Coffins were neatly arranged inside an enormous tent. Lying within them were Order priests who had fallen in the previous battle—though not all of them, for many who had perished left behind not even a scrap of flesh, their names relegated to the casualty list as missing.
According to church tradition, the remains of priests were reclaimed by the Church—not to be inducted into the First Knight Order, but to be processed into spiritual materials.
To secular eyes, this practice seemed deeply inhumane, but to believers, it was the fulfillment of their vows: offering their devotion, their bodies, and their souls to their faith.
Karen walked silently between the rows of coffins, his gaze sweeping over each of their occupants. Some were youthful, some mature; some had lost their heads entirely.
Their appearances had all been tidied, and they had been dressed in fresh Order priestly robes designed specifically for the deceased. Though made without special materials or embedded arrays to keep costs low, the craftsmanship had to be meticulous and dignified.
When he saw wrinkles in someone's robe, Karen paused to smooth them out; when an arm had slipped off, he repositioned both hands, neatly clasping them over the abdomen.
With one young priest, Karen had just arranged his hands when an arm slipped down again. He adjusted it once more, only for it to slip down again, as though deliberately playing a prank on his corps commander.
Karen smiled, feeling as if the surrounding coffins were chuckling along with them.
Setting the posture right one more time, the arm finally stayed in place, and the tent fell dead silent once again.
Meliye stepped inside, her eyes turning toward Karen amid the coffins.
"Commander Karen."
"I'm sorry, but this isn't an appropriate place for an interview."
In truth, taking a photograph here would certainly produce an outstanding propaganda effect, rich in texture and gravitas.
Provided, naturally, that Karen displayed no pride or swagger—that the imagery didn't convey the sense that his achievements were built atop these corpses, but instead deliberately radiated sorrow and desolation, ideally caught bowing or dropping to one knee.
But Karen refused to do that. If they were still alive—say, when the army had first marched out to the frontline—he wouldn't have minded performing or using them for publicity. Now, however, he felt they needed quiet.
After all, the roar of the battlefield had been far too loud.
Meliye said, "I know. That's why I didn't bring a camera."
Karen paid her no further heed and resumed walking among the coffins.
Meliye followed with light steps, accompanying him for a time. As Karen finished one row and turned toward the next, she spoke up at just the right moment:
"To be honest, I dislike war. I know it's a trending topic and captures the most attention, but after truly witnessing combat firsthand, I feel a deep aversion rising from the bottom of my heart."
Karen remarked casually, "That's fine. In a setting like this, saying you love peace and hate war is an innate moral high ground."
Meliye asked with a hint of surprise, "I had thought that at this very moment, you would feel the same way, Commander."
"No, I don't. But I understand why you do. In this world, as long as people are out there risking their lives to guard and protect, there will inevitably be others standing behind them to mourn and reflect.
"Things that are innately morally correct serve only to cultivate sentiment—like sugar cubes beside a cup of coffee, holding little real significance.
"Or rather, you can afford to think that way because you're a journalist; you don't belong to the combat ranks. But I am the supreme commander of an army group. I cannot entertain such childish notions."
"But I... am also a believer of Order."
"Then your faith is not pure enough, and you've begun to lose your way."
Hearing this, Meliye immediately dropped to her knees, bowing low, her body trembling.
Seeing this, Karen said, "Get up."
"Yes, my lord."
Meliye slowly stood up. She regretted ever stepping inside, and regretted even more daring to speak to this young commander in the tone of an equal in an interview.
"An impure faith and losing one's way are not grave issues. Moving from deep conviction to doubt, and then from doubt back to deep conviction, is simply an objective law of human cognition."
"Yes, my lord."
"As for your aversion to war, I understand that too. But regarding them..." Karen pointed to the densely packed coffins around them. "I feel pride for their courage, their dedication, and their sacrifice."
"Of course. I understand what you mean, my lord."
"No, you don't. In your eyes, the war we are fighting is no different in nature from secular empires bickering over colonies, is it?"
"N-no... that's not it."
"Relax. I have no interest in singling out a journalist, much less hauling one before a Whip of Order tribunal.
"The reason I'm telling you this is, first, because we are fellow believers of Order, and those walking the path of Order ought to support one another; second, because your recent performance has been admirable—the series of reports you did covering me and the Whip of Order Corps was very well-received in the rear.
"I promised to help transfer you into the regional headquarters. If you are to work under me, you naturally need to understand me and know how I think, so that things run smoothly. Do you understand?"
"I understand." Meliye forced a smile.
"In essence, this war began with the Church of the Desert's provocation, followed by our Church of Order's intervention. Naturally, I won't deny that it was our Church of Order that deliberately escalated the scale of the campaign, ultimately forcing the coalition forces onto the field.
"However, I have no interest in all these formal pretexts and background narratives.
"When I stand upon the command platform and behold the distinctive spells, arrays, and war engines unleashed by these seemingly glamorous orthodox churches—like the Church of Life and Church of Earth—only a single thought remains in my mind..."
Karen reached up and lightly tapped his own forehead.
"And that is: no matter the reason, no matter the means, so long as our cannons are aimed at them, I will order them to fire without the slightest hesitation.
"Every soldier under my command who falls while raising their blade against them makes me proud, and their death is worthwhile.
"Because,
"Between us and them, this is no scrap over petty interests, no scramble for missionary territory, no clash for a dominant voice...
"We and they represent two civilizations;
"More than that, two entirely different ways of perceiving this world.
"Our struggle against them will not end with one side admitting defeat, nor will it conclude even with one side's total eradication. For what both sides seek to wipe away is not merely the flesh and soul of the other, but their spiritual imprint.
"You shouldn't loathe the war before your eyes, because this war began in the previous era, and it has raged on until today.
"It was only because our temporary strength coincided with our enemies' temporary frailty and disunity that we were misled into believing we had experienced so-called peace, and subsequently misled into believing that such peace was innate and rightfully deserved."
As he said this, the silhouette seated with its back turned to him could not help but surface in Karen's mind once more.
Heh.
If the followers of those churches ever found out that their gods had been barred beyond this era by the God of Order, unable to descend and return... just how furious and maddened would they become?
As a believer of Order, you never had a choice in the first place;
For the God you worshipped had long made the decision on your behalf, placing you in opposition to the entire religious world.
Meliye asked, "My lord, may I include what you just said in my next report?"
"You may."
"I can flesh out the rest, but I feel it still lacks a concluding remark. I hope you can provide one."
Karen nodded and said:
"Cast aside illusions and prepare for battle."
Meliye hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Yet we have already gone to war. We are already waging war, and we are already fighting."
"Indeed. And yet, some people have still not cast aside their illusions."
***
Miguel entered the Whip-Wielder's office holding a thick stack of documents. Approaching the desk, he sorted and arranged them, then pulled out today's issue of Order Weekly and whispered,
"Whip-Wielder, today's Order Weekly published a frontline interview with Commander Karen."
Foden paused what he was doing and held out his hand.
Miguel let out a quiet sigh of relief. He could sense that the Whip-Wielder's hunger for news of Commander Karen had reached an intensity that even he, his personal secretary, found baffling.
Foden placed the newspaper before him, his gaze sweeping across the page before finally freezing on the closing lines:
"Cast aside illusions and prepare for battle."
...
"...Yet some people have still not cast aside their illusions."
Foden shifted fretfully in his seat, half-rising only to sit back down, turning sideways before stopping halfway, reaching for his water glass only to pull his hand back.
Miguel stared in dumb shock, looking as if he had seen a ghost—because his Whip-Wielder looked exactly like someone who had just seen a ghost.
"Whip-Wielder..."
"Get out."
"Whip-Wielder?"
"Get out!"
"Yes, sir!"
Miguel scrambled out of the office in a frantic rush.
Foden slammed his palm against the desk. Built of specialized materials, the desk did not break, but the terrifying tremor it produced sent vast sections of the surrounding glaciers collapsing into avalanches. Even Augie had to raise her head, surfacing from the icy pool.
Only after a long while did Foden settle down, his face ash-pale.
So far in Karen's career, the most formidable opponent he had encountered was Bern, the current Head Bishop of the Yorktown Region.
Bern had caught Karen's scent several times, yet through particular circumstances and developments, he had chosen to stand beside or behind Karen, and the two had never clashed in outright conflict.
A man like Bern, who had spent nearly his entire life in the shadows, was like a master painter with consummate skill, capable of casting aside rigid procedures to pursue fluid grace and artistic intuition. Figures of his stature in specialized security organs possessed an almost artistic sixth sense in such matters.
They needed neither an exhaustive trail of clues nor a complete chain of evidence; sometimes, a terrifying gut instinct alone was enough to divine the truth behind an event.
And Foden's prowess in this regard naturally far surpassed Bern's.
Thus, from this very article, he keenly caught the exact scent he had smelled during his private audience with the High Priest in the administrative hall after returning from the front.
The High Priest was restructuring and screening his inner circle; Karen was calling to cast aside illusions and prepare for battle.
To outsiders, these two things had zero connection, but Foden was certain they shared an identical essence!
His earlier loss of composure stemmed precisely from this.
Previously, he had merely felt that Karen resembled the High Priest in his youth—a similarity in working style, habits, and developmental trajectory, something objective, practical, and rational.
Yet at this moment, Foden realized that between them lay a shared aura—a resonance of the spirit.
Or perhaps the similarities he had noted before were merely because he had failed to grasp this underlying resonance, seeing only the superficial exterior.
These two men...
It was as if both knew a monumental secret unknown to the rest of the world, a secret that drove them toward a convergence in their actions, thoughts, and worldview.
Hiss...
Foden pressed a hand against his forehead. Concealed beneath his palm, his eyes were wide.
Yes, he was beginning to feel terrified.
If before, viewing Karen as resembling the High Priest had allowed him, as the boss of a "new High Priest," to savor a forbidden thrill,
Now, the realization that he was actually the superior of "the High Priest"—that he dared sit above the High Priest—when swapping Karen's face for Norton's, brought the Whip-Wielder a panic so intense his very soul trembled.
This panic went beyond the threat of death, because Foden was gripped by an overwhelming sense that acting as his superior was downright blasphemous and treasonous.
"Sigh..."
Foden let out a long sigh, then took a deep breath.
He reached out and picked up the newspaper once more, not to read the article again, but to weigh a decision racing through his mind.
Should he investigate what that secret was?
He dared not investigate the High Priest, but with Karen, his means and resources could easily subject the young man to a second, third, or fourth investigation...
Everyone had secrets; a superior allowed their subordinates their private reservations.
Yet Foden was now almost certain that the dossiers and reports on Karen in his hands did not reflect the most authentic truth.
An orphan...
A spotless orphan?
The previous High Priest, Rasma, had lost his mother at an early age and was adopted by an Order priest. What he displayed initially was an exceptional talent for cultivation—a perception of and affinity for the power of Order's rules that surpassed ordinary comprehension. That was how he stood out in church academy and secured greater patronage from the Church.
Before taking up active duties, Rasma had been practically a blank slate apart from his cultivation talent. This was shown clearly on his record; Foden had the clearance to examine the former High Priest's most detailed, unredacted, and authentic dossier.
But what was the deal with Karen?
Not only was his record dazzling and his promotion speed breathtaking, but in personal interactions, his social finesse made Foden's own secretaries look like fools; his breadth of vision crushed the entire circle of trusted proteges Foden had personally groomed; he knew how to manage affairs, how to reform, how to handle people... and how to fight a war.
Foden looked down at his left hand. That day on Augie's back, he had grabbed Karen's wrist when dropping the dragon scale into his cup. In doing so, he had sensed the tier of Karen's internal spiritual power fluctuations.
The boy had tried his utmost to conceal it—or rather, concealment was already second nature to him—but under the chaotic battlefield conditions, with his emotions running high, Foden had still detected it.
Foden knew that compared to all the other astonishing talents Karen displayed, what was truly most shocking was his personal combat strength.
This was an orphan.
This was a fucking orphan?
And this orphan had never been raised within the Church's institutional training pipeline. Though he was currently enrolled at the University of Order, that was merely a late addition to polish his credentials.
Investigate him.
Investigate the people around him.
Trace back through every phase of his past; thoroughly investigate everyone who had ever come into contact with him!
Not just the places he had lived, but everywhere he had set foot—dig up the very foundations and conduct the most exhaustive sweep!
Foden could wager his soul that he would uncover something glaring enough to sting his eyes.
In the entire Church of Order, only he, Foden, possessed the confidence and authority to set such an operation in motion.
Yet he had no intention of doing so.
Because the High Priest had also come from orphan origins...
Before the High Priest was confirmed as Rasma's successor, his identity as Lord Tyrannus's inheritor had been a closely guarded secret.
"Hehehe... Hahaha..."
Foden began to laugh—a laugh tinged with bitterness, helplessness, and an edge that gave Augie, floating nearby, goosebumps beneath her scales. As a frost dragon, she actually shivered from the chill.
How absurd.
For the first time as the Whip-Wielder of the Church of Order, he wasn't afraid of finding nothing.
He was afraid...
Of actually digging something up.
***
"Eat while it's hot, son."
Kaixi handed Richard the meal she had fetched.
"Thanks, Mom."
Richard took it with a smile, sitting beside his father's hospital bed to eat.
A few days earlier, mother and son had glared at each other here, Richard shouting at his mother and aunt. Yet that didn't stop them from sitting together now before the husband and father, sharing a meal.
In this world, the grievances easiest to dissolve were those between parents and children. When conflict arose, both sides knew in their hearts that the other would ultimately forgive them. Consequently, this certainty often led to family members hurting one another far more recklessly than they ever would an outsider.
Richard's conduct that day, however, did not fall into that category.
Kaixi and Lucie had already submitted self-criticisms to the Disciplinary Department, which had issued receipts. Since the main force was about to relocate to the next battlefield, practical considerations dictated that they remain in their posts for now; formal disciplinary action would be carried out during the rest and reorganization period after the next phase concluded.
Under wartime regulations, Kaixi and Lucie would most likely be stripped of all merits accumulated during this campaign, and that was leniency granted because they had confessed and reflected on their own initiative. In the military, especially during war, abandoning one's post could easily warrant a sentence from the Order Tribunal if pushed to the absolute extreme.
"What happened that day was Mom's fault. I lost my head," Kaixi said.
"It's in the past," Richard replied.
He didn't know how else to console her. It could only be said that due to the militia brigade's nature, his mother and aunt—recruited purely as technical specialists without prior military experience—had forgotten their duty at the critical moment.
Richard had heard Karen say that the primary objective of this war was for the High Priest to temper the troops. He supposed this was part of the tempering: forcing priests like his mother and aunt to become acquainted with and understand war.
Kaixi asked, "We're relocating tomorrow, right?"
"Yes."
"Then your father will have to be transferred back to the rear if he doesn't wake up tonight."
The army group had to move to the next battlefield. In principle, wounded personnel retaining some combat effectiveness could accompany the march, with leniency extended especially to technical branches like array masters. But that required his father to at least wake up... If he remained comatose, he would have to be evacuated to the rear for continued treatment.
"Don't worry, Mom. Even if Dad goes back to recuperate, I'm still here."
Richard hadn't exactly been the most attentive son, so saying this gave him an instinctive pang of guilt.
Yet Kaixi smiled and nodded. "Yes. With my son here, what do I have to fear? I'm just worried about your father."
"The medical conditions in the rear are decent enough."
"Mhm." Kaixi murmured an affirmation, but she still couldn't bear to leave her husband. That care and attachment were hard to put into words; during their time enlisted in the army, it felt as though she had fallen in love with her husband all over again.
Just then, Lucie wheeled a wheelchair over, carrying Uncle-in-Law Dake.
Both of Dake's legs were gone below the knee. The wounds had been treated; later, he could either be fitted with prosthetics or use growth solution to regrow them slowly.
Many chose prosthetics because growth solution consumed the user's vitality, a side effect that effectively halted a priest's cultivation path and ushered in premature decline.
"Aisen will wake up. I can feel it'll be soon," Dake said.
"Yes, my brother will definitely wake up soon. Maybe not long after he's sent to the rear, he'll wake up and apply to return," Lucie chimed in.
Kaixi checked the time. "Visiting hours are over. We need to head back to take inventory of array materials, Lucie."
"All right." Lucie turned to Dake. "I'll come back to keep you company after your checkup."
"Rest well, dear. I'm fine, truly."
After Kaixi and Lucie left, Dake raised two fingers toward Richard in a smoking gesture.
Richard grinned, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it for his uncle, simultaneously setting up an isolation barrier to prevent the smoke smell from drifting out.
"Regarding your aunt and mother, they were in the wrong. You did the right thing, Richard. Your aunt feels ashamed."
"It's fine, Uncle."
"Mhm. Our Richard has truly grown up, haha."
"Dake, time for your examination!" a physician called from the distance.
"Coming, coming!"
Dake took a hard drag, flicked the butt to the floor, and moved to crush it underfoot—only to realize he had no feet left.
Richard stepped forward, picked up the cigarette butt, dropped it into his empty disposable food container, and snuffed it out.
"I don't want to use growth solution," Dake said. "I want prosthetics, but your aunt won't agree."
"You should listen to Aunt Lucie."
"Even if growth solution grows them back, they won't be as nimble as before. I'm getting on in years, but with prosthetics, I can keep charging on an undead warhorse. I relish that feeling."
"Uncle..."
"Do you know what it's like to watch your comrades crushed along with their warhorses right beside you? In that moment, the survivors have only one thought: they may be gone, but we will carry them with us and keep charging."
"You should talk it over thoroughly with Aunt."
"I will."
Richard stepped forward to wheel his uncle back for the examination, but Dake declined, wheeling himself away.
"Stay with your father. Didn't the physician say? Talk to him more, and it'll be easier for him to wake up."
After Dake left, Richard had just sat back down when he noticed a figure standing beside him.
Looking up, he saw Philomena.
"I... I'm not in the mood right now to cook anything delicious."
Richard thought she hadn't gotten enough to eat again; she rarely filled her stomach at the mess hall because she was too embarrassed to go back for seconds and thirds.
Philomena shook her head and set two lunch boxes before Richard.
"This... but I just..."
Richard, who had literally just finished eating, paused before quickly continuing:
"I happen to be hungry right now, haha."
With that, he lowered his head and resumed eating.
Philomena turned and walked away without a word or any visible expression, though the food boxes she left behind were warm.
After forcing down another half-box, Richard set the rest aside for a late-night snack.
He looked at his father lying in bed. Above him hovered a dark red orb; the black cat doctor had said it would help organize his consciousness and aid his recovery.
His father had suffered a mental shockwave, which meant his entire consciousness was currently scattered. He might wake up soon, or... he might never wake up for the rest of his life.
Richard pulled his chair closer to the bed and gently took his father's hand.
"Dad, you'd better wake up soon. Mom really can't live without you right now."
The words sounded flat... completely devoid of emotion.
Father and son had long grown unfamiliar with ordinary familial expressions of affection; in the Guman family, another far more classical and flesh-searing method of communication prevailed.
"Dad, how about this? When you wake up, I'll buy you a belt and let you hang me from a tree to whip me for three days in celebration. What do you think?"
Mr. Aisen showed no reaction.
Richard gave a wry smile, poured himself a glass of water, and drank it.
"Everyone's worried about you, but honestly, I'm not that worried. I know you'll wake up, Dad. Sure, the physician said the injury is severe, and Purr said your prognosis is guardedly optimistic, but I just don't think it's a big deal. Compared to what you've survived before, this wound really isn't much.
"You have to wake up soon.
"Hey,
"Did you forget? We still have a promise between us!"
Richard's next words caused Aisen's finger to twitch slightly:
"I still have to take you to visit the pastry shop, Memphis."
Chapter 815