First of all, an apology for the ridiculously cheesy and poorly constructed prose I wrote last chapter about the execution. I wasn't completely honest and wrote a poem about injustice and emotional turmoil instead of what I really felt in reaction.

And what I really felt was indifference. In contrast to my supposed reaction of pure shock and disgust at the hanging of William, I was more like "~woah" when his neck snapped under the force of the noose. If I was in a better mood, perhaps I would have also considered laughing.

Why?

I can't exactly explain it. But just know that very few people (anyone with the slightest shred of bravery) will actually have intense emotional reactions to witnessing a death, not to mention that in this case it's the death of a complete stranger who supposedly committed a crime deserving of capital punishment.

In any case, the thing I should really be fearing is the angry mob of peasants that's no doubt still having their way with William. In fact, heading directly into the village was most likely a terrible idea in the first place. I don't exactly understand the attitude this kingdom has towards outsiders, but looking towards our own history… it's probably not a very bright attitude.

At the very least, I'll be beaten and thrown out, probably with a few of my belongings taken as well. And at the very worst… well, I'd be lucky to only get my skin peeled off like a fruit. I'm sure you've realised by this point that medieval peasants aren't exactly the most friendly people out there.

With all of that said, I won't be sticking my nose around here any longer.

However, leaving this village isn't as bad as it sounds. It's said that usually, no settlement is further than a day's walk away from one another, being the optimal displacement for a balance of fertile farmland and quick trade routes. If I can manage to find a large town or city, where outsiders can enter with just a few tolls, it probably won't be difficult to find some kind of job to provide a living.

ALthough my stomach is beginning to stress at the lack of nutrition, I think I can starve it out for a while.

--------_______---------

I cross the main road that runs through the village, tracing its twists and turns with my eyes as my body is set to autopilot.

My imagination begins working its spell. Slowly, the roads become less focused, and within the layers of my consciousness I see the image of a ebony white serpent. It drifts and twists and curves across the weeds, paving itself into the earth. The snake is an artist. It is a painter of motion, capturing its vitality with one movement of its body.

Maybe I should stop snorting glue.

It is through this snake road that I come face-to-face with a building that I'd neglected raising my pen towards: the church.

I don't mean to suggest anything truly impressive, but the structure stands at nearly fivefold the area of the average shack and more than twice as tall at its highest point. Its foundation is reinforced with clean-cut wood and stone brick, and the wooden shutters are even engraved with simple decorative symbols. This is a considerable upgrade when compared to peasant housing.

However, despite the scale of this building, I find it difficult to imagine that the whole community, with the hundred or so population, would be able to fit in here for a mass. Do they stand outside?

Unconsciously, I tug at the ring-shaped door handle and pull back gently, finding a sturdy force blocking my attempts. As I expected, the gates to this temple are locked. The residents are probably still gathered around the execution…?

As the back of my mind lightly alerts me to the fact that I've overstayed my welcome, the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand rigid straight. I realize a moment too late the warning bell reaching my ears; the crunch of a shoe grinding against dust.

I've been found.

My heart leaps to the front of my chest, beating loudly, and it is all I can do to keep a straight face. Frozen in shock or not, I manage to gather my wits and turn to greet the unfamiliar individual.

Two words that surface to my mind the moment my eyes land. The words "man", and then "priest". I say "man" but I'm not going to elaborate further. I don't need to tell you what a man is. But the "priest", well, it's also evident at first glance: his considerably pale, a serious yet kind complexion, and silky black robes that set him apart from the uneducated masses.

While it's a blessing to make first contact with a person of education, I'm not the man to ask if you want to deal with older people, like the priest here. There aren't any close relatives of an age considered "senior" in my family, and the staff employed at the schools I've been to are coincidentally young or middle-aged. Thus, I'm experiencing a rather uncomfortable first parley.

"It's an impressive work, no?" He comments off hand, faintly smiling.

It's the type of smile you see in a manga, where the old person in question has his eyes closed, which doesn't really make sense if you think about it. I am silent for a second, noting his distinct lack of accent compared to the executioner speaker, before realizing that he's talking about the church building.

"... It seems to be a fine use of the tithes," I respond, carefully choosing my words.

He chuckles briefly without much mirth, holding a firm hand to his slightly wrinkling face. He gestures toward the wooden door.

"Why don't we have a discussion inside, traveller? If you have no other business here, that is," He adds.

Before I can even nod, the old man has already brought up a ring of keys, unlocking the door to the holy ground, bowing his head slightly as he enters through the low door frame.

I unconsciously note the difference in our heights, the priest being around half a head taller than me. No weapons are visible on his person, although it would be pretty bad if he was a spellcaster.

My mind, however, quickly decides against a physical confrontation. While I would be taking a significant risk by following him, seeing that I don't even know if he's a human or just something resembling one, and having no way of divining his intentions… I need information as to this world's nature. If I didn't take this step, I wouldn't have anything interesting to write about. Such is the life of a warzone journalist.

Silently, I meditate myself and push open the formerly locked doors.

--------_______---------
CHURCH INTERIOR
--------_______---------

Almost immediately, the peaceful aura that surrounded the village was no more. An insidious miasma, shaped in the form of grasping tendrils, spills out from the mass hall. The sound of empty halls and my heavy footsteps resounds in my ears.

Ominous music begins playing. This dark symphony, composed of dark pagan drum beats, sharp creaks of string, and a choir that sings of doom: they all grow louder as I approach the stage.

I'm sorry, that was obligatory. Maybe one day I'll enter a real bossfight area.

Anyways, it's still rather dark in here. The only source for vision can be credited to the shutters, where bright streaks of sunlight manage to pierce through, providing some vague sense of direction and a glimpse of the medieval decor that populates the building. It's a very distinct atmosphere that few people will have the pleasure of experiencing. No doubt this is the perfect location to film a movie scene where the protagonist repents and professes his sins to a priest.

However, there aren't any benches like you would expect from a church. If there was any kind of service held here, the townsfolk would have to stand, highlighting the economic situation of this kingdom.

My eyes scan over the interior, and it quickly lands on the priest, who's brooding quietly in the corner, unlocking yet another door to the side of the stage.

I take the hint and follow him, entering a tiny and cramped room that barely fits into the architecture of the church itself. Within this box-like enclosure, there are no more than the barest of necessities a man of a priest's standing would need: a desk, a chest, a bed, a chair, and a sparse collection of books.

Beside the shutters, two slightly decomposing banners drape over rusting nails. One depicts a coat of arms of the kingdom, and the other the black-and-gold schemed symbol of the orthodoxy.

This, I realize, was where he lived.

Feeling slightly apologetic for his meagre living conditions, no doubt better than a peasant's by only the slimmest of margins, I feel slightly sympathetic for the man.

The priest, who will promptly be introduced as "Raymond", reaches underneath his poor excuse of an office desk and pulls out a short stool. The seat's unrefined surface is riddled with splinters, and I hesitate slightly before settling down.

The scholar pats his robe down, adjusting the tunic underneath before clearing his throat, seating himself in his admittedly better chair.

(One day, I'll get a better chair than Raymond.)

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Raymond Keen, the village priest, if you will."

The man in question presents himself with all the calm and peace a man could muster, which is quite a surprising amount. But despite his intentions, I catch onto a particular phrasing of his words.

"Mr. Keen, do you consider yourself a local of Talbot? No, before you answer that, how should I refer to you?"

To my relief, this question doesn't seem to stir a hostile response.

"I am known by the followers here as Father Keen, if you do not mind."

Somehow, the way he refers to the villagers is distant. But a priest should be raised within his village and therefore fully acquainted with it, no?

"Not at all, Father. I'm Terry Guls. I was… in education before leaving to travel. Pleased to meet you."

Why use my real name, and not even the full version, you ask? There's no reason not to. Names don't really mean anything at my stage of understanding on this world.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance as well, Mr. Guls.

"Now, I suppose I should answer your question, and indeed, I consider myself more a son of Meliana than Talbot. I taught books for the Order there."

I pore over the details of his answer, before deducing that "Meliana" must be either a more developed region of the country or a monastery, where education is more important. The fact that he mentioned such a place without referencing what exactly it was also implies that its common knowledge within the kingdom.

"Do you still teach your arts?"

Raymond pauses, eyes drifting to the floor.

"That is no longer where my duty lies. I could teach some of the boys here to read, but none are at a prime age for learning."

… Which implies a patriarchal society, or at least one that heavily enforces traditional roles.

After Raymond's answer, there was an invisible silence as I felt that we could both consider what'd been said. While I could ask for information about this world, I'm not really in a position to do so without stirring suspicion. More importantly, it appears Raymond has other intentions for me, most likely to profit in a way not related to his religion. This I could feel at a few feels of his personality, his friendly atmosphere almost reminding me of a peddler. After some pondering, I realize that he also never once preached to me about his religion, which only supports my suspicion.

In order to test that hypothesis, I decide to poke around for a reaction.

"I see… Would you mind if I tried reading one of the books there?"

I point to his desk, where a worn brown hardcover rests.

As I expected, Raymond's spirits seem to lift with excitement, with a light grin covering his face.

"You're certainly welcome to, Mr. Guls." He lifts the text, prompting me to take it from his firm grip with a curious pair of brown eyes.

There's always a distinct feel to old books. The chemical processes in their outdated pulp paper produce a unique and homely odor, adding a texture of antiquity to any read. As I behold this particular book, however, it's evidently made from a method that predates any book that I have touched; its sheets are delicately fine and smooth, but dragging my fingertips across produces a "dusty" sensation. More organic signs are apparent as well. There is a slight layer of "rot" that blackens the edge of these pages, making the yellowing sheets much more vibrant.

I flip the casebound cover open, estimating the pages to be no more than 300 and its width and length no wider than the average diary.

The first page reveals a set of finely illustrated ink decor, composed of no more than three or four colors and yet still intimately detailed. These pages hold the table of contents, the header of which is labeled "Part three."

1. Grace of Good Wind
2. Mathias
3. Lukemen

And so on, in a very "holy book" fashion.

"Father Keen," I ask as I suddenly clasp the book shut. The man in question raises his head from his thoughts and looks at me expectantly.

"I am a traveller. If it doesn't bother you, please point me towards the nearest town or city that can accept outsiders, and I will be on my way. I don't intend to stay here for long, seeing the… current atmosphere here."

"An understandable choice," The man's face wrinkles as he bobs his head.

"However, I must warn you, Mr Guls, that the roads ahead don't offer the best of protection. It would be best for your safety to join a caravan or adventurers before continuing your journey."

While his words hold considerable merit, it's not smart to believe him just yet.

"May I ask as to what these threats are?"

Raymond furrows his brows, revealing traces of wrinkles.

"Talbot... is a village which has remained mostly separate from the kingdom. If a traveller was to leave for Dorme by the next morning, he will not only will he encounter a plentitude of feral beasts, goblins and the like are known to frequent the roads. There were also rumors of undead, although they are just rumors."

Finally, a confirmation that this is a fantasy world. I suppress the urge to pump my fists and strip myself naked and run a lap around the entire village.

Slowly, I lean my left arm against my knee, slouching forward as I attempt to look more apologetic.

"So it's like that...Thank you for the warning. But if I was to make a stay here, how long do you predict it will take before these adventurers arrive?"

"Well," Raymond begins after a brief pause. "Teams rarely find their way into Talbot for more than four occasions every year. At my most conservative guess, there should be no more than two months until the next arrival. That is, however, only if they are willing to take up escorting and if a traveller can offer due compensation."

My hand moves to caress my chin on reflex. Ah, this was what Raymond was offering. If I can get him to put in a good amount of money for an escort request in exchange for something, I'll be able to get out of this shithole. Looking at my other options of revenue, including the local lord, who will probably have a hard time trusting me, and the villagers, who probably don't have much money in the first place, Raymond seems to be the best candidate.

"Then, father Keen, is your church in need of an extra hand?"

His eyes instantly brighten, as he seems to finally arrive at what he'd been waiting for.

"Certainly, Mr. Guls," He nods. "However, before then, perhaps a brief test of your skills?"

He points behind him, where an ink-and-pen set sat on his desk.

"I'd be more than willing to."