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nSylvester hated one thing the most. It was uncertainty that arose during his plans. The appearance of the ten Anti-Light followers was one such uncertainty, as he didn’t know what they would do if he rejected their help.

n‘I see what they’re doing. Just like me, they wish to win over the hearts of these people by showing how caring they are.’ Sylvester ascertained from the scents he felt.

n“Why is Anti-Light so gracious today? Aren’t we your mortal enemies?” Sylvester asked them.

nThe short Anti-Light follower nodded in agreement, not hiding his hostilities. “Yes, you are correct in that assumption, priest. But we see the people’s misery here as a more pressing matter than our animosity. The Grand Duke of the Patch has inflicted unspeakable harm on these people, and we wish to stop it.”

nSylvester saw through the wordplay by the man. He was trying to influence the army of commoners behind him. Now, if he were to tell the Anti-Light followers to go away, he’d be seen as the intolerant one.

n“Isn’t it too convenient that you have appeared when we are already on our way to fight? Where were you when the Widowmakers inflicted harm on the people and burned towns to villages? Where were you when I called for these honest, brave men to raise their arms in the Wailing City? You appear here and declare support. I can’t help but wonder if your heart desires something else… something evil. Are you working for the Grand Duke?” Sylvester turned the tides instantly. Even a speck of doubt in any mind was worth it. Not to mention, the Church had ensured that the name of Anti-Light was seen in the wrong light.

nSir Dolorem smelled the tension and chimed in. “If you truly want good for the people, then go away and serve the commoners still stuck in the towns and villages. Help the healers vaccinate them with the new medicine. Do not waste our time here.”

nThe Anti-Light man frowned a little. “Do you not wish to have more fighting power by your side? Each of us here is a Master Wizard. How will you justify their deaths after rejecting our help?”

n‘He’s good.’ Sylvester would have chuckled if not for the game he was playing.

nSylvester walked forward from the crowd and then turned around to face the army. “Soldiers of the army! Did the posters not promise you a victory?”

n“It did!”

n“We have faith in church!”

n“To victory!”

nThe men shouted back. That prompted Sylvester to turn around and face the Anti-Light followers again. “As you heard, the promise made to them was of total victory! Today, in front of you and all the others, I give them another promise — Not a single one of them shall die in the battle!”

n“What?!”

n“Really?” .

nThe loud murmurs from the peasant soldiers started to clamour together. They could not believe what Sylvester said, a mere priest.

nSylvester knew that he was a nobody in his disguise, so he conveniently used the name of the Archbishop. “It is not I who promises, but the wise Archbishop Nelson, for he holds the special decree from the Holy Land. You, followers of vile Anti-Light. You only come here to delay us, doubt ourselves and weaken our minds — You serve nothing but the filth as disgusting as the Grand Duke.”

n“Go away!” Bishop Lazark asked, looking like a regular priest.

nThat started a chain reaction, and the army of thirty thousand started shouting the same. Since there were so many of them, those at the back of the march only learned about what happened through words from those in front of them. And often, those words were overloaded.

nThe ten Anti-Light followers stepped back a little, their faces turning into ugly frowns. Their leader, the short man, glared into Sylvester’s eyes.

n“We merely wished to help.”

nSylvester mockingly waved his hand. “And now I am shooing you away like the nasty opportunistic unholy dogs you are. Go now.”

n‘They thought they could use their words in front of me.’ Sylvester thought and kept his senses high. ‘The scent of their anger is so… Wait… Why do I smell death?’

nSylvester began to look left and right around the landscape. It was all just desert, but he could see the mountains in the vast distance. They were so far away that they were not clearly visible and only seemed like distant low clouds.

n‘Is the Anti-Light’s head there? Is he looking at us?’ Sylvester wondered and silently decided to stop playing.

n“Men and Women of Anti-Light, please walk to the side now so we may continue our march. I can not bring myself to trust you, so if you truly wish to help the people, then go to local villages and towns.” Sylvester respectfully addressed them one last time and then gestured for the army to continue.

nIn no time, the marching drums started to resound again, and the soldiers prepared themselves in neat lines. Thankfully, hearing the drums, the Anti-Light followers left the road and stood to watch at the side.

nSylvester was prepared, however. If they were to attack, he’d kill them instantly, even if the head of Anti-Light was watching. After all, he had so many witnesses, and one thing he had learned about Anti-Light was that it was fighting an ideological war against the Church. And in such wars, public support was all that mattered.

nThud! Thud! Thud!

nThe marching continued, and in a few days, they arrived at the border of the Sorrow Kingdom and The Patch. Unfortunately, the bridge had been destroyed long ago, so the only way was to cross the river on foot. Thankfully, as per Sylvester’s extended plan, with the constriction of the dams in the Highland Kingdom, the water in the Snake River had reduced by a lot.

nNow, it was easy to cross on foot and fast. Precisely because of that, there were many significant refugee communities set up around the border, as the traders still travelled through there.

nFor the night, Sylvester and his army decided to camp around the refugee camp, as the next day, they’d launch the official attack into The Patch. They were expected to face resistance as the first thing after entering since they had not kept their long march a secret.

n“The refugees here have built an official monastery. We can rest there.” Sylvester brought Archbishop Nelson to the small monastery building.

nHe had built a wooden wheelchair for the old man, so he could see around whenever they’d stop.

nIt was nearly evening, and the time to pray had arrived. The refugees there were very religious and always crowded at the monastery there. That night, the crowd was bigger as the peasant soldiers had also come.

nFor Sylvester, it was the perfect disguise to move around and gather some vital intel. So, when Archbishop Nelson was addressing the people and giving his sermon, Sylvester went to the back of the monastery.

n“May the Holy Light enlighten us, Bright Mother. The world is an egg.”

nThe middle-aged, black-haired, dark-skinned woman in bright mother robes smiled and bowed her head. “We are inside it, and we are its creators.”

nAfter validating each other’s identity with the coded words, the woman leapt to hug Sylvester. “I only saw you once in the Holy Land before I was sent here. I am blessed to see you again, your grace.”

nSylvester chuckled and hugged her back. “Call me Sylvester, mother. Just like my real mother, all of you are my mothers.”

nThe Bright Mother bobbed her head and quickly took out a parchment from her robes. “This is what I received from a travelling preaching team yesterday. They came from The Patch after serving inside the Duke’s castle.”

nSylvester took the parchment, put it in his pocket and then handed the Bright mother a small pouch filled with gold. “Please use this to bring yourself to safety if something uneventful happens. I’d never be able to forget myself if any one of my mothers were to suffer any ill fate.”

n“Oh, you!” She hugged him again tightly, caressing his head. “I truly feel like a mother today.”

n“That is because you are my mother. But I must make haste, as I am undercover as of now. I shall meet you again on my way back if everything goes according to the plan.” Sylvester released himself from the hug and carefully retreated, ensuring no one saw him.

nHe entered his room immediately, which he shared with Sir Dolorem and Bishop Lazark. “Gentlemen, I have it — The name of the wizard who made the plague and spread it!”

nBishop Lazark, who was polishing the skeleton of his skeleton cat, and Sir Dolorem, who was polishing his blade, stopped moving and silently stared at Sylvester.

nWith haste, Sylvester opened the parchment and read it loudly. “The Grand Duke of The Patch hired a Dark Wizard to revive the skeleton of the King of Sorrow Kingdom to extract some important information. But, over time, the Dark Wizard stopped appearing in the open and remained hidden underneath the Duke’s castle. He created the plague for a reason unknown. His name is — Azor Al Romana.”

nThud!

n“T-That’s impossible!”

nSylvester looked up and found his favourite necromancer fallen back on the chair, his eyes blankly wide open, staring into nothingness.

n“He’s dead… How can it be him? Why would he?”

n‘Scent of confusion and sadness? Who is this man?’ Sylvester was intrigued.

nHe asked Bishop Lazark directly. “Bishop, you know this man?”

n“H-He is my teacher!”

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