Chapter 53: The Holy Light Never Said That!

Brother Lawrence was visibly taken aback, clearly having never anticipated such a situation.
This young man—had he just returned from training at the Imperial Cathedral? How did he seem to know even more than himself?
Even the lords of Ethanborough weren’t this skilled at making things difficult!
In Brother Lawrence’s habitual way of thinking, a newly established frontier like this would be full of peasants desperately in need of faith, while the lord would be eager for someone to help him win their hearts. With a bunch of bumpkins, it should be easy to sway them.
In the previous villages he visited with his two retainers, he hadn’t even spoken before many villagers came to pray and kneel.
Unfortunately, those villages were too poor—there was nothing to gain.
But this new frontier was entirely different: everywhere echoed with the sounds of construction, the roads were bustling, and the whole place was abuzz with activity, a clear sign of prosperity.
That lord’s manor in the distance looked practically like a small fortress—obviously the work of a wealthy man.
If the lord agreed to his request, he could use the construction of a church as an excuse to fundraise, gather a tidy sum up front.
If the donations were generous, it would show the place was flush with cash and worth further investment.
If the church was completed, he could enjoy steady returns; if not, he could simply abscond with the funds.
A single church could bring in as much in donations and taxes as the lord himself each year.
With a devout lord, the church might even receive personal contributions from him!
And if the profits were too slim, he could always sell the church to another cleric—there was no way to lose.
What’s that? Taking something for nothing? Surely the time and effort a noble cleric spends dealing with these country bumpkins counts as a cost, does it not?
Brother Lawrence was unwilling to give up just yet and patiently explained, “The guidance of Our Lord is never wrong. Once the church is built, the documents will arrive.”
“That’s not impossible,” Leo suddenly nodded in agreement.
He crossed his arms, hand on his chin as he surveyed the surroundings, then abruptly pointed to a patch of open ground in the distance. “Build it there!”
Brother Lawrence was overjoyed. The spot Leo indicated was less than a hundred meters from the lord’s manor—building a church there would put it at the heart of the village. If he ever wanted to leave, selling it would net him a tidy profit.
“But there are two conditions.”
“Name them,” Lawrence replied, almost lapsing into formal address.

“First, no funds for the church may come from Riverbend—you’ll have to pay for it yourself. Second, the church must not only honor the God of Holy Light, but also the Northern God of War, Tyr.”
“Absurd! How can a single church be dedicated to two gods—especially…” Brother Lawrence flew into a rage.
“Especially what?” Leo’s hand slid to his sword hilt, his gaze turning dangerous.
“N-nothing,” Brother Lawrence stammered, abruptly coming to his senses and shaking his head.
He had been about to say that the God of Holy Light was the only true god.
But this wasn’t the South—it was the North.
Here, the true god was Tyr, the War God.
When the North joined the Orlandis Empire, this was written into imperial law, and even the Pope of the Church of Holy Light then had recognized it.
To unite the northern tribes and bring all the eastern continent under one banner, the Emperor of Orlandis and the contemporary Pope of the God of Holy Light had personally gone to the northern holy city of Anserest, where they signed an alliance with the High King of the North.
The details of the pact were many, but the core was that the High King surrendered his crown, became the Grand Duke of the North, and led his people into the empire.
In return, the empire granted the North autonomy far exceeding all other regions and recognized Tyr as a true god.
Of course, only a few knew these things—most people never learned such distant history.
For centuries, as a matter of decorum and concealment, many high-ranking clergy of the Holy Light would depict Tyr as an avatar of the Holy Light, or as one of its archangels, or simply avoid the subject. But they would never openly denounce him as heretical the way they did with other deities.
Seeing Leo’s cold gaze, Brother Lawrence understood at once.
The other man understood everything!
Whether in matters of faith or in terms of interests, Leo saw through all the tricks and made his stance clear with a few words that only an insider would grasp.
Brother Lawrence dropped the pretense at once, snapping, “Without the protection of the Holy Light, darkness will consume everything—including your petty Riverbend. I hope you think carefully.”
With that, he turned on his heel and left.
Leo watched him go, coldly replying, “The God of Holy Light never said that.”
Brother Lawrence faltered for a moment, then strode away.
Their exchange had been brief. Ivan, watching from the side, finally understood enough to grumble, “What’s this? Build a house, and he expects everyone to call him father? Even Uncle Urian isn’t that ruthless!”

Leo had no desire to respond, but reminded him gravely, “Don’t let your guard down these next few days. Keep drilling and step up the patrols. If there’s the slightest disturbance, blow the horn or strike the gong as needed—don’t be afraid of a false alarm, just treat it as a drill. Understand?”
“Yes.” As Leo’s trusted aide, Ivan was obedient; his face turned serious at the words, and he went off to relay the orders.
Leo gazed after Brother Lawrence’s departing figure, a faint sense of unease in his heart.
Any traveler from another world would be wary of a monotheistic church in a medieval setting.
Leo was no exception. He didn’t dare grow complacent, but would rather be overly cautious than caught off guard.
Now that Riverbend’s main construction was finished and laborers were freed up, the militia could devote more time to training.
Every morning and evening, Leo led the militia in two laps along the riverbank.
This was both to improve their fitness and to drive off the nearby beasts.
The lone wolves, wild leopards, and brown bears hiding in the woods—or even magical beasts—had no chance to ambush when faced with dozens of armed men running up and down the banks every day.
Over time, these creatures would move on, cutting this area out of their hunting grounds.
The crossbows seized from the boar-folk, after a period of practice, had become standard militia equipment.
Though powerful—second only to the longbows of the wild hunters—their craftsmanship was so crude that accuracy beyond fifty meters was questionable.
Leo had never expected his militia to become a true ranged force like the wild hunters; having something was better than nothing.
In small skirmishes in the wild, a few volleys of arrows before the enemy closed in could make all the difference.
Besides the crossbows, every militiaman was equipped with a thick round wooden shield, an iron one-handed sword, and two short spears.
At long range, they’d suppress with crossbows; up close, they’d throw spears; and when it came to melee, they’d form a shield wall and use short swords to gut their foes.
The slings hadn’t proved especially useful, but they hadn’t disappeared either; every villager still carried one for self-defense.
Usually, they wore it as a belt, practicing when idle, treating it as a pastime.
By now, even the children of the village could use slings to bring down birds, and the exceptionally talented Mouse was the best among them.