Wobarton’s expression did not change as he stared straight into Madeline’s eyes: “Indeed, everyone present has already forgotten the weight of their own lives the moment they pledged loyalty to the War God. We are willing to offer everything to Lord Ares—loyalty, faith, life, and our insignificant bodies.”
The expressions of everyone present were so solemn that it seemed as if, at a single command from Ares, they would draw their blades and slit their own throats on the spot.
“But those sacrifices need to carry meaning. They need to benefit Lord War God. They should not be used for someone’s personal gain, wasting the Church’s resources and squandering the talents the Church has cultivated.”
Madeline raised an eyebrow, and instead of anger, she smiled.
She had been steeped in power for far too long, and had mastered the art of conveying authority without raising her voice.
“What counts as waste? Does Mr. Wobarton believe that any sacrifice not made for yourself is a waste? How dare you… place yourself in that position? That is a seat reserved for deities alone—and you… you wish to compare yourself to a god?”
What a heavy hat to hang on someone!
Even with two steel pipes propping up his neck, he could hardly bear such a weighty accusation!
“Madeline, you know exactly what I mean—don’t go biting wildly at people.”
Wobarton’s face darkened: “You, I, and everyone present are all Archbishops. We have no obligation to obey your commands!”
“Oh?”
“We want to see the Pope—so many years have passed, surely whatever illness he has should have eased by now. Nathaniel ought to show his face at least once!”
“That’s right!”
As soon as those words were spoken, another Archbishop chimed in: “If an illness has dragged on for so many years without healing, that only means the treatment approach is wrong—I happen to know several renowned healers of excellent reputation who would be willing to attend to His Holiness the Pope!”
Their change in attitude was inevitable.
Although Nathaniel’s disappearance was beneficial to their grip on power and their ability to cultivate their own factions, the War God Church’s reputation on the continent was now declining, with the Church of Chang Le eyeing them hungrily.
There were rumors that Nathaniel had died long ago!
The Church had simply kept it secret, while the various Bishops fought among themselves for power—severely damaging the War God Church’s public image.
Even if not for the War God Church—for the sake of their own power—these people needed Nathaniel to make an appearance and stabilize the situation.
“Madeline, you were never anyone particularly impressive—you’re just Nathaniel’s…”
The speaker glanced around. Everyone present was respectable, and it would hardly be appropriate to drag the Pope’s private affairs, such as “mistresses,” into the open in such a setting. So he cleared his throat: “In any case, we respectfully request that His Holiness the Pope come out for a talk—or alternatively, that we be granted an audience with him, to pour out our hearts and speak of our grievances. That would settle a great matter weighing on our minds.”
“Well said.”
“It should be done.”
“The War God should not be kept in the dark!”
Looking at the chattering crowd before her, Madeline shook her head.
“Don’t you understand yet?”
“…What do you mean?”
“Do you truly believe that without the War God’s permission, I could actually imprison a deity’s Agent?”
She raised a mocking smile: “After all these years, how are you still so naive?”
Wobarton’s expression shifted.
“Impossible? How could the War God grant authority to another person while His Agent still walks among the living?”
“How can those who don’t know the truth of the matter make rash judgments?”
“What has happened to Lord Nathaniel?”
“It’s not that I’ve forbidden him from seeing you—it’s that he doesn’t want to see anyone. It’s that simple.”
Madeline flicked her fingernail, and the faint, crisp sound made the faces of the other eleven people in the room sink.
Wobarton looked back at the Bishops, then turned around and said:
“Regardless, we must see Lord Nathaniel.”
No one wants to be lying in bed with a huge belly when a group of people barges in to gawk at them.
Especially not a man.
So when the Archbishops filed through that Pandora’s box of a door pushed open by Madeline, they were greeted by Nathaniel’s ragged scream!
“Get out!”
He roared at the top of his lungs—a roar rendered shrill by the pressure of the flesh ball in his belly, like a dung beetle being stepped on by a ball of filth.
Wobarton was startled half to death.
Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined such a scene unfolding before his eyes.
The Pope they had once revered above all, that imposing and dignified figure, now lay in bed completely naked, covered only by a thin cloud-patterned cloth draped over his stomach.
But that flimsy cloth did nothing to conceal his enormous belly—it only made his appearance all the more bizarre.
His stomach was terrifyingly swollen, something inside squirming and writhing, stretching his skin almost translucent.
They could practically see two hands pressed against the belly from within, clawing desperately!
“Good heavens!”
A female Bishop turned pale with fright: “What in the world is that?!”
No one answered her.
Because those hands moved—and the face of what appeared to be a small child forced itself against the belly from the inside.
“Gah!”
Even Wobarton couldn’t help but stumble back several steps, nearly hurling a reflexive exorcism spell!
But a fireball did smash right into his face!
Nathaniel’s eyes were bloodshot!
“Who let you in here?! Get out!”
“All of you, get out!”
“Have you all gone mad?! Madeline! You wretched woman! Madeline!”
“You don’t listen to me anymore, do you?! None of you listen to me anymore!”
“I told you to get out! Are you all deaf?!”
He furiously hurled fireballs, water arrows, gale winds, and all manner of instant-cast magic, most of which were intercepted by the Archbishops—ten years ago, even if Nathaniel had dumped filth on their heads, they wouldn’t have dared to block it, let alone dodge!
Clearly, Madeline wasn’t the only one who had grown bold over the past decade.
The silence was deafening, making Nathaniel’s hysterics all the more glaring.
To keep the deity’s Agent from dying of rage on the spot, they left the room.
Having enjoyed the spectacle of Nathaniel’s disgrace, Madeline said nothing, and neither did anyone else, including Wobarton.
They were simply thinking at lightning speed: what benefits could they still squeeze out of this situation?
“Madeline.”
Wobarton’s face was grim: “We need to have a proper talk.”
“A proper talk, is it?”
Compared to the question of the “survival of the War God Church,” in these people’s eyes, their own interests were far more worth “properly discussing.”
—