Chapter 1141: Chapter 7 Price_2
“Think again about your family. They’re still waiting for you in Vineta. If you want to go back to Vineta, the Republic can offer you a bonus you can’t even imagine, escort you out of the country with the rank of an officer, and guarantee no repercussions against your subordinates.”
“If you wish to stay in Paratu, the Republic won’t bear any bias against you for being from Vineta—judging people’s worth based on their origin and bloodline happens to be the tradition Blue Rose is most obsessed with.”
“To be honest, I once harbored intense anger towards the Republic too, but I ultimately understood that violence and rebellion only yield bitter fruits and have no aning. Only by becoming part of the Republic can one truly change it from within.”
After offering such favorable terms, Major l raised a porcelain cup, running his fingertips lightly around its edge: “Think carefully before making your decision, Captain Montaigne.”
…
“What?!” Colonel Bod glared, his eyes wide: “Do you seriously want to side with those vipers, wolves, treacherous, shaless lackeys of the Federated Provinces?”
…
…
“So?” Winters, half-reclined in the armchair with brazen nonchalance, propped his boots up on the desk: “Who’s lying?”
“I don’t know.” Caman rolled his eyes.
Winters asked with interest, “Don’t you have Divine Arts that see through lies? Or does using Divine Arts require certain conditions too?”
Caman snorted cynically, clearly adept at deflecting: “None of them lied—believe or not.”
“I believe you.” Winters stretched languidly and scanned the room, musing, “I’ve almost forgotten what this chair felt like.”
The room where the two were was none other than the “Resident Officer’s Office” at the Revodan garrison—technically Winters’ office.
Ironically, Winters had likely spent less ti using this office than he had the toilet.
Yet the office remained frozen in its state from the last ti Winters left: a ruler and two charcoal pencils discarded on the desk, the armchair casually angled into the space beneath it; the curtains half-drawn, half-raised; and colorful chess pieces left on the windowsill—all seemingly abandoned for ages.
Despite its lack of use, the inside of the office was spotless, clearly cleaned regularly by soone.
Caman approached the windowsill and picked up one chess piece to inspect—a thumb-sized wood carving shaped like a horse’s head, not exactly fine craftsmanship but vivid nonetheless.
“By the way.” Caman tried awkwardly to sound nonchalant, though his delivery was stiff: “Brother Saul has already been taken away.”
“Taken away?” Winters looked puzzled. “The Alliance’s Magic Combat Bureau got here this fast?”
But Winters quickly caught on. He withdrew his boots from the desk, sat upright, and asked, “It wasn’t the Magic Combat Bureau?”
Caman’s Adam’s apple shifted slightly. He picked up another castle chess piece and focused intently on examining the craftsmanship.
“Then who took him?”
Caman remained silent.
Winters thought for a mont and tentatively asked, “The Church?”
Still no response from Caman.
“The Inquisition?” Winters began processing options one by one: “Saint Michael’s Monastery? Reformist Sect…”
“Just stop ddling in this matter—it ends here.” Caman cleared his throat and earnestly pleaded, “If you can act as if you’ve never co across Brother Saul, I’d be truly grateful.”
“What’s the use if it’s just pretending I haven’t seen Brother Saul?” Winters chuckled bitterly, exasperated. “What about Father Edmund in Revodan Cathedral? He knows about Saul too—it was his idea to burn Saul, not mine. What, you dealt with him too?”
Caman kept staring at the chess piece, refusing to respond.
Winters’ smile abruptly vanished, replaced with shock: “You dealt with him?”
“I know nothing about it.” Caman mumbled weakly, “I was with you in Monta at the ti.”
“Brother Caman!” Winters slamd the table, his expression resolute: “You took an oath of honesty—you’re a cleric, you can’t lie.”
“I never swore an oath of honesty!” Caman yelled angrily, throwing the chess piece onto the windowsill. “Believe or not.”
“You don’t understand—if the Reformist Sect exists, we can absolutely work together.” Winters moved toward Caman, speaking with urgency: “I fully support the philosophy of the Reformist Sect. If the world is God’s creation, isn’t decoding this masterpiece the best way to approach God? I…”
Mid-sentence, his voice abruptly ceased—Winters fell into unexpected silence.
The only sound in the office was the breathing of the two n. Caman looked at Winters with confusion, only for Winters to gesture for quiet:
Winters closed his eyes, tilting his head to listen closely.
About five seconds later, his eyes snapped wide open, filled with alarm: “It’s over!”
“What’s wrong?” Caman grew more curious.
Winters darted to the windowsill, explaining rapidly: “It’s Senior Mason! I heard Senior Mason’s footsteps!”
Caman laughed dismissively, amused: “When did you learn to identify people by their footsteps?”
“Not everyone,” Winters retorted as he hastily knocked the chess pieces off the windowsill, “but Senior Mason, absolutely.”
Flinging open the window, Winters leaned out to observe, then turned back to Caman in despair: “No good—I’m afraid of heights.”
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