CH-065

In July, as the bells of the Duke's wedding faded, Deputy Bishop Hugo formally stepped into his new role as the Bishop of Carson City.

His very first act was swift and decisive — he threw himself into pushing forward the establishment of the Grammar School of the Northern Territories. He himself would serve as its first headmaster.

The news sent the whole region into an uproar.

Even back in the capital, Deputy Bishop Hugo had long been celebrated as a man of great learning.

Not to mention that his connections and influence stretched across every church in the Northern Territories. In the decade he had spent in Carson City, no one had truly seen the full measure of his capabilities — not until now, when the founding of the Grammar School set the churches, military districts, political circles, and even major merchant guilds all buzzing with movement at once.

Within less than two months — before November — every child above the age of twelve throughout the Northern Territories had received an examination notice bearing the Church's official wax seal.

Tucked inside each envelope was a shining scholarship voucher, worth ten silver coins.

This gesture was intended to win the cooperation of more families, encouraging them to bring their children in for the entrance examination.

Once a child completed both the written and oral examinations, the parents could bring the voucher to the Church and exchange it for silver coins.

The enormous sum required for this subsidy was generously provided by the recently married Duke himself.

As a result, the distribution and oversight of the funds would be handled by local garrisons, ensuring that every coin reached the people without exception.

This was the first time since the Duke's marriage that he and the Church had worked so closely together, and the political implications were plain to see.

In order to secure this support — and to demonstrate his own sincerity in the partnership — it was said that Bishop Hugo made a decision that turned many heads.

He did not establish this school, which represented an unbounded future, in his own city of Carson. He chose not to extend Carson's economic and religious dominance over the Northern Territories any further.

Instead, he took the initiative to propose the creation of nine new parishes across the Northern Territories, breaking open a map of dioceses that had remained unchanged for decades.

Everyone knew that the Northern Territories' diocesan boundaries had not been revised in nearly fifty years.

This was because the Church in the Northern Territories was weak. The further north one went, the weaker the Church's presence became.

Many parishes struggled to maintain even a hundred congregants. Churches stood derelict in droves, and when parishes had to merge just to meet minimum attendance requirements, bells that had once rung out had long since fallen silent.

Against such a backdrop, rashly establishing new parishes risked making them the first "hollow parishes" in the Holy Church's history — a laughingstock to the world.

Accordingly, the Holy Church had never had any intention of redrawing the Northern Territories' diocesan map.

But with Bishop Hugo himself pledging to see it through, the scales of faith and power suddenly shifted.

The Holy Church was not entirely unwilling to cooperate.

What became the insoluble point of contention was the scale of the new parishes and the selection of their bishops.

From mid-August onward, as news spread that nine new parishes would be established, one tense Church council meeting and closed-door negotiation after another erupted in quick succession, all roiling with undercurrents.

For a full four months, Bishop Hugo maneuvered carefully, bearing down against the pressure until at last he delivered a result that satisfied the Duke, who had his own private agreements in play — Hugo had successfully blocked the Holy Church in the capital from dispatching its own clergy to interfere with the selection process for these nine new parishes, and had put forward an exceptional proposal for how the new bishops would be appointed.

Before the month of November was out, all parishes — including Carson — would have their clergy of priest rank and above democratically elect one or two of their own to travel to Dunstan in the Levant Diocese for the final selection.

Barring unexpected outcomes, the number of candidates arriving for the final selection was expected to fall somewhere between eight and sixteen.

The bishop selection ceremony and the consecration rites would then be held within the same week.

When this news broke, the whole land was shaken.

As autumn gave way to winter, with the cold biting and frost settling, clergy made their way through the snow on foot, cloaks pulled tight against the wind — like a sacred call sounding silently across every corner of the Northern Territories.

Yet what weighed on these clergy was not only the cold. It was also dread, and anxiety, about the selection to come.

The difficulty ratcheted up the moment word got out that the new parish was to be established in the Savoy pastoral district — the former home of Lady Odora.

To begin with, it was a land of desolate faith.

For over twenty years, not a single priest had taken charge of it.

It was not that no one had tried. Clergy assigned to take over that abandoned church had a troubling pattern of disappearing on the road to their posting, or dying under mysterious circumstances along the way. Eventually the Church simply gave up. For more than two decades, that church had been ownerless land.

The people of that pastoral district had already cycled through two generations; their faith was essentially non-existent.

What made it all the more ironic was that the Savoy pastoral district had, in fact, welcomed a priest in the early spring of the previous year — a man named Alis, who had brought miracle after miracle.

This priest had brought bountiful harvests — early shoots in the spring, abundant yields in the autumn.

He personally improved farming tools, developed all manner of foods and seasonings, and brought convenience and affordable good food to the people.

And yet, despite all of this, the hearts of the townspeople remained unmoved — indifferent, not a soul willing to set foot inside the church.

It was impossible not to wonder: was the entire Savoy pastoral district made up of soldiers from the Duke's army posing as villagers, to be so iron-hearted and utterly unswayed?

Even setting that aside, bringing any light of faith to a place like that would be a monumental undertaking requiring decades of work.

On top of this, when the Savoy pastoral district was elevated to a full parish, it would inherit an extremely impoverished economic structure.

It was said the new parish would encompass the villages surrounding Savoy and the Grammar School, but would not give rise to any new town or city.

This meant that even with a policy allowing charitable donations to offset taxes, the revenue a church in such a poor and remote area could generate would be extremely limited.

Moreover, the responsibilities of a bishop far exceeded those of a mere priest.

A bishop was not only a representative of faith but also the direct head of the diocese's finances, accountable to the Archbishops of the Holy Church in the capital.

When a modest pastoral district was elevated to a full diocese, it naturally meant the annual tithe would rise proportionally as well.

In such a poor and barren region, mere piety was far from enough. To maintain such a position, a bishop candidate needed a distinguished background and a powerful financial backer simply to bear the full cost of "being a proper bishop."

This was precisely why most bishops came from wealthy or well-connected backgrounds.

For those of common birth, reaching the rank of priest was already the pinnacle of a lifetime — the ceiling of what their class could attain.

To climb further, to breach that invisible wall, one needed money, power, or influence — any one of these three. Without them, the dream of the episcopate was ruled out from the very start for the vast majority of those without backing.

And yet, the reality defied expectations. Even the most impoverished and remote parishes somehow managed to put forward at least one bishop candidate, regardless of whether they had money, power, or influence.

Some parishes even put their deputy bishops forward directly.

On the surface, it looked like a response to Bishop Hugo's proposed selection process.

But in their bones, they all knew: this was a gamble no one could afford to miss.

Because if one could become a bishop of a territorial diocese before the age of forty-five, that came with the right to participate in the Holy Church's annual clergy elections — a chance to enter the capital, to enter the very heart of power.

That entry pass was not merely a ticket to glory for every ambitious man. It was a permit to fate itself.

And so behind each candidate who was truly serious about the bishop's seat stood an entire family, an entire parish, pouring in its resources.

They were not fighting for themselves alone. They carried the hopes of a whole community.

Once a candidate was able to hold a seat in the Holy Church, their home parish could leap upward, gaining additional resources, influence, and even preferential treatment in clerical appointments — reductions in their annual tithe, or favorable Church policies, among other things.

This was why, despite the harsh conditions, the high cost, and the towering risks, so many people still rushed forward one after another to contend for this seat that symbolized both faith and power.

And yet there was one more obstacle in their path — the most despairing rumor of all.

It was said that the outcome of this bishop selection had already been decided behind closed doors.

The so-called selection process was nothing more than a ceremony to keep up appearances.

This one rumor left many of the candidates who had braved wind and snow to reach Dunstan feeling helpless, and others seething with resentment.

And yet at the same time, those clergy who carried the expectations of their families and parishes still bowed their heads in prayer before sacred statues each day — praying that this rumor would turn out to be nothing but a rumor after all.

They believed that the Lord God would not permit injustice and deception to taint this sacred selection.

And besides — two of the Holy Church's senior bishops would be personally presiding over and witnessing the ceremony. If there truly were something underhanded going on, they could not possibly stand by and do nothing.

They clung to this thought, not knowing whether it was born of faith, or merely the last faint thread of wishful thinking.

And so, whenever they found themselves alone, clergy from different parishes — though they had never met before — would gather together like old friends who hadn't seen each other in years, and quietly swap what they knew.

"I hear the insider pick this time around was personally chosen by Duke Claude."

"No wonder — he doesn't want the Church's influence to grow any further, so of course he'd want a bishop he can control."

"An obedient clergyman is far more useful than a troublemaker with real faith."

"I heard it differently — the insider candidate is someone Bishop Hugo arranged himself. They say he's Hugo's grandson. Bishop Holm, who doesn't get along with Hugo, often says he's just like the man."

"If he's Hugo's grandson, how could he possibly compare to the original? That's a joke, isn't it?"

"What are you all listening to? It must have something to do with Duke Claude, mustn't it? Wasn't the Grammar School founded in the Savoy district? Whoever's tied most deeply to Claude — he definitely won't let outsiders interfere."

"I got this from a constable's inside source — isn't there someone who has the Duke absolutely bewitched? They say he even sent that person a gift. A weapon, apparently. Think about it: for a military man, a weapon isn't something you just give away casually. It must mean something. Maybe it's a keepsake of some kind!"

"Please — rumors are the least reliable things in the world. Why would Bishop Hugo pave the way for someone with no faith? The Grammar School is a once-in-a-century event for the Church. You can't just hand that to someone with no standing at all."

"Exactly. Even if the Duke wanted to place someone in the Church, he wouldn't be so brazen about it."

"Wait — what? None of your theories have anything to do with faith or the Church at all, do they?"

"Isn't the insider candidate that miracle-worker? I have a cousin who's a clergyman in the Carson Parish — back in July, he saw with his own eyes that the man can make prophecies. It has to be him!"

"Don't you all know? A candidate for the papal seat came to Carson Parish. That bishop's position must be reserved for him!"

These words spread from one person to ten, from ten to a hundred, circulating quietly in the corridors of every church, beneath the bell towers, and beside the holy water fonts.

And what frightened them all most was not that these rumors might be true.

It was that they sounded far too plausible.

Amid all this murky and half-spoken chatter, someone who had been standing on the sidelines finally blurted out the question everyone already knew in their hearts but hadn't dared to say aloud.

"So who exactly is this person you're all talking about?"

A brief silence fell over the group. Then, after a moment, they each began murmuring amongst themselves.

"It couldn't be Father Alis from Savoy, could it? They say he's the most easily controlled — that's why he was sent to that godforsaken place."

"I hear Bishop Hugo thinks very highly of him. And someone reportedly saw the Duke sending gifts over there."

"On top of that — he's the one who brought the miracles. Early sprouts, the harvest, the affordable food — all of it was his doing."

"Right, and some people say he's actually a candidate for the papal throne!"

As they spoke, the group exchanged glances. It seemed each of them knew only fragments, and yet all the clues pointed, in the end, to the same name —

Father Alis.

Even before the selection had begun, people had already quietly guessed who the insider choice truly was.

And yet none of them believed they had no chance themselves.

Even so, now that so many pieces of information had been assembled — whether from a political angle, from the upper echelons of the Church, from the public, or from faith itself — they could not help but believe it.

"That Father Alis is practically heaven's chosen one."

From somewhere in the corner, someone murmured quietly, "If not him, then who?"

The group fell into collective dismay.

"So are you all just giving up?" Another voice broke through. "I don't believe it! I refuse to sit by and watch him become bishop."

The speaker was a priest in spectacles.

He clenched his fist and refused to sit among a crowd of people hanging their heads. It would ruin his mood. So with that, the bespectacled priest turned and walked away from the scene.

As they watched him leave, someone asked quietly, "Who's that?"

"Layton? Is that the Levant Diocese's own nominated candidate?"

"His father is the current parish administrator here."

"I see."

Despite all this discussion, no one was especially interested in this particular priest. Layton's background was something others could match. But his attitude had given the group pause.

Who said they were guaranteed to lose in the candidate competition?

And so, each harboring their own thoughts, the crowd gradually dispersed.

What none of them knew, however, was that the "heaven's chosen one" they were speaking of was at this very moment huddled under a wool blanket, suffering deeply over a most unremarkable cold.

They were still two hours from Dunstan.

Inside the carriage with a small warming brazier, Father Alis was slowly sipping hot water, and poured some for Father Simeon beside him as well.

The two of them had caught the cold from each other.

By late November, Father Simeon had already shown a few signs of a cold — though he wasn't coughing and seemed to be in good spirits, just needing to carry a handkerchief wherever he went.

His reason for coming to find Father Alis was that, now that the parish was selecting bishop candidates, he wanted Father Alis to know he would be voting for him.

Father Alis didn't think he knew anyone particularly well in the other parishes, and had the sense that no one had much money. But hearing Father Simeon so pleased, the man having made the trip all the way to Savoy just to tell him —

He'd said, "Well, since you're voting for me, I'd certainly vote for you in return."

After all, one vote alone wouldn't get you onto the carriage to Dunstan.

They had chosen to vote for each other the way friends playing around might.

As it turned out, the top two names receiving the most votes from the Carson Parish were Father Alis and Father Simeon.

Father Alis: "……"

And so, inside the carriage headed for Dunstan, the two of them had draped thick felt curtains over the carriage to keep out the cold and the wind, which cut off the ventilation inside entirely.

Just as Father Simeon's cold was getting better, Father Alis caught it from him. Just as Father Alis recovered, Father Simeon came down with it again.

Over the dozen or so days of travel, the illness kept cycling back and forth.

Now both of them were blocked up from the cold and struggling to breathe.

Deacon Ramon, seated up front, offered comfort to the two miserable passengers: "We'll be arriving in Dunstan soon. We can buy proper medicine there."

Father Simeon: "……Mm."

Shulec rested his hand under the soft belly fur of the little fox Naxi he'd brought along, and replied in a congested voice, "Mm, mm."

At around two in the afternoon, the whole party arrived at the door of a pharmacy in Dunstan.