Chapter 4: Blessing

Corleon returned to the back room to sleep and rest.

Lying on the wooden bed, he closed his eyes, and his soul was instantly drawn into a world of light.

In front of him was a fist-sized ball of light, emitting a milky white halo.

Corleon could vaguely see three faint threads connected to it.

This meant that among the militiamen resting in the church, three people had a slight trust in Corleon’s words and had become shallow believers.

Perhaps, in despair, they subconsciously regarded the Heavenly Kingdom fabricated by Corleon as their own support.

This was a good trend, at least proving that the documents fabricated by Corleon could attract people.

Corleon did not consider whether one of the threads belonged to Lain.

The foundation of faith is need.

And Lain did not need the Heavenly Kingdom fabricated by Corleon; what he needed was honor.

Gently touching the ball of light, Corleon could feel that something was gestating within the three faint threads.

Corleon opened his eyes and held the emblem he had carved during the day in his arms.

He softly recited the prayer.

Corleon believed in the existence of God; otherwise, how could he have been reborn in this world?

But Corleon did not trust the Lord he had woven.

Therefore, he could not preach with an attitude of absolute trust in the Lord.

Corleon always believed that an excellent liar must first deceive himself before deceiving others.

Only when he truly believed his own words would others trust him.

Therefore, when he could not deceive himself, he chose to use the cumbersome rituals of fixed procedures to make outsiders see that he was devoutly believing in the Lord.

A night passed, and Corleon fell asleep after reciting the prayer countless times.

……

When the Morning Star just began to appear faintly, Corleon opened his eyes.

He put the emblem, which had been warmed in his arms, into a small cloth bag and hung it on his waist.

Walking out of the back room, the militiamen and Lain in the main hall of the church were still asleep; one could hear rough snores and an indescribable stench, including the smell of sweat, that had fermented after being trapped overnight.

For such a simple church, it was better to seal it completely to prevent drafts rather than pursue ventilation.

In this era, catching a cold from the wind and developing a fever meant relying on one’s own strength to recover; if one could endure, they would survive; if not, they would die.

As for doctors, that was a service only nobles could enjoy.

Without waking them, Corleon went to the narrow side room of the church, opened the disguised partition, entered the underground storage room, and retrieved some thin pancakes the size of his palm.

These were made by Corleon a long time ago; they didn’t taste good and were hard to bite, but their advantage was in preservation.

Then he took out a small packet of icing sugar, which the old priest had been rewarded with by a noble when he worked in the lord’s castle before inheriting the church.

He had always been reluctant to eat it, and only when he was dying did he dip his finger in it to taste.

Icing sugar was very precious, so much so that most commoners had only heard of the term in their lifetime.

However, Corleon, without any hesitation, dipped his finger into the discolored icing sugar and dabbed a bit on each pancake.

Well, the sacrament was ready.

He wrapped these ‘sacraments’ and brought them out of the basement, carefully avoiding the bodies of the militiamen lying on the ground, and exited the church.

He set up cooking utensils outside the church and lit a fire to cook porridge.

During this time, Corleon went to the side of the church entrance and took down the hanging wooden barrel.

It contained well water that had been left to stand for a day.

This was the ‘holy water’.

The sound of horse hooves, derderder, echoed.

Putting away the ‘holy water’, he looked in the direction of the sound.

It was a knight wearing shiny silver armor with a bright red cloak on his back.

“Good morning, Priest Corleon,” the knight greeted loudly as he approached.

It was Knight Borien.

Compared to the previously somewhat worn armor, he was now clad in brand-new, gleaming plate armor, complemented by the double-lion patterned cloak behind him, looking very imposing.

It was also very bright, making him certainly conspicuous on the battlefield.

Thinking this, Corleon took the initiative to step forward and said, “Good morning, Knight Borien; this armor is very impressive.”

“Hahaha, this was a gift from Sir Michele, as a present for my promotion to knight,” Borien said, dismounting and naturally handing the reins to Corleon.

Sir Michele was the eldest son of Lord Helvin and the first heir to the viscountcy.

“It suits you very well,” Corleon said, taking the reins and tying the horse in the stable.

“Hahaha,” Knight Borien laughed contentedly and said, “When does the blessing begin? I can’t wait to punish the guy who insulted Miss Mary.”

“It can start right away,” Corleon said, glancing eastward, where the outline of the Morning Star was already visible. “I’m cooking porridge; would you like some, Knight Borien?”

“I’ll pass!” Knight Borien grimaced.

Porridge was not the kind of food a knight like him would eat.

“Uncle Borien!” At this moment, the wooden door of the church was pushed open, and Lain, rubbing his eyes, called out.

“Ha, outside, you should call me ‘Knight’; you’re my squire—didn’t your family teach you that?” Borien said, seemingly scolding, but he leaned over, intentionally or unintentionally displaying his brand-new armor.

Then he accepted Lain’s praise.

Corleon glanced at them, walked into the church, and gently woke the militiamen one by one.

After eating the porridge, the Morning Star had fully risen above the horizon.

Lain directed the militiamen to stand in a crooked line, while Knight Borien sat on a wooden stump nearby.

After tidying his clothes, Corleon stood in front of the militiamen.

“When the Morning Star rises and dispels the night, I, as the Lord’s shepherd, will bestow blessings upon the brave warriors,” Corleon said.

Knight Borien beckoned to Lain, who obediently walked over to stand beside him.

Corleon paid no attention; those who inherently craved war and honor did not need such blessings.

“O Lord of Hosts, your shepherd beseeches you to grant courage to the warriors who revere you.”

“O Lord of Hosts, your shepherd beseeches you to open the gates to the Heavenly Kingdom for the brave.”

After speaking, Corleon stood before a man, holding a wooden barrel, lightly dipped into the holy water, and sprinkled it onto him.

“The holy water will become your armor, shielding you from blades.”

Then, from the bag hanging on his left side, he took out a piece of sacrament and handed it to the slightly bowed militiaman.

“The sacrament will strengthen your body, giving you the courage to face the enemy.”

The slightly sweet sacrament brought tears to the militiaman’s eyes.

Whether it was due to the taste he had never experienced, the fear of the impending battlefield, or truly feeling the so-called blessing.

Corleon took out an emblem from the bag hanging on his right side.

“The holy emblem will become the Lord of Hosts’ throne; whenever you hold it tightly, the Lord will be with you.”

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