Magus Reborn

126. Goddess and her words

Kai took a deep breath, feeling his decision settling like stones in his chest. They’d overcome a major hurdle, putting their plans into action and creating a way to turn a tricky problem— the mana cannon— into both a solution and a source of income. Now, his mind buzzed with calculations and possibilities.

Nobles would clamour to own the mana cannons— unaware that the top-tier versions would remain under his control, their power subtly limited—a clever arrangement, keeping the best for himself while still offering enough allure to satisfy their ambitions.

The city was heavy with preparations, the count ceremony drawing nearer with every passing day. Reports came in from Francis, detailing the guest list. Representatives from every significant noble house would be in attendance.

Heads of these houses wouldn’t bother making the journey unless they held lower ranks like barons or viscounts, but even the more prestigious counts and dukes sent their heirs as delegates. Each name on the list meant more arrangements, more layers of etiquette to navigate, and more eyes evaluating his every move.

Word of the event had spread quickly like wildfire catching on dry grass. The citizens buzzed with excitement, eager for the parade, the spectacle— anything to distract from the hardship of the past months. And Kai knew, deep down, that the ceremony was more than just pageantry. It was an opportunity to inject life back into an economy that had stalled due to the recent troubles.

Yet, with each new day, the rituals of the count ceremony became larger in his thoughts. The basic customs were easy enough, but certain traditions required the involvement of the church. Lancephil’s church, the third pillar of power in the kingdom, held influence that even the nobles respected. They were officially neutral, but their sway could tip the balance of public opinion in subtle, critical ways. Securing their favour was essential, especially with so many changes sweeping through the city.

For Kai, dealing with the church wasn’t about reverence or faith. He thought back to the stories of fallen gods which were seen as mere legends in his world. By the time he had been born, religion had dwindled to little more than fanatical cults or simply just whispers of ancient stories.

To him, the church was just another player in the game— a player that needed to be negotiated with, which meant, business deals rather than anything related to faith.

A day after the arrangements for the visiting nobles were made, Kai found himself standing in the shadow of the cathedral in the middle of the city, its spires reaching into the sky like ancient fingers grasping for the heavens. Parts of it were broken and not maintained, simply because they had gotten fewer donations as more and more people had gotten poorer.

The architecture bore the crest of the church— a golden sun encircled by a crown of ivy, symbolising the light of the goddess Lumaris and her dominion over the natural world. It was a mark seen across Lancephil, representing the most popular and widespread religion in the kingdom. For many, the church was a source of comfort, a pillar that had stood firm even as kingdoms rose and fell, or so people spoke and wrote about it.

News of the count ceremony must have travelled quickly because they’d sent a bishop to meet with Kai in record time. To oversee the ceremony, they needed someone with both the authority and the experience— someone who could ensure that tradition was respected in every detail. And so, the bishop had arrived with little warning.

Bishop Maurice was a man of presence. His robes were pristine white, edged in gold embroidery that shimmered subtly in the light streaming through the cathedral’s stained-glass windows.

His face was framed by thinning silver hair, and he had deep-set eyes that seemed to weigh everything they looked upon, and a small, tight smile that hinted at a mind always calculating. As they exchanged formal greetings, Kai noted the emblem pinned over the bishop’s chest, the same golden sun surrounded by ivy that adorned the cathedral’s crest.

"It is by the grace of Goddess Lumaris that we find ourselves with such a courageous soul, Lord Arzan," Bishop Maurice began. "To think that Veralt would rise again under your guidance, and that soon you will be its count. Truly, Goddess Lumaris has blessed you."

Kai offered a polite nod, his smile carefully measured. "I’m grateful for the church’s swift assistance. I know how much it means to have someone of your standing overseeing the ceremony."

Maurice inclined his head in acknowledgement, but then his expression shifted, the warm facade giving way to a more businesslike tone. "There is another matter we must address, Lord Arzan. You sent a letter recently, mentioning your intention to establish your own education program in Veralt. Naturally, I wanted to discuss this with you."

Kai had expected this. He kept his posture relaxed, hands clasped behind his back as if this were merely another casual conversation. "Yes, Bishop. We plan to introduce a new educational path here in Veralt and across all the villages, towns and cities under me."

A flicker of concern crossed Maurice’s features, his brow furrowing. "I am not sure if you are aware, but the church’s schools have been managing education for generations. They are capable of handling all the needs of the kingdom’s youth. Our teachings encompass not only the virtues of the goddess but also the practical skills needed to serve society."

Kai’s expression remained neutral, but inwardly, he braced himself. He offered a smooth, confident response. "I’ve seen the church’s schools in action, Bishop. In fact, I’ve participated in some of the lessons myself." A blatant lie, of course, but one delivered with the ease of someone who had long learned how to keep his face unreadable.

"However, I intend to take a different approach. I want to create a path that offers more options for the people of Veralt— an education that not only instils values but also guides them toward the trades and crafts they wish to pursue. It’s about giving them a more thorough understanding of the world beyond our city."

Maurice’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Kai. It was clear that the bishop had come prepared to assert the church’s traditional role in the kingdom, but now he found himself faced with a man who wasn’t looking to conform to old ways. The pause stretched on, a silent exchange of intentions and power, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Bishop Maurice’s expression hardened, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Lord Arzan, you must realise that what you are suggesting goes against the words of the Goddess. Our teachings are clear— there is a proper order to such things."

Ragnar and his father’s second-in-command Brugnar, strolled through the streets of Veralt. Ragnar’s broad shoulders and towering height stood out among the citizens, his dark coat lined with wolf fur draped over his frame. Brugnar, just as imposing, wore simpler armour adorned with sigils of their clan— a nod to the mountain tribes from where they were. Their attire and presence drew eyes, but the looks weren’t filled with distrust or fear.

Murmurs followed them as they passed by— a murmur of recognition and curiosity. Ragnar’s reputation from the recent battle had spread through the city. He had fought against the beast wave alongside Lord Arzan’s forces, proving himself on the front lines. Though his looks, including his noticeable neck tattoo still made some wary, the people respected his strength. He wasn’t exactly liked, but he wasn’t disliked either.

Brugnar glanced sideways at Ragnar, his voice low as they continued their walk. "So, why exactly are we not leaving again?" He kept his tone casual, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity.

Ragnar’s gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression hard. He swirled his tattooed tongue over his lips before answering. "Because we gain nothing if we leave now. There’s still more for us to learn here."

Brugnar raised an eyebrow and touched his single-braided beard. "We got experience already. You proved yourself in the beast wave and fought alongside Blessing One’s men. It’s far more than your father even wanted when he sent you down south."

Ragnar’s jaw tightened, and he let out a frustrated breath. "Maybe. But it also made me realise just how inadequate I am." His voice dropped, barely above a murmur, as he scanned the crowd ahead, making sure no one was close enough to overhear. "I expected to be weaker than Mages. But even his knights, Brugnar—Arzan’s men—they used elements. Fire, lighting, things I thought only a Blessed One could wield. Yet they’re not blessed by spirits. They’ve tapped into some other power."

Brugnar’s eyes darkened as he mulled over the words. "Aye, I saw it too. But I doubt anyone here would be willing to share that power with us. They know who we are, and don’t forget, we’re still at war with Lancephil."

Ragnar’s expression turned grim, the tension coiling in his shoulders. "Exactly. And that’s why I need it. Without that power, we’ll always be beneath the Mages, beneath their knights. Always outmatched. If we’re to have any chance in this war, I need to understand what they’ve tapped into, and make it my own."

Brugnar’s gaze swept over the crowd, considering the murmurs of the people around them. "We’ll have to tread carefully, then. The last thing we need is to draw the wrong kind of attention."

Ragnar’s eyes narrowed, but a fierce determination burned in them. "Carefully, yes. But I won’t leave this city without figuring out how to close the gap. We need to become more than just warriors from the north if we’re going to survive what comes next."

Ragnar nodded to Brugnar, but his attention quickly shifted as cheers and loud clamour erupted from behind them. Turning, he caught sight of yet another noble’s caravan making its way through the crowded streets.

Fine carriages flanked by armoured guards rolled past, the insignia of a minor noble house painted in bold colours on their banners. The crowd gathered eagerly, commoners craning their necks for a glimpse of the new arrivals, some even cheering as the caravan made its way down the cobblestone road.

Ragnar frowned, his brows knitting together. He had seen plenty of such spectacles since yesterday— nobles parading through the city as if they owned it. He had stayed inside most of the time, avoiding the streets precisely because he didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention. But even now, out here, he couldn’t avoid the display of wealth and power.

He glanced back to Brugnar. "You see that?" he muttered, voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd. "All these nobles are pouring in because of the new title. It’s infuriating... They act like it’s a parade in their honour. We fought in the battle. Not them."

Anger flared within Ragnar, hot and bitter. It gnawed at him, making his hands itch to punch something— or someone till they bleed. But he took a deep breath, forcing the feeling down, refusing to let it control him. He couldn’t afford to let rage guide his actions— not here, not now.

With a resigned sigh, he adjusted his hood and started weaving through the crowd, trying to keep his head down. Brugnar did the same, the two of them slipping through the gaps in the gathered masses. The murmurs of admiration directed toward the noble caravan grated on Ragnar’s nerves, but he kept his composure.

Ragnar broke the silence as they walked. "With so many nobles in one place, it’s strange nothing bad has happened yet. Feels like we’re just waiting for lightning to strike us dead."

Brugnar chuckled through his nose, keeping his voice low. "Nobles always bring trouble, don’t they? Put a few of them together, and it’s just a matter of time before something goes wrong. They’re like peacocks— showy and proud— but get too many of them in one place, and they start fighting over the same patch of dirt."

Ragnar smirked, but his attention shifted when a sharp shout rang out, cutting through the noise of the crowd. He turned his head, the sound coming from a nearby alley, close to the inn where they’d been staying. His instincts sharpened, and without a word, he moved toward the source of the commotion, Brugnar following closely behind.

As they drew closer, they saw the scene unfolding: a small boy, barely more than ten years old, lay crumpled on the ground, his face streaked with dirt and tears. A man dressed in fine robes, clearly noble by his garb and the sneering expression on his face, loomed over him. The noble’s boot came down hard, grinding into the boy’s back, eliciting a pained yelp from the child.

The crowd around them murmured in discomfort, but no one dared to intervene. Brugnar’s face twisted with a dark scowl as he observed the scene, and Ragnar’s grip tightened around the edge of his cloak, struggling to maintain his composure. He glanced at Brugnar, whose jaw clenched with unspoken frustration.

Ragnar took a slow, steadying breath and whispered. "Guess that trouble didn’t take long to show up, after all."