Arrangements from Above

Stepping out of the administrative temple, Foden climbed into his carriage. As the carriage rolled forward, Foden's gaze grew heavier and darker. The resulting aura caused Miguel and Augie, who were sharing the carriage with him, to instinctively shrink toward the sides. Their breathing slowed; it had been a very long time since they had felt such an emotional state from the Whip-Wielder. Inside, Foden felt suffocated. In the past, whenever the High Priest granted more authority and influence to the Whip of Order, he, as the Whip-Wielder, had certainly welcomed it. But the power devolved to him this time was simply too immense. When a master tossed down a chewed-over bone, a dog could naturally scramble forward to gnaw on it without the slightest psychological burden, eagerly wagging its tail to express its gratitude the entire time. For the dog knew this was its food, something it was permitted to enjoy. However, if a prized ingredient slipped from an expensive serving dish, a dog that bounded over, scooped it up, and began eating with brimming confidence had better think hard about what kind of end awaited it. Just like this time... did he truly have the right to choose? Why not leave professional matters to professional people? Cardinal Kred had directed and planned the "First Day War" against the Church of Samsara with brilliant success. Why abruptly switch personnel when selecting the next target to strike? Foden did not believe Kred had betrayed the High Priest—Kred had no reason to do so. Therefore, the only possible explanation was that Kred's proposed resolution... or rather, the target Kred had chosen to attack, was not what the High Priest wanted. The High Priest needed someone else to grasp his underlying intentions and lead the charge for him. Yet the High Priest had given him no clear answer. He was left to observe, deduce, and comprehend it on his own. *Heh...* Foden narrowed his eyes. Leaving things unsaid and relying on guessing usually happened only when superiors and subordinates were unfamiliar with each other—a test deployed by higher-ups to measure a subordinate's obedience, political acumen, capability, and ideological awareness. When such a dynamic arose between him and the High Priest, it could mean only one thing: the High Priest no longer trusted him. *On what grounds?!* *Why?!* Fury flared in Foden's eyes. He had worked conscientiously, devoted his loyalty without reserve, accompanied him through everything from the past all the way to the present—handling matters, killing enemies, rallying crowds, and charging the frontlines for him. For his sake back then, he had not hesitated to give up the position of Whip-Wielder right before his eyes to enter the expansion spaces, enduring countless brushes with death and permanently afflicting himself with the chronic malady of cold poison. What was wrong with the man? Why begin distrusting him now? Beneath Foden's lips, his teeth clenched tight. He felt anger, grievance, and indignation. Although serving under such a superior was exhausting and terrifying—requiring one to remain eternally cautious—from the standpoint of his life and career, being able to follow such a superior had been a stroke of fortune. Only that man could have reined in his proud, unruly younger self and made him willing to be driven at his beck and call. Suddenly, Words spoken by the High Priest during an internal meeting years ago, when their circle had just formed and they were still serving in a regional district, floated into Foden's mind: *"A group must undergo regular screening and purges to ensure its purity is untainted and its ideals are not corroded. Only then can its fighting strength be preserved, and only then can things be accomplished—great things—and our goals realized."* Over the past decades, the High Priest had consistently operated this way. People joined, and people were expunged. Through sheer craft and capability, he had unceasingly consolidated and reinforced the faction centered around him. Yet that process had halted after he was jointly confirmed by the Holy See and the Temple as the successor to Rasma, becoming the next High Priest. While there had been sporadic rebukes aimed at individuals, compared to the grim atmosphere of the past, they were practically gentle taps. And now, the High Priest had resumed screening this team. Foden lifted his head in faint horror. The man was already the High Priest. He had dominated the Holy See and suppressed the Temple. Had his goals and ideals still not been realized? Just what did he truly want to do? With trembling hands, Miguel picked up a woolen blanket, intending to drape it over the Whip-Wielder's knees. Yet the Whip-Wielder abruptly turned his gaze toward him, followed immediately by an unmistakable look of disgust. Miguel felt as though plunged into an icy abyss. His mind went entirely blank, leaving him at a total loss for what to do next. Foden let out a soft sigh. How wonderful it would be if the person sitting before him right now were not Miguel, but Karen. Karen would pick up his thoughts. Karen's vision and breadth of perspective were beyond anything this secretary could match. No—among everyone under his command, practically none could compare to Karen. Because among all his subordinates, not a single one dared do as Karen did: acting without the slightest fear of offending him, entirely confident that he would prioritize the bigger picture. Most importantly, he resembled the High Priest. Foden might well glean some insight into the High Priest's intentions from him. Fortunately, he would soon be transferred back. *** Richard walked into the medical camp to collect the latest casualty reports. Once the officer in charge of the medical corps signed the documents, Richard took them in hand and headed outward, his gaze instinctively scanning the nearby cots. Soon enough, he spotted his uncle Dake undergoing emergency treatment. The operating table sat in an open area, separated only by two rudimentary barrier formations on the perimeter—one for sterilization and one for isolation to prevent infection. Beside Uncle Dake, a senior physician was conducting emergency resuscitation while an assistant administered a blood transfusion. A vine emerged from Dake's chest, submerged in dark red nutrient fluid beside the operating table. Outside the perimeter of the operating bed's formation sat his aunt Lucie, staring at her husband with an agonizingly anxious expression. Richard took a deep breath and walked over. Seeing Richard approach, Lucie instinctively reached out and gripped his wrist. At this moment, she desperately craved the support of family. Yet Richard offered no comfort, asking in a calm voice: "Section Chief Lucie, you should not be here. According to orders, your squad should currently be on the western flank of the Zuomaisi Mountain Range, tasked with dismantling the residual arrays left behind by the retreating enemy." Lucie raised her head and looked at Richard. "I know. They've already gone. Right now, I only want to watch over your uncle." "Section Chief Lucie, you have deserted your post. I advise you to rendezvous with your squad immediately. Once the mission is complete, write a self-criticism report and submit it voluntarily to the Military Discipline Department." Lucie's voice suddenly spiked into a shriek: "Adjutant Richard! My husband, your uncle—his chances of being resuscitated are only thirty percent! If I don't stay here by his side, where do you expect me to go right now?!" Richard said, "Noise is prohibited in the medical camp." Lucie pointed toward the camp gate. "You brat, get the hell away from me!" Richard glanced at his uncle, then pointed toward the entrance as well. "Return to your post at once." "Do you need to flaunt your selflessness and severity here? Or are you hoping to use this to curry favor with the army commander?" Richard replied, "Section Chief Lucie, the battle isn't over yet. The physicians are handling things here; you do not belong in this camp. If you do not return to your post, I will summon the Military Discipline Department to arrest you immediately." "Richard!" A sharp shout rang out from behind him. Richard closed his eyes, bit his lip, and turned around. Yes—he saw his mother, Kaixi. His own father, Battalion Commander Aisen, had suffered severe mental shock while blasting through the enemy's defensive array and had fallen into a deep coma. "Battalion Affairs Officer Kaixi, you should be assisting the deputy battalion commander in organizing personnel to seal off the area where the Spear of Sin stands, awaiting the handover with the containment space personnel. Please return to your post immediately. Submit a self-criticism report to the Military Discipline Department once the mission is completed." Kaixi said, "The physician said your father might never wake up for the rest of his life." "We are fighting a war! There is still small-scale fighting underway on the frontlines! What are the two of you doing here?! So many people died in battle today—do they not have wives, do they not have families? Do you think you're special?!" Richard pointed toward his uncle, who was still undergoing emergency care: "What did they fight so desperately for? Now that the enemy has collapsed, shouldn't we be securing the battlefield gains they bled for? Do they need the two of you sitting here shedding tears and wallowing in grief?!" Richard's eyes rimmed with red, glaring fiercely: "Family members enlisting together violated the district's initial recruitment regulations in the first place! It was Father who begged Ka—begged the commander to grant special approval, granted only because you are district array masters and magistrates capable of contributing! "Remember, you are believers of Order, and you are soldiers! "Now, return to your posts this instant! Otherwise, I will personally haul you before the Whip of Order Tribunal!" Richard locked eyes with his mother. Kaixi stood frozen, unmoving. At that moment, Lucie stood up, walked over to Kaixi, and tugged her arm. Kaixi gave her son a long, deep look, then walked out of the medical camp alongside Lucie. "*Phew...*" Richard let out a long breath and strode out of the camp without searching for his father's cot. Standing outside, Karen witnessed the entire scene. However, he did not step forward or greet Richard. Beside him, Philomena asked, "Aren't you going in?" "It seems I ought to be at my post right now as well, rather than coming here." "True." "Still, after a fierce battle, a visit to the medical camp by the army commander helps bolster morale. So coming here is appropriate too." "True." "Richard has matured considerably." It felt as though the fellow who loved visiting pastry shops to chat with the older girls was around just yesterday, yet today, he was almost unrecognizable. Philomena remarked, "Family members shouldn't be in the same military unit." "Mm, yes, you're right." Yet originally, it had merely been a one-thousand-man militia corps from the Yorktown Region, without fully developed rules and regulations. After all, who could have anticipated that a mere militia would expand into a full army group shortly thereafter? "Go inquire about our array master battalion commander's condition. He is crucial to our corps. Also, the primary engagement has concluded, and the artillery battalion has dispersed into separate detachments to pursue and eliminate the remaining enemy forces. Tell Kevin to return; let him know the medical camp needs him, and tell him to drink plenty of water. "Call Purr over as well. She understands medicine and can sometimes offer unorthodox remedies that standard physicians would never consider." "Understood." "Good." Karen glanced at Dake, who was still being resuscitated, but in the end, he did not actually walk inside to search for his uncle's bed. Exiting the medical camp, Karen exhaled deeply. To say he felt immense worry, agony, or deep torment over not going in to visit—well, that would be false; it did not reach such an extreme. This was a battlefield. Casualties were countless, and there simply wasn't room to indulge in grief. No one was more noble than anyone else, and no one was too precious to die. So long as a death held value, even he, Karen, could lay down his life. *** When he returned to the command tent, Richard was organizing documents on his desk. Once Karen took his seat, Richard arranged the relevant files in sequence before him. For every document Karen reviewed and signed, Richard promptly took it and dispatched it. Neo was overseeing and managing the frontline, but there was still a mountain of administrative work to handle in the rear—not only for their own corps, but for the three regular regiments as well. Daina bustled in and out constantly, delivering incoming communications. The frantic pace persisted straight into the night. A portion of the garrison stationed in the Zuomaisi Mountain Range had ultimately managed to break out. That was unavoidable; the defending force had matched the attacking force in scale and strength. Attempting to crush their fortifications while simultaneously sealing off every retreat route was practically impossible. Karen accepted Neo's recommendation, ordered a halt to the pursuit, and coordinated the deployment of defensive sectors. Once most of the urgent matters were resolved, Karen leaned back in his chair, dropped his quill onto the desk, and deliberately remarked: "All done." Daina nodded with a smile. "The battle is over. Well, I'll fetch your dinner." "No need, I'll grab food myself. Daina, go oversee the logistics. The soldiers stationed at the front need hot mash far more than we do. "Richard, go to the medical camp on my behalf and check on the treatment of the wounded. Tell them this is a military camp, not a church hospital—order them to spare no expense to save every single casualty." "Yes, Commander!" "Yes, Commander!" Both of them exited. Karen picked up the water cup on the desk, took a sip, set it down, and added fresh ice cubes. Philomena walked in and reported, "Dake pulled through. Aisen is still unconscious, but Purr says she is attempting to stimulate the bond effect of the Arte bloodline within him. He should wake up in a couple of days." Purr knew Aisen's relationship to him; for even her to say "should" meant Uncle Aisen's injuries were truly severe. "Understood. Go fetch my dinner. I'm hungry." "Alright." Before Philomena could leave, the tent flap was pushed aside, and Neo strode in, covered in crusted scabs of blood. His hair was matted together, yet when he spoke, his neat rows of gleaming white teeth stood out with striking brightness. "Ha! I almost died on the battlefield. What a shame—missed it by just a hair. Just a tiny bit!" *Clang!* Neo tossed the Sword of Diamans, which Karen had lent him, onto the ground and began peeling off his armor. A noticeable hollow dented his chest, two puncture wounds pierced his abdomen, and burns and frostbite marred the rest of his skin. Remarkably, this was merely what remained after his self-healing; the injuries he had sustained during his actual charge were several times worse. "I was thinking about just dying in battle to collect another payout for this identity's pension." "Heh." Karen shook his head helplessly. Other people embezzled payrolls or milked pensions, but only Neo sought to milk his own death benefits. "Then again, I was worried you'd look down on me. Besides, dying to a sacred artifact would at least be a high-class death, but the artifact didn't even activate, and I'd be gone—dying like that lacks flair. "So I found an opportunity to drink some blood. Not gonna lie, it tasted incredible. "Anyway, that fake identity you made for me notes that I carry the bloodline of a bloodthirsty aberrant demon, so sucking blood feels all the better—didn't even need to hide it. "Damn, it tasted so good. The more I drank, the more thrilled I got." Pausing, Neo asked with mild curiosity, "Think I gave myself away?" "It's fine, don't worry about it. With the Whip-Wielder backing me, nobody will dare investigate me or those around me directly from now on." It was much like senior leaders conversing behind a basic isolation barrier during a meeting; no ordinary priest in the back rows would dare extend their divine sense to pry. At Karen's current standing, anyone daring to investigate his inner circle would be committing a direct offense against him. "Aha! The tone you just used perfectly defines what it means to have full-fledged wings." A voice announced from outside: "Commander, an incoming communication request from headquarters." "Understood." Karen went to the communications room. The formation lit up, and Daan's figure appeared. "Where is Foden?" "The Whip-Wielder has already departed." "Lucky fellow. He gets to head back and boast that waging war isn't hard after all. Heh." Karen did not reply. The more victories one won, the higher one's status climbed. Simultaneously, those once-unapproachable superiors spoke with greater warmth, cracking jokes far more often. "Splendidly fought. I didn't expect you to shatter the Zuomaisi Mountain Range so swiftly. Did you know? I've already petitioned the High Priest to launch a major campaign while the enemy's logistics are in disarray." "Please assign our mission, sir." Karen's remark was merely polite formality. The preliminary casualty figures had long been enclosed within the battlefield report sent upward; by all logic, his army group should fall back to rest and refit. Still, maintaining the proper posture was essential. "Operational orders will be issued immediately. Your unit will be assigned to the second line of the new campaign, ready to provide reinforcement at a moment's notice." *Hm?* Karen felt a flicker of surprise. This meant deploying his force as a reserve unit—effectively a firefighting squad—to be dispatched wherever needed once the grand campaign began. However, the primary spearhead of a grand campaign would inevitably fall upon the elite army groups possessing knight orders. The reserve force was unlikely to see actual combat, or at most would serve in a supporting role. Even so, his unit would have to maintain a state of high combat readiness, which had nothing in common with resting and recuperating. "Understood. We guarantee completion of headquarters' mission." Daan asked a few more questions about the Zuomaisi Mountain Range before ending the transmission. When Karen returned to the command tent, Neo was sitting shirtless in his chair, smoking a cigarette and toying with a large flask of black liquid. "What is that?" Neo answered, "An energy potion." "It doesn't look like one." "Oh, it's not for humans. It's combat feed for the golden-armored dragon turtles." With that, Neo tilted his head back and gulped down several mouthfuls. "*Glug, glug...* Ah, satisfying! Fighting this battle was truly satisfying, absolutely thrilling!" "You'd better show some restraint. I'm afraid you'll drink yourself into trouble." Neo shrugged. "Not a big deal. Purely by classification, I count as a very high-tier aberrant demon. Want to try some? Maybe your hunger addiction would enjoy it." "Heh." "Time for some rest next, right? I mean for the army group." "Daan gave me a new assignment. He's launching a new major campaign, and we're to serve as second-line reserves." "You didn't underreport our casualties, did you?" "Not only did I not underreport them, I reported light injuries as severe, and severe ones as critical." Battlefield deaths could not be fabricated, but the severity of injuries allowed plenty of discretion. The purpose was to secure a longer rest period and better recovery provisions for his unit; furthermore, Karen no longer needed a pristine casualty ratio to embellish his record. "Then what's the point of this? Order's troop strength hasn't grown that strained, has it? "Refusing us rest and keeping us on combat readiness makes no sense—unless they're deliberately letting us trail behind the main army groups to piggyback on the merits of this grand campaign, and then..." Karen nodded, picking up the sentence: "Yes. We're going home."