CH-055

Although Shu Li had pushed back a little, he still obligingly allowed himself to be taken into the priest's office and lectured by Bishop Holm for quite a while.

After all, the other party was a superior, and appeared to be the same age as the elder Hugo—so Shu Li, taking the stance of humoring an old man, let him go on as he pleased.

This age of old men, with their fiery tempers, living in an environment with inadequate medical care—if one of them suddenly had a stroke or cardiac arrest right here, stirred to it by Shu Li's words, the shadow would never leave Shu Li's conscience.

「21st-century youth causes death of a seventy-year-old man in a different world」

「Post-2000 office worker sets new record for disciplining the workplace—kills superior with a few words?!」

「Mysterious death of church Visiting Bishop」

……

"Did you take all of that in?" Bishop Holm, seeing that Shu Li's expression had remained entirely unchanged throughout, suddenly raised his voice sharply.

Shu Li remained unmoved, merely lowering his head—deferential, respectful, his demeanor as gentle as a little lamb. "I will do my utmost to follow the Visiting Bishop's guidance."

Bishop Holm scowled, fixed on Shu Li's irreproachable posture, and then suddenly slammed the table. "Then repeat back what I just said."

Caught off guard by this surprise ambush, Shu Li momentarily froze: "..."

Shu Li smiled, his eyelashes flickering: "You asked just now, 'did you take all of that in.'"

"I meant what came before that!" Bishop Holm slammed the table and rose to his feet, his face flushing crimson. "Did you even listen?!"

Shu Li: "..."

Caught. But smiling was an effective remedy for awkwardness.

Bishop Holm looked at him and smiled—which only made Holm more furious, gnashing his teeth. "Riding on that old stinker Hugo's coattails, you think you can run wild without consequences, don't you? Copy out the Bible ten times as punishment—to be turned in once winter ends. No getting someone else to write it."

"I comply with the Visiting Bishop's order." Shu Li's tone was sincere, carrying not even a trace of gunpowder.

Bishop Holm could clearly see the young man was humoring him, but looking at that infuriatingly composed face, the anger was like cold water poured over it—doused completely.

Truly impossible to scold into submission—just like Hugo in his younger years. Intolerable!

And looking at that meek, downcast expression, also intolerable!

Bishop Holm glared at Shu Li several more times, preparing to storm off with a flick of his sleeve, already thinking "I'll deal with you later."

But he had yet to take one step when the person behind him suddenly spoke up.

"Bishop Holm, do you... have a student by the name of 'Nero'?"

Bishop Holm involuntarily furrowed his brow, puzzlement flashing through his eyes.

Shu Li immediately knew he had not yet encountered Nero.

In truth, Shu Li himself didn't know when Nero would appear.

His reason for paying attention now was that one of Nero's associated figures had appeared—making him feel that perhaps he could trim Nero's abilities back somewhat at the source. And also because Nero's abilities were far too powerful. If not for being backstabbed in the end, Leslie would have had great difficulty killing him.

From what Shu Li remembered, although Nero nominally appeared as Holm's student, in reality he was a chess piece placed deep within the church during political power struggles. Cold and silent, adept at disguise. Possessing the ability to control objects with his mind, he had also been selected by the military academy as a covert operative—stirring the political and religious winds of the great capital city.

As had been mentioned before, the romance Leslie had once come close to realizing had been ruthlessly severed by a political purge—the orchestrator behind it being Nero himself.

That purge appeared to be a spontaneous incident, but was in truth a long-premeditated purge.

Leslie's beloved was accused of participating in a conspiracy to rebel, with evidence that was murky and unclear, yet it passed through hearings swiftly. In fewer than three days she was put to death. At the time, the escape plan Leslie had organized was entirely within Nero's grasp.

And no one at the time had thought that Nero was behind it.

He had not carried out the sentence himself—rather, by controlling information and orders, through lies, misunderstandings, and information asymmetry, he led people to step one by one into their own destruction. That girl's death was not the outcome—it was the opening note of an execution song.

That very night, he personally raided the compound of the noble house to which the girl had belonged, leaving no survivors.

The minor plot section had described such a scene—

『The firelight blazing to the sky could not illuminate the bottomless night. The infant's wailing ceased as the murderous intent swept past, cut suddenly short. The vast noble estate collapsed with a dull crash, as if a snowman by the roadside had been pushed over—never to rise again. That night, the wind carried the scent of blood and ash—threading through windows and walls, seeping into people's dreams, waking them with cold dread, spines running chill.

The church bells tolled alone through the night—an admonishment, an accusation, a memorial, and a mourning.

Nero, standing in the moonlight, was that slaughter-drenched butcher.

He appeared in the morning prayer queue the following day, his expression quiet—as if the previous night's massacre, like this morning's routine prayer, had left not a ripple in his heart—』

Before all of this came to pass, he had quietly embedded himself in the upper echelons of the church hierarchy, seeping into the core of its power structures.

This needed to be disrupted before it began. Even if he could do little, even if there was little he was able to do—at the very least, he could extinguish a spark or two.

Shu Li glanced at Holm, as if to confirm, as if to assess, restraining the edge of his gaze.

"Is something the matter?" Holm asked, a trace of alertness creeping into his tone.

Shu Li smiled as if nothing were amiss, his tone casual: "I was just wondering whether you have any plans to take on a student recently."

These words were like a small stone cast into Holm's still lake—the surface stirred with ripples.

He had clearly not even given the student's name! And still this person wanted to make a retreat one step further with a remark like that.

Holm stared at Shu Li as if looking at an obvious trap—he knew perfectly well that stepping into it would be a pitfall, yet couldn't help peering in with curiosity, "At my age, what kind of students would I be taking on?"

He gave a cold snort, his gaze not moving away—just waiting for Shu Li to continue.

Shu Li maintained his habitual smile: "It's nothing—I was just wondering aloud."

Bishop Holm hated this sort of person who dangled things and kept one in suspense. He narrowed his eyes: "Since you were able to accurately say the name Nero, how can this count as wondering aloud? Do you think you'll encounter a student with this name?"

His words already carried a probing urgency.

Holm had long heard from Hugo that this person had predictive abilities.

"I didn't say that." Shu Li denied it cleanly, but his smile never retreated.

"You did say it." Holm counter-attacked immediately, as if wanting to seal the pit himself. "If you're trying to show off your abilities, I can tell you: your hopes will certainly be disappointed."

Shu Li's lips shifted slightly, showing a faint, almost imperceptible expression of frustrated deflation.

Bishop Holm immediately perked up, at last gaining back a point against this unruly young man—he said triumphantly: "I'll tell you straight: I will certainly never have a student named Nero. Your little predictive abilities amount to nothing. Children like you—precisely the sort who need grinding down. Got a bit of ability and you think you can show off."

Shu Li sighed: "Worthy of Bishop Holm... I suppose I was too presumptuous."

This remark went down smoothly as a compliment, presenting Holm with a crown for his dignity.

He was satisfied inside.

He deliberately paused briefly, then said: "That'll do for today—I'm tired. Help me arrange a room. I'll be staying here for a few days."

"..." This was a massive shock to Shu Li.

In truth, the accommodation at the back of the church was indeed vacant, intended for travelers or visiting clergy. But since Shu Li didn't want to live alongside strangers, it had never been opened to travelers.

And the clergy of the Savoie Parish were also few.

So without anyone bringing it up, Shu Li was happy to pretend it didn't exist.

Now someone was going to move in.

Shu Li's inner world was tangled, like a Sun Wukong who had grown accustomed to carefree freedom suddenly finding a golden headband clamped on his head.

Shu Li couldn't help quietly asking: "How long... do you plan to stay?"

Bishop Holm glanced at him with a measured look, his tone matter-of-fact: "I'll obviously leave after watching you perform a public Mass. You're a young priest—whether your basic procedure is sound and proper, I'll be keeping a close eye. Don't think that just because it's the harvest festival you can be casual—starting tomorrow is the fasting period."

Shu Li ran a quick calculation in his head. That was manageable—once the harvest festival ended, he'd hold the public Mass right away.

Bishop Holm's expression was grave: "You'd better be careful. In my estimation, you've already been docked many points. If you can't even manage the basics properly, I can revoke your clerical status at any time."

To tell the truth—if not for the genuine company of Elder Yagg's family from the very beginning, their sincere warmth, Shu Li might have left this penniless church that kept demanding he sink his own money into it long ago.

To this day, Shu Li still felt no particular sense that being a priest was any great thing—the days were merely stable, nothing more, with no prospect of great wealth.

Being dismissed was no great matter.

Bishop Holm's words held no threat over Shu Li whatsoever—but the other party was an elder, so he still needed to put on a show of respect.

Shu Li made a show of taking it very seriously and said: "I will certainly not make errors."

Barely after those words, Bishop Holm turned to look out the window and said: "It seems you're preparing food. Give me some—I haven't eaten anything all day."

Shu Li: "..."

After a good long while, after eating three warm potato cakes, Bishop Holm wiped his hands with satisfaction, casually picked up his cloak and threw it on: "I'm going for a walk to aid digestion."

He set off along the stone steps behind the mountain in one breath, his pace steadier than any young man's. The wind howled, yet the old bishop walked faster the further he went, and soon had disappeared from sight.

When he next appeared, he was carrying a large bag of fresh mushrooms in hand—white mushrooms, porcini, chanterelles, all sorted by type into layers, like an experienced forest forager.

"These look good—take them in and have someone cook something up." He shook the bag, as if showing off a trophy haul.

Though he clearly didn't want to appear too friendly toward Shu Li, after saying this he still couldn't resist adding: "Even if you cook it well, that's not extra credit. Please remember that."

"..." Fine. He was an elder. He'd let the elder have the last word.

*

In truth, Bishop Holm's arrival had not only given Shu Li and Cecilia a shock—even Finnian, who normally showed little interest in church clergy, was unexpectedly taken aback.

Not because he had suddenly become interested in the church—but because he had heard the name before.

The painting of the wheat field in his church school textbooks had been painted by this dark-skinned old man.

Finnian had always assumed the painter was a plump, round-cheeked old grandfather sitting in sunlight while eating bread.

Because the wheat field painting had a soft color palette—the scene conveying a tranquil, abundant, and warm atmosphere—which looked entirely like something painted unhurriedly and at leisure by a person sunning himself one afternoon.

And moreover, some accounts in the textbook had mentioned this bishop's striking brilliance in his youth—said to have been a rare and handsome man within the church.

Who could have imagined that in person, he would be a bishop whose hands looked like those of a winter-dried tree—gaunt, wiry, prone to shouting at the top of his voice at the slightest provocation.

The collapse of one's entire mental model of someone, all in one go, made Finnian stare several extra times.

Then he instinctively looked toward Father Aliss and suddenly grew quite worried: what if Father Aliss ended up looking as wrinkled and gnarled as this bishop when he got old?

Was it because he hadn't been eating enough?

Finnian started worrying again about whether Shu Li was eating enough.

Time did not slow because of Finnian's worries.

After dinner and sleep, the harvest festival came the following morning.

Bandt was the village head—with the sky not yet light, he had to be up by four o'clock to prepare for the ceremony. Today's attire was somewhat complex; dressing and putting on accoutrements alone might take half an hour. Besides that, he still needed to apply makeup—at minimum two bands of color painted on his face, sweeping from the cheekbones outward toward the temples, mimicking the sharp outline of a fox's muzzle.

He had only just risen when his wife also sat up quietly beside him.

No longer like a newlywed couple, where each would urge the other to sleep a little longer, or linger together a little more. The affection had long since woven itself into every small detail of daily life—a wordless, mutual understanding.

Still, Bandt glanced over at the bedside from the corner of his eye.

Their son had had a nightmare last night and had wanted to sleep between them. In the end, all three had crammed onto one bed and sweated through the night.

Now both husband and wife had risen.

And Finnian, one hand clutching the wooden puppet Father Aliss had given him, was lying on his back sound asleep without a care in the world.

"This kid—he acts like he's four or five years old, but he's nearly twelve after the winter." Bandt was deeply worried about his son's immaturity. "He seems genuinely better-behaved since spending time with Father Aliss, and he's not running around making trouble anymore—but he somehow seems to be getting more childlike, one moment wanting this, the next moment wanting that, always a bit clingy. Is it because the name is too cute?"

Bandt's wife was not overly concerned by their son's behavior—after all, when children gradually distanced themselves from their parents, it was the parents themselves who would feel at a loss and regretful.

She smiled: "Didn't Sona say it was the church that chose the name? It's not as though it means something especially babyish—doesn't it mean something like white or fair?"

Bandt still frowned and said: "But I feel like Yvonne's choice of 'Nero' sounds more settled and steady."

"Is that so? I feel like she picked a name with the opposite meaning from 'Finnian' on purpose." The wife said quietly. "I remember—'Nero' means black, doesn't it?"

Bandt thought it over and proposed: "Still, changing his name would at least signal that he's grown up a little."

As he said this, he lowered his gaze to his son's small face—sleeping so soundly and sweetly, deeply at peace—and a flicker of complicated feeling welled up inside him.

He hoped Finnian would grow up quickly, yet feared that once he truly did grow up, he wouldn't ask for hugs anymore, wouldn't want company, wouldn't lean on or depend on them.

And so he paused, then said again: "The name thing... doesn't have to be settled. When he passes the entrance exam for Bishop Hugo's grammar school, we can ask him then whether he's willing to take a more suitable name."

The moment he finished speaking, the courtyard gate was struck urgently—"BANG BANG BANG," the shuddering shaking the whole house, breaking the stillness of the early morning.

"Village head! It's bad! The grain storehouse is on fire!" The voice outside trembled with urgency and breathless running, as if the person had sprinted a long way to get here.

Bandt snapped to attention and hurried to pull the door open. Before he could speak, he was first struck by the sight of forehead still slicked with undried sweat. "When did this happen?"

The villager kept his voice low, yet it was heavy with hidden urgency.

This was, of course, a very urgent matter.

The harvest festival was in effect an annual "open day" for the village. People from neighboring villages and even towns would come to exchange goods or buy grain for winter.

If news spread that the grain storehouse had burned, the village's overall reputation would take a blow.

Moreover, the village's collective storehouse didn't just hold ordinary grain—it held the communal provisions stockpiled for winter, the safety net against famine. Normally, even in winters that didn't require drawing from the reserve grain, this year's word from elsewhere was that the winter would be harsher than usual.

Burning half of it meant many people might have to tighten their belts through the winter—or even begin dividing up stores early or borrowing grain.

All of this was the village head's responsibility to bear.

"Midnight... no one noticed until now. Half of it's already burned." The person looked ashen-faced, stricken. "And with the harvest festival just hours away—something like this happening!"

The noise outside was too loud. Finnian was woken by it.

He sat up rubbing his eyes, the puppet still clutched in his hand, looking barely awake.

"Dad, what's wrong?" he asked groggily.

Bandt turned and looked at Finnian for a moment, and in that instant, the battlefield-like urgency in his heart was pulled back to the present.

What was done was done—panicking now was useless.

He drew a deep breath, suppressed his worry to the deepest part of himself, and simply said in a clipped tone to his wife: "I'll take care of this. It's still early—let Finnian sleep a while longer. It's fine."

"The harvest festival will proceed as planned without incident."

With those last words, the village head turned and stepped out the door.

Night had not yet fully dissolved. And dawn would take longer than imagined to arrive in Savoie.