Silent Crown

Hendel died unexpectedly at the hands of the traitor Wolf Flute, and the irritated Rommel chose to undergo the dark trials that had been sealed off by the Silence Governance.

As the center of the world, the Sacred City had accumulated a massive amount of resources over the centuries, and thus it had countless ways to quickly improve its strength. The pope could even help people get more powerful without even the slightest side-effect.

And the one Rommel had chosen was the worst.

He himself was an advanced killer of a forbidden school. After undergoing surgery and transformation by alchemy matrix, he had undergone successive hellish, torturous transformations until even his skin had festered and peeled off several times.

At the cost of the deterioration of his body he had skipped right to the top of the Master Level from the Distortion level in only half a year and then had almost broken through to the Scepter level along with Ye Qingxuan.

The difference was that his Scepter was blessed by the King of Red himself with the movement called “Emperor,” so he inherited the elements most suited for Hendel, thus logically inheriting the name and position of his teacher. However, he had not yet risen to be in charge of the Silence Governance, and at the suggestion of the College of Cardinals had been excommunicated and had gone to Asgard to participate in the war.

He himself was Asgardian, the sole descendant of the faded Black Flame Clan. It was perfectly sensible for him to act like a Saint for Asgard.

For Asgard, this would bring more assurance about the outcome of the war.

For him, this would be the beginning of his revenge.

Because of this, the old musician was full of worry.

“Time is short, let’s be brief.” The old musician got right to the point. “As for what happens next, as I’m sure others have told you, barring any unforeseen circumstances the enemy that you will face on the sea is that rebel Wolf Flute’s friend, the Prince of Avalon.” When he was finished speaking he looked at Rommel.

Rommel’s face did not change at the mention of Wolf Flute, it remained cold. His determination touched the old musician. He could only say that he was worthy of being in charge of the Silence Governance. He kept calm at all times and had an iron will even when it came to killing.

“You don’t need to use that name to provoke me, sir.” Rommel lowered his eyes. “Are you worried that I’ll lose?”

“With an enemy like that, anybody but the Three Kings would be worried,” said the old musician. “After all, who can guess what he’s going to next?”

“Ye Qingxuan does indeed have a lot of tricks, I’m not a match for him in that regard.” Rommel’s answer was simple and straightforward, with no arrogance but also no modesty. “But if he appears before me on the battlefield he will be my enemy. So, let me tell you, I will win that battle.”

He was practically certain of it.

Even if Ye Qingxuan got personally involved, the Net of Aether would have to stay in Avalon. He was sure that that type of a country’s non-combat important weaponry would stay in the Kingdom of Heaven and Earth, in order to assure it would be completely safe. And when Ye Qingxuan left the Net of Aether he would fall from the catastrophe level to the Scepter level.

The weakest Scepter.

The whole world knew that once he left the Net of Aether his Scepter would be useless.

A blueprint?

Between that and the inheritance of the Holy Name, which one was stronger?

Wasn’t it clear?

But even so, no one dared to relax. When facing someone like Ye Qingxuan it was necessary to treat him as a formidable foe.

“Since you’re so sure you will win, I won’t keep chattering.” The old musician was silent for a while, then said, “I’ll hand the sea fortress over to you, and send three Scepters with you. Mr. Rommel, I give you these orders in the name of His Majesty the Emperor: you must win this battle. If you come back victorious, whether it is to support you or to revive the Black Flame Clan, Asgard will spare no effort.”

“Then I will obey your command.” Rommel bowed to the old musician who represented the Emperor, grabbed his Scepter and turned to leave.

The old musician was left there alone, sitting in a chair and staring at the huge map on the wall.

He didn’t know why, but he was uneasy.

He closed his eyes.

“Ye Qingxuan…”

…

The heavens seemed to reflect the grey mud on the ground.

The grey-black mud should have been fertile soil, but now it emitted a rotten smell.

“Lord, please bestow your redemption upon me.” A refugee with tattered clothes crawled in the mud, piously kissing Charles’s boots. “Please free us…” There were abscesses upon abscesses under the stinking bandages on his face and neck, a disgusting sight.

A plaintive cry rose up from the wilderness.

Charles looked up suddenly, and looked all around him at their dull eyes. He could not believe it.

“How can there be so many…”

“This is only some of them,” Paganini said softly. “Some have lost their land, some are lepers, some are beggars, some are bankrupt farmers. The drought has lasted for years, and last year the frost was severe. They missed the Spring plowing, and so have lost all hope. These exiles are worthless. The Commonwealth of Caucasian has too little land. They can’t afford to grow weeds, and they can’t afford to support these people. You can’t save them. Even if you do, they will still die.”

Charles was silent. The refugee in the mud looked up at him, and the hope in his eyes was dashed bit by bit. He wanted to say something. He stuttered through cracked lips, but in the end nothing came out.

He limped away.

The sound of a child crying rang out from behind the victims.

It soon stopped.

Charles lowered his head.

After a while, he looked back up at Paganini. “How many provisions do we still have?”

“We are going to reclaim the wasteland, not offer aid.” Paganini shook his head in disappointment. “There aren’t many provisions left. Everyone has their allotted portion. All that Gaius is eating now is stale bread. Who has any food to give to others?”

“How many provisions do we have?” Charles repeated his question.

Paganini sighed and glanced to his side as the clerk bitterly flipped through the account book. “Besides everyone’s allotted rations, we have two herrings and five millet cakes.”

After hearing this, Paganini looked at Charles. “How many can you save?”

“Yes, how many can I save?” Charles sighed bitterly, reached his hand out and looked at the clerk. “Give them to me.”

The clerk hesitated, then pulled two bags off the cart. He pulled out two herrings, five millet cakes, and finally a bottle of water.

Paganini said nothing and lowered his eyes.

There were at least 30,000 refugees wandering outside the country now, and there were 7,000 in this shabby camp. Forget about the five millet cakes, even if everyone took out their rations it would practically be like trying to put out a pile of burning logs with a glass of water. Even if everyone in the country was able to get a bit of rations, how many would that save?

They could only stuff their ears and refuse to listen.

This was not shirking their duties, and it was not cruel. There were more important things to do, and more valuable things to be preserved.

It was not until Charles started taking the fish and millet cakes to the refugees that Paganini called for him to stop. Not to bewitch him, nor to stop his plan, but simply to give his colleague some advice.

“Charles, there will always be times when there is nothing we can do,” he said softly. “It’s better if you understand that now.”

Charles looked back at him and suddenly smiled. “Don’t worry.” He scratched his head as he smiled self-deprecatingly. “If I really have a tiny advantage. It’s that I’m not a person.”

Paganini was stunned.

Charles stopped in front of the dumbfounded refugees. The starving refugees looked at him, then looked the fish and cakes in his hands. Their voices quieted, then grew louder. That tiny bit of food seemed to possess incredible magic. It made the dense crowd of thin people move forward, crawling on the ground, gnawing on their fingers, with eyes filled with longing and greed.

Then they saw the dagger that Charles had pulled out of his boot.

The dagger glinted, cold as frost, making the crowd of people around him stop.

Charles was silent for a moment, then raised the dagger and slashed his pinky. Blood flowed from his fingertip amid the sound of cracking bone. The severed finger fell in the gap between the herrings and the millet cakes, probably falling on the ground, although no one saw it.

The blood fell into the water bottle, staining the water until it looked like it had become wine.

He cut a piece of cloth with the dagger and wrapped up the stump of his pinky. His twitching expression changed into a smile. He bent down, and put the food that he was holding on the ground.

“Eat.” He grinned and stepped back. “If it’s not enough, there’s more.”

The people began to clamor.

The thin refugees stared blankly at Charles, and in the next moment rushed forward like a mire boiling over. They crawled towards the food that had fallen on the ground. They grabbed the cakes, stuffing them into their mouths, and swallowed them with all their might. When it got stuck in their throats they greedily drank the wine.

Charles stepped back and let them gorge themselves with a piteous expression.

Paganini glanced at them, then looked away. His face was blank, but in his sleeves, his hands were trembling uncontrollably. After a while, he called over the clerk. He forced himself to calm down and suppressed the tremble in his voice. “After they have finished eating, gather up the leftovers. Don’t waste any of it.”

The clerk stared at him, thinking he was joking. Paganini repeated himself, then turned away. After a while, the refugees had finished eating, and the clerk came back with twelve baskets filled with leftovers.

The people crowded around the baskets and clicked their tongues in wonder.

But Paganini did not look. He had his back to the crowd, and his face was pale.

D*mn, those idiots don’t know what this represents…

After all those centuries, he suddenly had an impulse to pray.

“God…” He looked up and stared into the empty void. A rippling, blazing glow met his eyes, as if the gate of heaven was slowly opening and raining down redemption.

It was Eden, the heaven created by humanity.

Like an illusion, he saw countless spirits of the dead rising up to the Kingdom of Heaven, as if there really were souls in the world.

As if Heaven really existed.