“Chocolate, make a sound!”
He shouted slowly, deliberately, but still couldn't hear his own voice.
“Idiot!”
He could only see Chocolate’s mouth moving, without a single sound reaching him. The cat must be owing anxiously as well, he thought.
After wiping the blood from his ears with a towel, he collapsed onto the desk, resting for a long while. The dizziness and tinnitus eventually faded to a manageable level, and he imdiately began to write down the new knowledge he had acquired.
First, there was a special ritual: the [Sound Preservation Array]. Simply put, it was a ritual formation that, when carved onto a surface, could record sound for a period of ti. The key component, however, was sothing called a [Sonabsorbing Stone], an item Jenkins had never heard of.
Second was a golden divine art: [Perpetual Silence]. Once activated, it created a zone of absolute silence with the user at its center. Since many spells required strange, spoken incantations, this ability was incredibly useful for stopping casters in their tracks—though most spells could be cast ntally with enough practice.
It was a sha, but since this pseudo-god was not one he followed, Jenkins didn't dare attempt to learn its divine arts.
This was all the complete knowledge he managed to glean. The fragnted pieces, however, hinted at sothing far more profound: neither the Righteous Gods nor the pseudo-gods seed to possess a tangible form. The statues mortals erected were nothing more than fignts of their own imagination. This theory neatly explained why believers prayed to their holy emblems rather than to idols, and why an Enchanter's emblem would manifest when they used divine arts, while statues played no part at all.
If this information was true, it raised a fascinating question: what was that colossal tree he had seen before, the one that reached for the heavens? And what was the epheral silhouette of the woman he had just witnessed?
The next day, he rose early, donned his finest suit, and slipped on his black leather shoes. He spent a good while preening in front of the mirror, only leaving the house when Chocolate began to ow with impatience.
The workers' riot from a few days prior seed to have left no lasting mark on the city, at least none that Jenkins could see. The newspapers were silent about that night's lockdown, but the bounty on the black-robed man had climbed again, now standing at a hefty three thousand pounds. His latest alleged cri? Assaulting a thief who had broken into the church and making off with the stolen goods.
Jenkins froze for a second, then it dawned on him. The Church must have used divination to track down the bold thief. But the man was already dead, and Jenkins had been in his black-robed guise when it happened. So, all their divination would have shown was the black-robed man killing the thief, leaving the mirror behind, and taking only the parchnt scroll. Given the black-robed man's history of stealing Mysterious Objects, it was only logical for them to assu it was a case of thieves falling out.
However, they must have also realized that the black-robed man was connected to the new pseudo-god—the very sa one who had killed the demon and done the Church a massive favor. As a result, the wanted notice in the newspaper had shrunk to the size of a thumbnail, a stark contrast to the third of a page it had once commanded.
“But I'm one of the good guys.”
Stroking his cat, he let out a sigh.
A black carriage was parked in front of Pops Antique Shop. Though built like a common public coach, it bore no conspicuous markings. Four tall n flanked the shop's entrance, two on each side. All were dressed in crisp white shirts and dark blue suits, their hair combed to a brilliant shine. As Jenkins approached, they reached into their coats in perfect unison, only relaxing and lowering their hands when they recognized his face.
Jingle~
Ignoring them, he pushed open the door to Pops Antique Shop and flipped the wooden sign to "Open." To his surprise, there was already a custor inside. Ｒἁ𝐍O͍ᛒĘș
He was a very elderly gentleman, dressed in a black tailcoat. He stood with his chest puffed out and chin held high, his face tilted slightly upward. He wore a comical white wig and held a gently curved cane of light-colored wood, topped with a large red gemstone.
A ruby ring the size of a pigeon's egg adorned his right index finger.
His eyes widened slightly in surprise upon seeing Jenkins, but his expression quickly smoothed into a genial smile.
“Mr. Williams, I hadn't expected you to be so young. You hardly look twenty-one.”
His tone was mild, but his accent marked him as an outsider to Nolan.
“Good day. May I ask who you are?”
As he spoke, he glanced at Papa Oliver, who was organizing the ledgers behind the counter. The older man shrugged, indicating this had nothing to do with him.
“My apologies, I haven't introduced myself. I am Douglas Gerrod. You may call Mr. Gerrod. I've co on this impromptu visit on behalf of the Queen to bestow upon you the honorary title of Baron.”
The old man deftly lifted a red tray from the counter and presented it to Jenkins. On it rested a dal, an ornate smallsword, and a certificate with a red cover.
“Baron Williams, my duty is done. And with that, I must be going. I wish you good health.”
With that, he gave Jenkins a slight bow, turned on his heel, and departed without a backward glance.
“That's it?”
Jenkins waited until the carriage outside had departed before asking in astonishnt. He had thought there would be so grand ceremony.
“What were you expecting? It's an honorary barony. The honor is all you get.”
Papa Oliver said sarcastically.
But then his tone shifted. “Do you have any idea who that was?” he added. “I'm surprised they sent him.”
“Who was it?”
Jenkins asked imdiately. He genuinely had no idea; he never bothered to rember the so-called “great n” of the secular world he read about in the papers.
“Douglas Gerrod, the Queen's current steward, and a duke in his own right. What's more, his grandfather's cousin was the late Queen Elizabeth IV. Logically, there's no reason for him to co all this way for a minor honorary barony.”
Papa Oliver explained.
“You don't have to add the 'minor' part, Papa. I'm well aware the title isn't worth much.”
Jenkins chuckled. The dal on the tray was the 'dal for National Contribution,' an award anyone could receive for a donation of ten thousand pounds to the kingdom. In his case, it was to recognize the imnse stir his collection of stories had caused.
The smallsword, while sharp, was clearly more decorative than functional—a symbol of his new status. Jenkins gave it a few experintal swings, then decided he would hang it over the fireplace at ho.
As for the red-covered certificate, it certified the noble status of Jenkins Redemptor Williams. He could take it to the city hall at the beginning of each month to collect five pounds.
Of course, the stipend was ant for destitute nobles, a small sum to help them maintain a basic level of decorum. After all, the Crown couldn't very well revoke a title just because a once-affluent lord or lady had fallen on hard tis. For that reason, any noble with an ounce of pride and the ans to get by would never stoop to collecting it.
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