CH-069

Shulec practically dragged Ramon away from the grain exchange.

Ramon felt he'd been robbed of the chance to properly get into the conversation, and was clearly put out about it.

As they were leaving he kept glancing back several times, his eyes full of reluctance at abandoning the topic.

He hadn't said it aloud, but that statue had been modeled on their Lord Alis.

Even Father Simeon, who created it, felt there was still room for improvement — that he had not fully managed to capture Father Alis's aura. When he had gone back to retrieve the statue from the Stone Hollow pastoral district, the basic pose had already been set, so the head position couldn't be significantly altered anymore. A downward-tilted posture made it easy to obscure the contours of a holy statue and harder to tell at a glance who the subject resembled.

Father Simeon had regretted that he hadn't been able to fully replicate Father Alis's distinctive temperament.

And Ramon had a whole collection of firsthand material related to the statue that he wanted to share.

Back in Savoy, Father Alis had said not to bring up the statue from July, so the whole family had to bottle it up and say nothing.

Now, in Dunstan, so many people liked the statue too — Ramon's first instinct was a swell of vicarious pride, and he would have loved nothing more than to chat about it a bit more.

But all that pent-up conversation was stuck in his throat now, and it was agony.

Watching Father Alis drag him out of the grain exchange, Ramon was extremely put out.

"We've never even had a chance to see what the statue looks like, and we're probably never going to. Can't we at least hear what it's supposed to look like?" The "we" in that sentence referred to Elder Yager's family.

Hearing that, Shulec knew the whole Yager household must have talked about this quite a bit at home — otherwise Ramon wouldn't have automatically said "we" instead of "I."

On this particular matter, Shulec was absolutely not going to indulge Ramon. He steeled himself and marched Ramon away, then stripped him of his financial authority, lest he go off and secretly purchase one of the statues himself.

The whole incident seriously dampened Shulec's enthusiasm for shopping. When he went to buy the children's performance costumes afterward, he moved as quickly as possible.

The moment they returned to the church, Shulec saw Ramon bolt straight for Father Simeon's room. "……"

He couldn't help letting out a long sigh and truly had no interest in wondering what the two of them would end up talking about.

Shulec had barely turned around when he spotted a nun standing about five or six meters away.

She was roughly twenty-five years old, her face beautiful but cold as frost, her eyes completely lifeless — shadowed with the weight of grief. Even when she noticed Shulec's gaze meet hers, she remained utterly indifferent.

The two of them faced each other for four or five seconds. Shulec chose the polite but meaningless option of nodding a greeting, then turned and left.

He heard later that this was the newly appointed parish secretary, Rita.

Nuns in the Church were primarily assigned to auxiliary roles — education, nursing, accounting, and so on — and were not permitted to preside over Mass or administer the sacraments. In short, the highest position available to them didn't even reach the level of a priest, who held sacramental authority.

That said, the entire bishop selection event — apart from the content of the examination questions — had been planned and organized entirely by her.

Shulec encountered her again at dinner that evening.

She was still standing rigid and stiff, expressionless and numb — like a stone statue that had lost its sheen, her eyes blank, looking at everyone as if through a layer of fog. The people around her would instinctively edge away, as though skirting a cold, inconvenient boulder. Shulec didn't look too closely. After all, no one in a bad mood would want to be studied with curiosity or scrutiny for too long.

Father Simeon hadn't noticed anyone in that corner of the room, and simply sat with Shulec and Ramon at the far end of the long table, waiting for dinner.

"I wonder what we're eating?" he said.

Shulec heard it and for a split second thought the voice had come from inside his own head.

He reflexively traced it to Ramon, who had spoken.

Ramon noticed Shulec looking and felt a little sheepish. "Didn't expect to have a chance to eat at a church like this…"

The Northern Territories' very first church had been built in this city. And from the walls and paintings alone, you could feel the history and grandeur of this ancient church — its refinement and solidity evident in every detail. It was hard not to feel a sense of anticipation having just arrived.

All three of them shared the private thought that the food here would surely carry the same exceptional quality as everything else about this place.

Ramon was the first to voice it: "I wonder what it'll be? Will it be prepared in the capital style? Lord Alis, what did you eat in the capital?"

Shulec was stumped for a moment. "……"

Before he could make something up, Father Simeon also joined in.

In truth, Father Simeon had never had much interest in food for its own sake. But after getting to know Shulec, he discovered that it wasn't that he had no interest in food — it was simply that he had never eaten anything worth being interested in. And so he had no expectations to begin with.

He said, "I'm actually quite curious as well. Dunstan must have southern ingredients and overseas spices far richer than anything in Carson City. I wonder what they'll have?"

Father Simeon was, in fact, also quite hungry, though his stomach had thankfully gone quiet for now.

His mind was preoccupied with the hotpot Shulec had made for them last month.

The previous month, the Northern Territories had experienced two major snowstorms. After the snow finally let up, they had gone to visit Father Simeon, and the three of them had eaten hotpot together.

Although some of that feeling was naturally down to the rarity of eating meat, the flavor was distinct in a different way.

It had been plain chicken blanched in clear broth, served with a dipping sauce of soy made from fermented beans, crushed garlic, and homemade chili paste.

Steam rolling off the surface, the aroma hitting you in the face — dip the meat, and the moment it went into his mouth, Father Simeon felt every single taste bud come alive.

He had never imagined that meat could have so many layers of flavor. The savory depth of the soy, the sharp bite of the garlic, the fire of the chili paste, all blending together…

Without knowing why, he had found himself on the verge of tears while eating, overtaken by the inexplicable feeling that the hard days were finally behind him, that happiness was beginning now.

He had eaten every last scrap — the bones had been picked so clean they looked like someone had gone over them carefully with water and a brush.

That hadn't been eating. That had been a pilgrimage.

Three adults eating hotpot, of course, hadn't stopped at chicken. The table was laden: freshly made natural frozen tofu and chewy glass noodles; fish fillets from the recent winter fishing trip; small potatoes from the final autumn harvest; mushrooms gathered in the mountains that autumn; and pickled sour vegetables that had been fermenting since summer.

The pot bubbled and churned, filling the room with fragrance and warmth.

"If only there had been more ingredients, we could have eaten even more lavishly," Father Simeon had said, watching Father Alis still seeming unsatisfied, and wondering how extraordinary the food in a city like the capital must be for someone to look at a meal like this as barely remarkable.

Father Simeon had assumed Father Alis had just come to check on him, and had perhaps invited himself to a hearty, warm meal while he was at it.

As it turned out, when they were parting, Father Alis had asked Ramon to help unload goods — all food that had been packed in advance: a clay pot of chicken stewed with mushrooms, a large portion of tofu, a big packet of dried potato slices and mushrooms, plus fruit leather and candied fruits made from various kinds of fruit.

Father Alis had carefully explained each item's preparation.

"The soup has been simmering for a full day — the chicken has been stewed until it falls off the bone, and I've already picked out all the bones. The broth is thick and rich. You can have it in three servings; each time just add a bit of hot water and bring it back to a boil. In this weather, the soup will keep for three days without going off. But if it goes past three days, or if you see anything starting to grow on it — like white or green fuzzy things — just throw it out."

"If you like, you can put some tofu into the soup. Thick potato slices are good in soup too, or roasted as a snack. To roast them, set them on the stove grate — you can warm yourself at the fire while they cook. You can also spread a bit of butter on them. Remember to flip them, and if they burn, don't eat them. If you want more, come find me again — I didn't expect this year's harvest to be so plentiful, and with other people's gifts on top of that, I have more provisions than I know what to do with."

"The potato skin is thin — you can eat it or peel it, your preference."

"The mushrooms need to soak in cold water for a day before eating. They make excellent soup, very savory — remember to add salt. You must add salt."

After all that thorough, fussy instruction, Father Alis finally said, "Winter here is a long one. Please take care of yourself, and make sure you eat properly. If there's anything you need, write to me."

They had originally thought the next time they would meet would be spring, but then the bishop selection came up, and they were reuniting ahead of schedule.

Shulec had made sure the journey wasn't too grueling by preparing all manner of good food and drink along the way. Never mind the dried provisions — they had brought a pot and seasoning, and cooked cabbage stewed with glass noodles on the road, roasted potatoes, stir-fried noodles with vegetables, mushroom and vegetable stuffed flatbreads, thick mushroom soup… and even had a small splurge midway, spending ten silver coins to buy a live chicken and some smoked meat, adding more dishes like steamed chicken with pickled vegetables and smoked meat fried with potatoes.

Whenever one batch of food ran out, they would replenish fresh ingredients from the villages and towns along the route.

Every meal had been impossibly warm and satisfying.

That journey hadn't just opened up Father Simeon's appetite entirely — even the little fox Naxi had grown rounder, its belly firm with solid flesh.

Father Simeon then said, "Why don't we just pray while we wait? There's nothing to do anyway."

Shulec agreed: "You're right. The wait itself is like a seasoning — it'll make the food taste better. Let's pray together!"

The three of them bowed their heads to pray, hands clasped, waiting patiently for dinner, forming a quiet little group unto themselves.

That air of devoutness, among a crowd of clergy who were busy making small talk, sizing each other up, and speculating about who the frontrunner in the bishop selection might be — was conspicuous in the extreme.

They were so conspicuous that a certain priest who had been quietly observing them couldn't help looking back a second time.

Everyone knew the Carson Parish was infamous for being crass — gifts, networking, whispered messages of influence… the whole package. So obsequious and so eager to please. But these three people had arrived fifteen minutes early and taken their seats in silence, hands folded, eyes closed, faces composed with a solemnity that looked, at any moment, like they were about to receive divine revelation.

What was even more unsettling was that they clearly weren't putting it on.

One bishop's aide beside them couldn't help being rattled internally: Has the Carson Parish finally decided to play this for real?

Something is too off about this. Too quiet. Too frightening.

"They're being incredibly devout, aren't they?"

"Not performing at all, it seems."

"I hear that Father Simeon was the most extreme kind of ascetic monk before — I've been told he never separated himself from a wooden staff and would flagellate himself for no particular reason."

"And the deacon beside him is even more extreme — his whole family in Savoy, a region totally devoid of faith, is said to be the last household still holding onto the faith."

"And that youngest one, Father Alis — some say he's a 'born sacred vessel.'"

"What is a 'born sacred vessel'?"

"I don't know, but it's been circulating very aggressively lately. Something about being surrounded by holy light from birth, or something like that…"

The whispering had barely died down when someone's expression suddenly tensed, and the conversation shifted:

"Didn't Father Alis go to see Bishop Hugo alone this morning?"

"Do you mean — Father Alis received some kind of hint from Bishop Hugo?"

"They arrived fifteen minutes early, have been praying the whole time, sitting in utter silence, utterly without distraction — isn't that perfect? If it isn't an act, then it's too precisely calculated."

"I've been curious from the start why this bishop selection would conclude with a decision in just one day, followed immediately by the consecration. Something this important was never handled so hastily."

"Wasn't there talk that the Savoy bishop was already decided in advance?"

"Don't be naive. I've heard that Bishop Holm came too — he's not going to let Bishop Hugo have an easy time."

Without a more concrete conclusion to be reached, the conversation gradually went quiet.

One junior deacon lowered his voice and said: "Has it occurred to anyone… that perhaps from the moment we entered Dunstan, everything we've done has already been part of the evaluation?"

At these words, the air around them ignited.

Every pair of eyes flashed with the same thought: A hidden examination on top of everything else!

These bishops were terrifying!

How were they supposed to handle that!

The representative from each parish exchanged a look laden with meaning.

The next instant, everyone nonchalantly straightened their posture and lowered their eyes.

Prayers began rising up one after another.

In an instant, the number of people praying in that dining hall had risen by more than double.

No one wanted to fall behind. No one wanted to be mistaken for "not devout enough."

This spectacle, naturally, did not fall on the bishops' eyes in the way the others hoped.

They had their own business to attend to.

*

At that moment, Bishop Whitmore of Dunstan had arranged for his private physician, "Philipps," to prepare the latest upper-class preventive health treatment currently fashionable in the capital — "bloodletting therapy" — for two distinguished bishops: Bishop Hugo and Bishop Holm.

Whitmore smiled and said to the two bishops, "This leech bloodletting method is the gentlest of all bloodletting techniques — it doesn't hurt at all. Letting a little blood every few days helps rid the body of impurities, keeps the body and spirit clean, and helps us better serve the Lord God. In the capital, you need the right connections to get hold of leeches. They're simply not available to just anyone."

As he spoke, Physician Philipps — dressed in black robes, composed and quiet — extracted a damp, dark-colored water leech from a silver medicine box with practiced ease and placed it against the exposed inner arm of Bishop Whitmore.

In the box the leech had been lying there passively.

But the moment it touched human skin, it pulsed and shrank, as though awakened. It quickly began rippling and undulating its body, greedily drinking the bishop's blood. As it fed, it slowly grew fuller. Crimson blood oozed along the smooth inner arm, making its way downward in a thin rivulet — a jarring sight.

Bishop Hugo only smiled pleasantly and said, "It's less a question of whether it hurts. It's that watching the blood flow like this is rather alarming, and at my age I really can't take that kind of visual impact."

His words were, in that refined way of his, a polite refusal.

Bishop Holm was unable to read Bishop Hugo's tone of genteel evasion. He gave a cold snort, and with an edge in his voice, said: "Plenty of people have died from bloodletting over the years. Be careful you don't end up preserving your health in such a way that you lose your life along with it."

Bishop Whitmore was unmoved, his expression pious almost to the point of arrogance: "Anyone who has died from bloodletting was, without exception, a person weighed down by sin. The Lord God protects the devout — someone like myself will only live longer and longer with each session."

Bishop Holm's face went slightly cold. He stopped engaging and simply cast a cold glance at the leech, still feeding, and turned away from Whitmore without another word.

Bishop Hugo, noticing the tension, fixed his gaze on Whitmore and moved to smooth things over: "Bloodletting therapy has been passed down for centuries; the fact that it's still in use today to prevent illness and maintain health shows it has stood the test of time."

At that moment, Physician Philipps was removing the leech from the bishop's arm and carefully pressing gauze to stop the bleeding. Hearing these words, he kept his head down, and a flash of some dark, ambiguous emotion crossed his eyes for just an instant.

Whitmore, taking the hint from Hugo, had no desire for a confrontation with Holm either, and changed the subject: "The cardinal from the holy city is personally arriving tomorrow — do you suppose he will visit Lady Adele first, or young Master Lesley?"

"The holy city" referred to the central city of the capital — the most core zone of the entire imperial Church.

Bishop Holm had had enough at once. His voice went cold: "I thought we were discussing the actual matter of the bishop selection today. If it's idle social chatter about irrelevant things, I have no interest." Without waiting for anyone to reply, he pushed back his chair and left the table.

Bishop Whitmore watched his retreating back, his expression darkening. After a long moment he said through gritted teeth, "Bishop Holm clearly has nothing but contempt for me."

He turned to Bishop Hugo, his tone taking on a faintly ingratiating tint: "Bishop Hugo, on the other hand, has always been easy to get along with… Unlike some people, who are always so overbearing."

Bishop Hugo responded with a neutral non-committal smile and made a few perfunctory remarks on an entirely unrelated topic, then steered the conversation toward the statue that had recently been circulating through Dunstan. But before he had managed more than a sentence or two, Whitmore, now that the bleeding had stopped, proactively brought that topic to a close himself and invited Hugo to join him for dinner.

With the great figures' departure, the reception room fell quiet.

For a moment only Physician Philipps remained, tidying up the instruments.

The box was still slightly open. The leech, freshly fed, had black skin gleaming as if oiled, faintly catching the light. It had been repulsive before the procedure and remained repulsive after — from start to finish.

*

In the kitchen of the Dunstan Cathedral, Shulec, Simeon, and Ramon were wedged inside.

Their dinner had consisted of a thin bowl of oat porridge and a chunk of hard, round bread, and so the three of them had come to the kitchen to cook something for themselves.

The moment they'd seen dinner, the atmosphere in their previously light-hearted little group had gone flat.

It turned out that waiting didn't always yield something delicious.

Sometimes the higher the expectation, the more piercingly cold the disappointment.

Shulec hadn't eaten anything so plain and sparse in a very long time. He'd thought he could push through it — but Father Simeon, who sat beside him and was best at enduring hardship, had barely scooped up one careful spoonful, tried a tentative taste, then involuntarily wrenched his face and spit it back out.

Seeing this, Shulec no longer tried to endure it either, and quietly set down the ladle and pushed the bowl aside.

So they improvised and cooked for themselves.

There wasn't much in the way of ingredients in the kitchen — a quick survey turned up mostly cookware and utensils, which was a letdown.

But then Shulec spotted a small pile of corn cobs tucked off to one side, and it was an unexpected delight.

What excellent ingredients — why had he only noticed them now?!

Worried that the corn might not be sweet enough, Shulec repeatedly brushed butter over it as it roasted, and the whole kitchen filled with the sweet aroma of corn and butter. The smell drifted out through the window.

Just as Shulec was waiting for the masterpiece to be finished, he suddenly noticed three pairs of eyes peering in through the window.

The moment the three children made eye contact with Shulec, they were startled.

Especially Carwen and Seamus.

They recognized Alis.

The three of them had originally sneaked into the church to get a look at who the bishop candidates were. But halfway along they had been lured by the smell from the kitchen, and Carwen and Seamus had dragged Lesley along to peer through the kitchen window and see what delicious thing was being made.

"What smells so good?"

They had barely poked their heads up at the window when they recognized the young man inside as the one from the wedding — the one who had seemed most dangerous of all.

Father Alis's face was pleasant enough, but the memory of those cold, imposing eyes was still vivid to Carwen and Seamus. The back of their heads prickled, and they turned and ran without a second thought.

But they hadn't gotten five meters before the two of them both realized they'd left their younger brother behind. They stopped simultaneously.

"Where's Lesley?"

They said it in unison, and looking back, they saw their younger brother still crouching at the window, staring inside — evidently utterly captivated by the food.

Carwen panicked and sprinted back, grabbed Lesley from behind around the waist, and hauled him bodily upright.

"Run! Run, run, run!"

Seamus, waiting for the two of them, coaxed Lesley along: "If you like it, I'll buy you a whole cart-load. Let's go! Now!"

Between the two of them, one urging and one cajoling, they were carrying on as though if they didn't leave immediately, Shulec was going to scoop them all up like stray cats and dogs.

From Shulec's vantage point, in this moment Lesley looked precisely like a cat that had just been picked up by its owner — feet still touching the ground, the rest of his body stretched up into an absurdly long shape. The normally serious little face was, in all honesty, somewhere between dazed and adorably ridiculous — the kind that made you want to laugh.

Before they had all quite fled, Shulec extended a warm invitation.

"Would you like to try some?"