I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 329 Differences in Faith
Jealousy is an original sin.

The Anvil Fortress stands amidst the gradually cooling autumn air, its gray-brown stone walls appearing even more stark and austere against the leaden sky.

The once vast training grounds and wastelands surrounding the fortress now present a chaotic yet vibrant scene, incongruous with the military stronghold.

The withered grass was trampled into a muddy mess by countless tired feet, and on the makeshift open space, rows of simple but neat tents clustered together like mushrooms after the rain.

The air was filled with the smells of burning firewood, rising steam, the bitterness of herbs, and the indescribable, complex atmosphere unique to thousands of people gathered together. The late autumn wind whipped up fallen leaves and dust, bringing a chill, but a faint warmth of relief, like that of survivors, flowed through the camp.

This is a haven for two thousand Miniese refugees who struggled under the iron heel of Retelia, granted by Prince Bagnia's orders, and the number of these refugees continues to rise.

Minician refugees from all over the Tavetsky Plains continued to make their way to Tavetsky, where they were given a simple meal and a bath by the Ultramarines before being escorted back to Anvil Keep and handed over to Chris for further arrangements.

At the edge of the vast shadow cast by the fortress's high walls, Priest Oliver scanned the bustling camp below with his sharp, vulture-like eyes, hidden deep in their sockets.

His pale white robe, embroidered with golden ears of wheat and symbolizing Demeter, the goddess of agriculture, swayed slightly in the bleak autumn wind, but it did nothing to add any warmth to his thin, stern face.

As a priest accompanying the army, Oliver's heart burned not with pity for life, but with an almost fanatical fervor for the purity of his faith and a deep-seated loathing for heretics.

The position of the war priest was a requirement Chris placed on the churches of the Earth Mother and the Goddess of Agriculture. Their role was similar to that of a psychologist, used to soothe the psychological problems of soldiers caused by the war.

Priest Oliver was one of them; however, it seems he's now experiencing psychological problems.

He saw the filthy, terrified, and desperate Minisians being driven in long, winding lines in front of the camp by Bagnian soldiers and the prince's guards.

They were required to remove their tattered clothes, which might carry disease, and walk naked into the huge makeshift wooden shed.

The shed was filled with steam, from hot water boiled in large pots with the addition of cheap modern disinfectants.

Under the soldiers' stern rebukes and watchful eyes, the refugees clumsily and shamefully washed themselves.

After being washed, they would be given a set of rough but relatively clean black linen clothes... These were old uniforms that had been urgently transported from Baghnia and were originally intended for the militia; they were cheap but could cover their bodies.

In one corner of the camp, several monks and nuns from the Church of Mother Earth, dressed in simple white robes and wearing emblems of sprouts symbolizing life and healing, were busily setting up a stall under the guidance and orders of the army doctor. They were providing basic veterinary penicillin treatment and bandaging for refugees who were injured or sick during their escape.

On the other side, long queues formed in front of the huge soup kitchen, where steaming, thin porridge mixed with bits of boiled egg and dehydrated vegetables was being scooped into the wooden bowls held by the refugees.

People who have been hungry for too long are not suitable to eat too much hard-to-digest food at once, so according to the rules, newly arrived refugees can only drink hot porridge.

Further away, some relatively strong male refugees, under the command of militia overseers, were wielding shovels and picks, digging deeper and more reinforced trenches around the camp... This was both part of the defensive fortifications and a way to expend their "excess" energy.

The saying "When people are well-fed and warm, they think of lust" holds true everywhere. Chris felt that he should find something for the energetic refugees to do, especially the big, burly guys.

Regardless of whether they were farmers or hunters in the village, or blacksmiths or carpenters in the town, in the chaos, if any lewd thoughts flashed through their minds, the women among the refugees were utterly powerless to resist.

Giving these unstable elements something to do and expending their energy is a good thing for everyone.

Those who are unwilling to work should get out. Those who do not work will not eat. Not only men, but also the refugee women later on, should work. Needlework, cleaning, cooking and washing clothes are just right for them.

"Absurd, foolish, blasphemous!"

Oliver's heart roared silently. His withered fingers clenched the wheat emblem hanging on his chest so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Every deep wrinkle on his face, which resembled dried orange peel, was etched with discontent and resentment.

"These filthy heretics worship the raging sea god Poseidon, the enemy of the goddess Demeter. Their suffering is divine punishment, a just punishment!"
"How could His Highness... how could he be so generous as to bestow upon them cleanliness, food, shelter, and even... work?"

Oliver couldn't understand it, and he couldn't accept it. In his view, Prince Chris's actions were simply a waste of precious resources to nurture poisonous weeds.

These Minesians should be abandoned in the wilderness to fend for themselves, or driven to the territory of the Retalians to wear down their enemies, instead of wasting Bagnia's food and mercy here! What's worse, the prince seems to have no intention of forcing them to convert, which is tantamount to a betrayal of the faith in the goddess of agriculture!

However, Oliver dared not reveal his dissatisfaction with Prince Chris, keeping it buried deep in his heart.

But he knew all too well the young prince’s iron fist and ruthlessness; any direct questioning of the prince’s decisions would be tantamount to suicide.

Therefore, Oliver's sinister gaze could only be like a poisoned dagger, piercing fiercely at the bewildered and helpless Miniese refugees below who had just gained a glimmer of hope.

"Since Your Highness is so kind and does not wish to defile your own hands..."

A dark thought began to grow and spread in Oliver's mind.

"Then let the will of the goddess be carried out by the faithful believers, and let them make a wise choice between the goddess's grace and the suffering of paganism."

Oliver's figure slid down the shadows of the city wall like a ghost. He avoided the bustling center of the camp and quietly arrived at the logistics area responsible for managing the soup kitchens and distributing supplies.

This area is managed by a militia conscripted from Baghnia who have not yet undergone rigorous military training.

Oliver pinpointed a few militiamen who seemed more devout, or rather, easier to control… They wore small wheat ear ornaments or would unconsciously whisper prayers while distributing food.

In a secluded corner piled with empty sacks, Oliver stopped one of the militiamen who looked like a minor leader.

He deliberately straightened his hunched back, letting the gold tassels on his robe shimmer slightly in the dim light, striving to create an air of authority befitting a clergyman.

"my child."

Oliver's voice was deliberately low and magnetic, carrying a seductive power.

"The goddess is watching us, and she is watching this great war. We have won, but the battlefield of faith has never ceased."

The militia leader looked at the usually aloof priest with some nervousness and confusion. He was not well-educated and could not understand what the priest was babbling in. However, long-standing habit made him respectfully bow to Oliver.

"Priest, what are your orders?"

Oliver leaned closer, lowering his voice to a level of intimacy that suggested sharing a secret.

“Look at those Minieses, they suffer so much, perhaps this is the goddess giving them an opportunity to recognize the truth.”

However, many of them still worshipped that violent false god... Poseidon!

He deliberately emphasized the words "false god," his tone filled with disdain.

"As faithful servants of the goddess, we cannot stand idly by and let precious food nourish the hearts of those stubborn heretics."

A cold glint flashed in Oliver's eyes.

"The grace of the goddess should only be extended to her lambs."

Listen, my child, I need you, and your equally devout brothers whom you trust, to be extra careful when distributing food.

He explained his plan in detail, like a venomous snake flicking its tongue… that the militiamen should secretly observe and test the refugees while distributing porridge and black bread. Those who were willing to whisper a prayer to the goddess of agriculture before receiving food, or who indicated a willingness to learn about the goddess's teachings, could be given the full amount, or even a little more.

As for those who refuse, or are found to still possess sea god relics in private or engage in heretical prayers... their rations should be "appropriately" reduced so that they can experience hunger until they "come to their senses".

“This is not cruel, my child.”

Oliver patted the militia leader on the shoulder with his withered hand, his voice filled with hypocritical pity.

"This is salvation, exchanging temporary hunger for the eternal redemption of their souls. This is the sacred duty bestowed upon us by the Goddess. Remember, do it discreetly, for the glory of the Goddess..."

A flicker of hesitation crossed the militia leader's face, but under Oliver's intensely imposing gaze and the call of "sacred duty," he finally nodded with difficulty.

The militia captain didn't know what the position of accompanying priest meant, but since he was a priest, he should be his superior and take orders... that didn't seem to be a problem.

Just as Oliver was about to leave, thinking his plan was flawless and feeling a chilling sense of smugness, a gentle, mellow voice sounded behind him.

"The Oliver brothers? What a coincidence! The goddess's radiance is everywhere, isn't it?"

Oliver was startled and quickly turned around, only to see the priest Crawford of the Church of the Earth Mother standing not far away with a smile.

The priest of Crawford was plump and always had a warm smile on his face. He wore a faded brown linen robe and a mud-colored holy emblem symbolizing the fertile earth on his chest.

He was known as a kind-hearted man and was well-liked by both the military and refugees.

"The Crawford Brothers".

Oliver quickly concealed the gloom in his eyes, forcing a stiff smile, but alarm bells were ringing in his mind: how could this nice guy be in a corner piled with junk?
"I was just about to go check on the injuries of those poor people,"

Priest Crawford seemed oblivious to Oliver's unusual behavior, and walked forward with a beaming smile, his tone filled with concern.

"I came over when I heard voices. Are the Oliver brothers teaching these young people the teachings of the goddess? They must be working so hard."

His gaze "casually" swept over the militia leader, who looked somewhat flustered.

Oliver's mind raced, and an idea popped into his head.

Although the Church of the Earth Mother has a mild doctrine, it is still a church that worships nature gods and is located within Bagnia. It is not affiliated with the foreign sea god Poseidon.

Perhaps... we could win over this nice guy? It's always good to have more support.

“Ahem, Crawford brothers,”

Oliver cleared his throat and lowered his voice mysteriously.

“That’s right, but it’s not just about teaching. I’ve discovered a serious problem that concerns the purity of our faith and the peace of His Highness’s camp.”

He gestured for Crawford to come closer, and then subtly but clearly revealed to Crawford his “concerns” about the Poseidonian heretics among the refugees, as well as his plan to “guide the lost sheep.”

He deliberately emphasized that this was for the sake of "purity of faith" and "avoiding the contamination of heresy," in an attempt to resonate with the other party.

"Oh? Guiding lost sheep?"

Priest Crawford's smile remained unchanged, his chubby fingers twirling the holy emblem on his chest, but a barely perceptible glint of cold light flashed deep in his eyes.

“Using…grain as a guiding ‘whip’? Oliver brothers, that’s quite a unique idea.”

"Exactly."

Oliver assumed the other person was interested, and his tone became somewhat eager and smug.

“These heretics are so stubborn. How can we make them feel the goddess’s grace and power without some extraordinary means?”
Crawford brothers, your Church of the Earth Mother also values ​​order and abundance, so surely you wouldn't want to see heretical seeds take root here, would you? Perhaps we should…”

"How about we go together and report this 'brilliant' idea to His Highness the Prince?"

The smile on Crawford's face vanished instantly, replaced by an unprecedented coldness and sternness. He interrupted Oliver, his voice not loud, but clear enough to reach Oliver's ears like an icicle piercing his bones.

Oliver's face turned deathly pale instantly.

"You...what do you mean?"

"I mean……"

Priest Crawford stepped forward, his round body now exuding an undeniable aura.

"Are you using the holy name of your goddess to do the devil's work, using hunger to force others to convert?"

This is the greatest blasphemy against faith. Mother Earth teaches us to nourish life, not to harm it!

His Highness's act of sheltering refugees stems from compassion and humanity, yet you are secretly sowing seeds of division and hatred. This will not only ruin His Highness's grand plan but also tarnish the reputation of all of us clergy!

He stopped looking at Oliver, whose face was ashen, and shouted directly at the militia leader who was already trembling with fear.

"You... immediately go to your direct superior and report back every single word that Priest Oliver just said to you, without omitting a single word!"

Otherwise, you'll face punishment from the goddess and military law; you'd better consider the consequences yourself.

The militia leader felt as if he had been granted a pardon. He didn't understand what had happened, but he knew that staying would not be a good thing, so he quickly scrambled away.

Priest Crawford gave Oliver a cold glance, his eyes devoid of any of their usual gentleness, filled only with utter contempt.

"As for you, Priest Oliver, you'd better watch yourself. I will go and see His Highness the Prince and tell him your 'holy' plan word for word."

May the goddess forgive your soul.

He deliberately emphasized the word "forgiveness," then ignored the stunned Oliver and turned to walk briskly toward the fortress command center with unusually firm steps that seemed disproportionate to his size.

Oliver stood frozen in place, the cold autumn wind seeping through his thin ceremonial robes, making him feel a bone-chilling cold.

He watched Crawford's retreating figure, then looked down at the bustling refugee camp below, where a glimmer of hope had just been found, and a sense of impending doom gripped his heart.

He knew he was finished. That seemingly harmless, kind-hearted man had dealt him a fatal blow. He had been scheming against the refugees, never imagining that he would be the one to fall into the trap.

He could almost see the fury about to ignite in Prince Chris's icy blue eyes, a fury powerful enough to reduce him to ashes.

(End of this chapter)