in the east must be completely cleared out this year. The Senate can now begin deployment toward the Woodlands and the Altlinsmann Empire in the south.”

“Yes!” Piero answered, then turned and left.

Only after he had left did Agamemnon’s stern expression ease a little, revealing a trace of fatigue.

Being unable to contact the Pope had made him momentarily flustered.

“Don’t be so nervous. Olivia is still here, Cicero is still here, Knight George is still here. Everyone is still here. Things won’t turn out that badly,” said Melia, sitting nearby, offering comfort.

Agamemnon forced a smile on his face and said, “Yes, you’re right.”

Melia opened her mouth but ended up saying nothing more.

Even she could understand that, with what the Church was doing, it didn’t matter whether it was Olivia or Cicero, or George or anyone else.

In the end, they were merely powerful beings, ones who held power—but only relative to this world. They didn’t possess the power to change the world itself.

They were well aware of Olivia’s battle with the King of the Northland, who was already in his twilight years. But what if it had been a king in his prime? Or the Emperor of the Empire?

The powerful and the dominant would always continue to appear, one after another.

Melia even understood that if the current spiritual refuge were to vanish, the suppressed masses could very well overturn the Church.

The Kingdom of Greenwood seemed to be rapidly advancing in a state of harmony and prosperity, but in essence, it was only because the Church was tightly suppressing those with ambition.

Thinking for a moment, she said, “Even Jeven is still able to receive revelations, so you don’t need to overthink things.”

Agamemnon nodded.

How could he not understand what even Melia understood?

It was only after he suddenly lost contact with the Pope this time that he realized just how fragile the seemingly smooth situation truly was.

And so, he felt fear.

He had a premonition that one day, the Pope would abandon the Church. And when that time came, how would the Church survive?

Would the Lord still watch over the Church then?

The Lord loves all people, and those within the Church were, after all, merely Servants of the Lord.

He should not have been confused by this.

But then he thought of the Cross Painted in Blood Theocracy, those Virtue Knights who had received the Lord’s grace, and the Oath Knights of today.

And now, the direct revelation to pacify the Northland.

Not only Piero and the others were confused about the final ownership of the Northland—he, too, was confused.

Should the Northland be merged into the Kingdom of Lundex as one, or should it be made into an independent nation?

And after that, what of the Church?

The Cross Painted in Blood Theocracy had Saints who were specially acknowledged by the Pope.

He did not know whether this was simply his intuition—or a revelation from the Lord.

…

Bishop Corleon deliberately did not respond to Agamemnon.

Having glimpsed the future, Corleon naturally understood—when the world was left with only a single voice, it was already dead. Only by upholding foundational universal values and allowing diverse thoughts to branch out could the world truly thrive.

Just like the extinct nobles during the rise of the Cross Painted in Blood Theocracy, striving for world unity.

Or like Bishop Landon of the Land of Anathema, who disagreed with Agamemnon.

Humans were complex. Each person’s path of life shaped a multitude of unique individuals.

Just as Agamemnon had thought—in Corleon’s eyes, it was never about a single land or nation, but the world, and the future of that world.

When Corleon first touched the Commandments, he simply wanted to eat well. Then came a desire for some freedom. Later, he sought power and an environment where people could live like human beings.

But everything progressed faster than he had imagined. Silently, he had risen above all living beings, gazing down upon his fate, and upon both past and future.

Then he realized, in this world, even just wanting to eat well meant making an enemy of everything.

Then, he became a Demi-God. Then, he became one capable of conversing with the Progenitors.

His will stood before the Morning Star. Before him was the floating tower confronting the Morning Star. Inside the tower, Aivas’s body had already disappeared, leaving only a blue heart, still beating.

Looking at the Morning Star, Corleon spoke, “Sun, come out and meet me.”

“……” An invisible will was awakened, and then a wave swept across Corleon.

Suddenly, a will imbued with the blazing heat of the Sun surged toward Corleon.

Yet the floating tower before Corleon burst into a brilliant blue glow. A surge of pure blue magic clashed with the Sun’s blazing heat.

“……” Silent waves of collision spread. Corleon’s eyes shone with brilliant gold as he held the sweeping will at bay, away from the earth.

The shock gradually settled. The floating tower shattered. The blue heart almost stopped beating, now covered in cracks.

Corleon raised his hand slightly. The blue heart floated out from the tower and into his palm.

“Human? Deity? Progenitor?” A voice from within the Sun sought to converse with Corleon.

Corleon spoke, “I am One and also All. I am past, present, and future. I shall create the world. I shall unify the world. I am the world.”

“You are the world?” The will within the Sun questioned, followed by scorn—and then fury. “Even Pegira could only trap us in the seams of time. And you, a will from the future, dare claim you are the world?”

Corleon ignored the will. His gaze already saw the result of this meeting.

He said, “I will slay the Progenitor Gods.”

The fury within the Sun halted instantly. The will seemed to scrutinize Corleon for a long while before finally letting out a sigh.

“Pegira… Oh, Pegira…” No longer the wrath of a foe—but the sigh of a friend.

Corleon simply waited in silence.

At last, the Sun said, “They are already asleep. They mourn Pegira. They do not wish to intervene. They do not wish to return. I can help you slay the one who stole my power. In exchange, you shall restore my name and let my eyes eternally watch this world.”

Corleon said, “I will seal the rift in time. I will become the fulcrum of the world. I will banish all of you.”

The Sun replied, “It matters not. The world doesn’t care. We don’t care. Eternity doesn’t care.”

Then, the Sun fell silent.

Corleon returned to the Clock Tower with the blue heart in hand.

Then, two Light Orbs floated out from his eyes. They spiraled around the blue heart, and gradually, the heart turned golden.

…

In the space beneath Frozen Furnace City—

Hode lay on the ground, gazing up at a glowing hole in the ceiling.

The power from his clash with Aureus had eventually burst out through that hole.

He knew, though the hole was only about as wide as his waist now, it widened as it went upward—by the time it reached the surface, nearly half of Frozen Furnace City had been blown open.

He also knew that even though he’d ultimately struck down Aureus, it was only because Aureus hadn’t resisted.

Aureus’s final will had still channeled their clashing force, blasting open this massive inverted cone-shaped hole.

As if to say to Hode, Look, this is the power of my will.

What were the rules of the Northland? Naturally, the victor takes all.

And so, under the inheritance ritual set by Aureus by drawing from the Northland’s earth veins, the victorious Hode naturally received everything from Aureus.

Hode could feel the powerful beating of a heart—it was Aureus’s heart, or perhaps better called a Holy Relic, the Heart of Frost.

As for its origin, Hode didn’t know. He hadn’t inherited Aureus’s memories about the Heart of Frost.

Still, this heart made him feel incomparably strong—so strong, he felt he could slap his previous self’s head into pieces.

Hode felt his will was exceptionally clear, even capable of sensing the state above the surface.

And regarding will, he had received Aureus’s memories.

After fighting with Greenwood’s future king, Aureus had realized that the key to advancing from Tier Five to Tier Six was the metamorphosis of one’s will. Within just half a month, while seated on this Throne, as his life dwindled, he had completed that transformation.

Yet despite inheriting Aureus’s heart and will, Hode remained a false Tier Six.

Aureus had simply aged. Even with his heart, Hode’s body could not reach the true limit.

But that was fine. Hode already felt that whenever the Heart of Frost throbbed, his blood felt like it would freeze his body.

Had Aureus’s body still been in its prime, Hode believed he might have exploded under the weight of the power he’d inherited.

Footsteps echoed—ta, ta.

Still lying on the ground, Hode said, “You’re finally awake.”

Even though the throne left behind by Aureus had shielded him from most of the residual pressure, even the little that remained had knocked Zeke unconscious.

Zeke said, “I’m truly sorry.”

Hode replied, “You don’t need to apologize. It was I who insisted on bringing Cooper. I didn’t trust him enough.”

Zeke said, “It’s simply because he knew too much. That’s why he had to die.”

Hode responded, “Honestly, in terms of what one knows—you know more than he did.”

Zeke said, “I was prepared to die here.”

Hode asked, “You knew what he intended from the start?”

Zeke said, “Only when Cooper died did I realize—the king was removing the final unstable element for your sake.”

Hode asked, “The people in Greenwood all know, don’t they?”

Zeke said, “They’re not Northlanders. Just Greenwood cowards. How could the Northlanders believe them? They’d only think they were jealous of a Northland hero.”

Hode asked, “And what about you—and those in the Comrades Group who stood with you?”

Zeke said, “We’ll all die in the battles to come.”

Hode asked, “What’s the point of that?”

Zeke answered, “The Northland needs a perfect hero.”

Hode said, “What hero is ever perfect? Even Knight George had a history before he became a monk of the Church.”

Zeke said, “This is the Northland. All that matters is fulfilling the role of the perfect hero the Northland needs.”

Hode said, “There is a legend of the Supreme King in the Northland.”

Zeke replied, “That’s just a king pursued by noble bloodlines and the powerful, not a hero that everyone can aspire to.”

Hode chuckled—it was unclear whether he was pleased or mocking himself.

He asked, “What should I do next?”

Zeke said, “Kill Marquis Moreno Reynolds, destroy his army. A hero of the Northland must be powerful—far more powerful than a marquis.”

Hode said, “What about Marquis Sain Vasquez?”

Zeke said, “Joaquin is the strongest among us. He has already reached Tier Five. He’s currently in Marquis Sain’s castle. He has just married the marquis’s daughter. He will kill the brutal marquis and then bow to the hero of the Northland—Commander Hode of the Comrades Group—and praise the greatness of Hero Hode of the Northland.”

Hode said, “And after that?”

Zeke said, “That’ll be enough. Destroy the order of the Northland. As for who rules it—who cares? The Northland will have the legend of Hero Hode, and countless Northlanders will look up to it.”

Hode said, “That’s it? Just kill a few nobles?”

Zeke lowered his head and said, “The Greenwood bards are very good at telling stories.”

Hode asked, “How are you so sure they’ll cooperate?”

Zeke said, “Bards are just a profession. Greenwood isn’t the only place that can train them.”

Hode asked, “What about the others among you?”

Zeke said, “They will become part of the Northland. They are the seeds of what the king dreams of—the Northlanders.”

Hode asked, “Is that all?”

Zeke said, “That’s all.”

Hode sat up and picked up the Holy Relic battleaxe at his side.

This, too, had been left to him by Aureus—it was called the Storm Battleaxe.

As for the rest of Aureus’s Holy Relics, he hadn’t left them behind. He had merely tossed them into his space magic, where they vanished into the source of magic upon his death.

Hode’s body could only endure the power of two relics. Any more, and the relics would tear him apart.

One Heart of Frost, and one Storm Battleaxe—that was Hode’s limit.

As for the Hunting Fang, that was a Sacred Relic of the Church, not a personal relic.

The Storm Battleaxe could condense the user’s power into pure force, magnify it, and release it. The better it resonated with its wielder, the stronger the released power would be.

From the memories Aureus left him, Aureus’s power could be magnified a thousandfold. That was the limit of the relic.

And him?

Hode laughed.

Only fiftyfold.

…

After receiving Bishop Jeven’s message, Aen once again expanded his troop numbers and issued a writ of expedition.

The gist was that the Northland was in chaos, all due to the nobles oppressing the people for their selfish desires. And merciful, Lord-believing Aen could not bear to see the Northland suffer, so he decided to launch a Western Campaign.

Though the writ was issued, few believed it.

Even though Aen was indeed better than most nobles, it wasn’t reason enough for people to die for him.

Of course, once Aen announced that wartime wages would be doubled, more began joining his army.

Words couldn’t persuade people as well as actual benefits could.

The number of enlistments shocked Aen.

In less than ten days, a force of over three thousand Northland warriors had been assembled.

But after gathering the warriors, Aen found himself with a new headache.

He was, after all, just a merchant. He didn’t know how to wage war.

He wanted Odysseus to help him. As a knight, military command was one of their trained skills.

However, Odysseus refused.

“My duty is only to protect you. Besides, I’m from Greenwood. Our ways of war differ from those of the Northland,” Odysseus replied.

Then, Odysseus hinted: as a noble, Aen needed knights responsible for military affairs.

Aen quickly understood what he meant.

This was the Northland’s power pacifying the Northland. If a Greenwood knight like Odysseus commanded the war, what of the benefits afterward?

That position would carry the greatest merit.

Letting Aen pacify the Northland held political significance—Odysseus couldn’t afford to ignore that.

Once Aen understood this, his headache grew worse.

He now feared the political implications behind everything.

If he truly pacified the Northland as a free noble of the Northland, then he…

Aen dared not think further. He could only push aside those worries and directly appointed a Northland warrior named Bazle Bell as his Minister of War.

Whether or not people believed the writ, simply daring to declare war on the marquises was already an act of courage. Because of this, some Northland warriors recognized him and were willing to join his army.

Bazle Bell had a family name, showing he was of noble birth. His physique was the most robust in his entire territory. His strength could even suppress Odysseus.

Aen thought that someone so strong must have received formal Northland military training.

He wasn’t wrong—Bazle had indeed undergone pure Northland-style military training.

His army struck at the first noble.

Aen deployed all his Northland warriors. Since Greenwood warriors were guarding his territory, he decided to throw all his warriors into battle—leaving no one behind at home.

This very Northland-like strategy won cheers from all the Northland warriors.

Aen had to keep a straight face.

He was afraid of dying. Losing his territory was fine—he could flee to Greenwood with his title. But if he died, there would be nothing left.

Yes, Aen also personally joined the campaign.

This, too, was a Northland tradition.

The opposing Viscount was present as well, with more troops than Aen—over five thousand at a glance.

But compared to Aen’s side, whose warriors at least wore crude Northland leather armor, the opponent had only around a thousand actual warriors. The rest were conscripted militia.

That was already the limit of the opponent’s territory’s resources.

Both sides stood on a wide plain. No words were exchanged. They simply roared, weapons raised, and charged.

Yes, this was Northland warfare: the commander led the charge—either you cut down the enemy or got cut down.

Even Aen’s horse was startled, nervously shifting under him. Had Odysseus not been holding the reins, Aen might have disappeared from the battlefield.

Aen won the war.

Of course he did. How could starving conscripts match up to Aen’s well-fed warriors backed by Greenwood supplies?

Bazle, drenched in blood and covered in heads, held the enemy Viscount’s severed head in his hand.

He knelt on the ground, held the head high, and shouted, “Great Lord Aen! Your warrior Bazle has won the battle and presents you the head of the enemy noble!”

Aen looked dazed, his eyes unfocused. The stench of blood from Bazle nearly made him vomit.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen death—he had even killed before.

But he had never seen this kind of direct hacking and slashing warfare.

The ground was covered in severed limbs. Even among his victorious troops, hundreds were missing body parts.

Yet seeing the excitement in the eyes of those gazing upon the mangled remains, he finally understood—this was what a Northland warrior was, what a Northland war was.

Direct charges from both sides—whoever retreated lost.

Aen eventually came to his senses and shouted, “Worthy is my warrior Bazle Bell! Your valor on the battlefield commands awe! I shall confer upon you the title of Iron Guard, my personal warrior, and grant you a prosperous village as your fief!”

It was essentially knighthood, but Aen feared that calling them knights would make Northland warriors feel slighted, so he used a different title.

Clearly, this title delighted Bazle. He stood up, howling with joy, splashing blood everywhere.

In truth, Bazle didn’t even understand what his reward was. What mattered to him was that Aen trusted him—gave him command of three thousand Northland warriors—and after victory, acknowledged and rewarded him.

That proved his loyalty to Aen had not been misplaced.

Even though some Northland warriors previously said Aen had not completed the Northland Trial and wasn’t truly strong—

Bazle thought, So what if you serve the strong?

Does it guarantee gold? Supplies? Women? Recognition?

Before, when they fought for lords, winning was expected. Losing meant punishment. Since the strong deserved everything, losing brought shame.

But Bazle thought—if you truly follow someone just because they’re strong, can you really call yourself strong?

At least after swearing loyalty to Aen, his strength was recognized—seen by others.

As for Aen, he hadn’t thought that far. This was simply what a Church-protected land should do.

Work should be rewarded. Victory deserved reward.

As a devout believer, he naturally wouldn’t forget these basic principles.

Besides Bazle, the other warriors who fought also received rewards.

Just stepping onto the battlefield earned one gold coin. Killing an enemy granted another. Those wounded or disabled received five additional coins. If they died, their family would receive ten coins—and their children would be cared for by Aen.

As for whether Aen could afford such lavish spending—

Bishop Jeven had already said: “One million gold coins. Spend it. I’ll ask for more when it’s gone.”

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