Chapter 56: Zephyrus: The Bishop and one of the Knights

Zenya had finally begun to resemble a real village again—no, a community. Froilan had taken his role as Headman with a fiery spirit I hadn't seen since he'd first dumped pig feed on my boots and called it breakfast.

Together, we connected Zenya to our farm through a steady trade route. Our goods—plump vegetables, smoked meats, and that one weird purple herb that made people see musical numbers—were being traded faster than we could grow them.

People were smiling. The kids were singing again instead of throwing rocks. Progress was happening.

So naturally, the universe said: "Let's ruin that."

Froilan had called me to the hall, where negotiations were already underway. By "hall," I meant a half-repaired barn with a long wooden table and enough splinters to perform emergency surgery.

There she sat—dressed in white robes lined with silver embroidery, wearing a hood that shadowed her face: the Bishop of Zephyrus' Holy Synod.

And beside her, armored in obsidian plate with silver veins pulsing faintly along the edges, stood a Knight of the Seven—one of the highest warriors under the royal banner.

I didn't know his name. But my gut immediately wrote it down as "Danger."

I activated my Theia, hoping to get a read.

[Failed]

[Appraisal Failed] [Notice: Target exceeds appraisal threshold]

…Excuse me?

I focused on the bishop, hoping for some hint. Nothing. It was like looking through fog made of divine tax evasion.

The only thing I could tell was that the bishop smelled like expensive incense and had the eyes of someone who could convince a starving man to donate his last potato "for the gods."

I focused on the knight again, brow furrowed, willing the Appraisal skill to work harder.

[Appraisal Failed]

[Notice: Target exceeds appraisal threshold]

**[Recalibrating…]

Ugh. Not even a single stat? Not a level? Not a hobby? What kind of knight dodges Theia's divine Appraisal like it's spam mail?

Then, in the back of my mind, I felt it—Cherumbim stirred.

"Something wrong, Master?"Her voice was as airy as always, like someone gently questioning your decision to open a cursed box labeled Definitely Not A Trap.

"Yeah, Cherum. I can't read him. Not even a scrap. It's like Theia's just… bouncing off."

"Hmm. That's... worrying. If even Theia can't penetrate his data shell, he's not just high-level. He's divine-shielded."

"Divine-shielded?"

"It's a system-level protection. Only entities blessed by gods—or designed to hide from them—can resist raw Appraisal. It's like trying to X-ray a lead vault."

"Great. So he's not just scary. He's classified scary."

"And the bishop?"

"Same. She's a black hole in a fancy robe. I get nothing from either."

Cherumbim went quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her tone was unusually serious.

"Be careful, Troy. People who can hide from systems usually don't play by their rules. Which means... they might not care if they break you."

"Helpful. Comforting. I'll go buy a shovel for my grave."

"Make sure it's gold-plated. We have standards now."

I chuckled under my breath—and the bishop's gaze snapped to me.

Right. Outwardly, I'd just laughed in the middle of a holy shake-down.

My smile vanished. Cherumbim went silent.

And the knight's gauntlet brushed the hilt of his sword.

Froilan stood tall at the other end of the table, arms crossed. His expression looked calm, but the pulsing vein near his left eyebrow was throbbing like a boss battle countdown.

"I must respectfully decline," Froilan said in his firm, farmer-turned-leader tone. "Fifty percent of our profits is extortion, not tithe."

The bishop gave a soft smile, her hands folded as if she were praying for his enlightenment. "You misunderstand, Headman Froilan. This is not a tax. It's a divine contribution. Zephyr has blessed your soil. We are simply asking for due recognition in return."

"And what blessings were those?" Froilan snapped. "Were they the bandits who wrecked this place? The famine that nearly ended us? Or maybe the part where we rebuilt everything from scratch?"

The knight stirred. Slowly. Like a lion waking up because someone poked it with a stick made of bacon.

"Careful," he said in a voice that sounded like thunder eating gravel. "Your tone borders on heresy."

My fists tightened. I still couldn't appraise him, but his mana—it coiled around him like smoke. Silent. Deadly.

I moved toward Froilan, just a step, placing myself slightly forward.

"Whoa now," I said casually. "Heresy's a strong word. We're all friends here, right? Froilan just has a strong moral compass. Sometimes it curses in public."

Froilan grunted. "Damn right."

The bishop kept her smile, but now it was like someone smiling before cutting your paycheck in half.

"You stand beside him, young man?" she asked.

"Beside him, behind him, and slightly diagonal depending on the wind," I replied. "But more importantly—I'm the guy who helped build that trade system you're trying to gut."

She turned to me. "And who are you, to meddle in divine negotiations?"

"Name's Troy. The bodyguard skilled, and currently resisting the urge to rearrange furniture with that knight's face."

The knight's hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword.

"Are you threatening a Paladin of the Seven?"

"I'm threatening bad contracts," I said, keeping my tone level but my stance ready. "You want to talk contribution? We saved this village. You want to help? Great. But if you came here to steal under holy pretense, then maybe you're the heretics."

The bishop's smile vanished.

"You know not what you speak," she said quietly. "Zephyrus watches all. The Synod has sanctioned this arrangement. Refusal will be… penalized."

Froilan laughed. Laughed. Loudly.

"Lady," he said, "I've spent thirty years digging manure out of pig guts. Do you really think I'm scared of a penalty?"

The knight's hand reached for his sword fully now. I caught the motion just in time.

Mana surged into my legs. I was beside Froilan in a flash, Cherumbim glowing faintly around my fists.

The knight's sword gleamed halfway out of its sheath before I said, "If you draw that blade, I swear by whatever gods you pray to—"

The knight gripped his sword's hilt.

The bishop raised her hand calmly, halting him.

"A moment," she said. "Let us not stain this negotiation with blood. Headman Froilan. Troy the bodyguard. We will not take fifty percent. Not today. But consider this a message."

She stood, slow and graceful.

"The gods are watching. And they do not favor disobedience."

With a final nod to the knight, she turned and walked out.

The knight stared at me a moment longer. That black helm of his looked like a dragon skull carved into steel.

Then he left too.

The door closed with a thud that echoed too hard for a barn.

Froilan exhaled. Loudly.

"Well," he muttered, "that could have gone worse."

I turned to him. "That was worse."

"You think they'll come back?"

I nodded. "Yeah. And next time they'll bring more than a scary guy in metal pajamas."

He scratched his beard. "Then we'll prepare. We've already rebuilt this village once. We can defend it now too."

"…Are you sure?" I asked. "You're not scared?"

Froilan grinned. "I'm terrified. But scared people work faster."

We both laughed. A little nervous. A little crazy.

That night, I wrote up everything I remembered about the knight, the bishop, and their mana. Froilan started organizing the militia. We doubled the farms' guard rotations and started stockpiling supplies.

Because even if Zenya had finally risen back to its feet…

Something out there wanted to knock it down again.

And this time, I wasn't just a farmhand with a foam horn.

I was a barrier between tyranny and the people I cared about.

And if that knight came back?

He'd better bring friends.