Chapter 83: Father Anchi
Twilight descended upon the town of Orlando. Inside the local tavern, the air was a thick, heady cocktail of frothy ale, human sweat, and the savory grease of roasted meat.
Townspeople, weary from a full day of labor, crowded around rough-hewn wooden tables. Their loud laughter and boisterous chatter acted as a shield against the physical exhaustion of the day. The tavern keeper's daughter moved nimbly between the rows, her tray laden with flagons and plates, shouting back retorts to the regulars as she worked.
In the center of the tavern, the stool usually occupied by the old three-stringed lute player sat empty. In his place sat a strange young man. He held a brand-new lute in his lap—a beautiful instrument that looked far more expensive than the traveler himself.
Pinned to his chest was a peculiar medal: a round, childishly drawn skull. It looked almost "chibi," radiating a distinct aura of stupidity.
The young man cleared his throat, his fingers ghosting over the strings.
"Hey! New kid!" a scruffy-bearded shepherd shouted, hoisting his mug high. "Forget those sappy love songs! Tell us a real story—like how the Elf Queen built her kingdom from nothing! I love that one!"
A chorus of drunken laughter followed. The young minstrel simply smiled, his fingers stilled.
"Gentlemen, please. Calm your spirits," he said, his voice clear and melodic, easily cutting through the tavern's cacophony. "Before I begin my tale, allow me to introduce myself. I come from the Iron Fortress Territory."
He paused deliberately, gauging the room's reaction.
"Iron Fortress?" someone muttered. Then, realization dawned. "Wait... isn't that the place... the one taken by the dead?"
The minstrel nodded, his smile never wavering. "Precisely. The place the world now calls the Evernight Empire."
The atmosphere in the tavern curdled instantly.
The noise died down. Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto the young man, their gazes a mixture of pity and morbid fascination. The shepherd who had been heckling him slowly lowered his mug, his expression turning solemn. He stood up and clumsily traced a sign of prayer over his heart.
"To escape such a hellscape... you must have the protection of the Spirits," he whispered. "Do not worry, lad. It is all in the past now. May the Holy Spirit of Gusteko watch over you."
The surrounding villagers nodded solemnly, following the shepherd's lead in making the sign of the cross.
"Aye, poor child."
"Don't be afraid. You're safe here in Orlando."
However, the minstrel did not display the sorrow or gratitude they expected. If anything, his grin widened.
"I appreciate your kindness, truly. But I did not 'escape.' I simply chose to walk out," he said. He began to pluck at the strings, weaving a light, jaunty melody.
"Gentlemen, the story I bring you today isn't some ancient legend of an Elf Queen. It is the living truth of my homeland. A story... of the Evernight Empire."
"In that land, there are Academies where tuition costs nothing. Any child, regardless of birth or bloodline, can learn to read and write. The instructor who taught me was a Skeleton Mage. He was infinitely patient and never once lost his temper. Even when my neighbor's boy—little Tom, the terror of the block—drew pictures on the teacher's leg bones, the Master only made him stand in the corner for a few minutes."
"Food there is cheaper than dirt. In the old days, my family of five shared two loaves of black bread a day. Now, thanks to the tireless effort of the Skeleton Farmers, we eat soft white bread daily. Every week, we even receive meat rations sent directly from the Aegis Legion."
"The guards are powerful beyond measure and absolute in their justice. My sister once got lost in the marketplace, and our family was frantic with worry. It was a squad of Skeleton Patrolmen who brought her back. The Knight in command even lectured my parents for nearly an hour on the importance of child safety."
"Since the Great Master arrived, there are no thieves, no bandits. We sleep with our doors unlocked at night."
He scanned the now silent tavern, his voice ringing with a fierce, genuine pride.
"The undead of the Evernight Empire are not the mindless monsters of legend. They are builders. They are guardians. They are the physical manifestation of Order. Our Master, the Sovereign of Death, is creating a kingdom the likes of which this world has never seen."
The story ended.
A graveyard silence fell over the tavern. The pity and sympathy on the villagers' faces had evaporated, replaced by a deep, visceral terror.
This boy is insane, they thought. The evil dead have completely scrubbed his mind.
In the darkest corner of the tavern, Father Anchi (Anchi-shinpu) sat with a glass of red wine, listening in silence. He did not interrupt. He did not move.
What was the duty of the Church? To identify heresy. To seize the heretic. To judge them. To burn them. The words this young man had just spoken were enough to secure him a seat on a funeral pyre.
The tavern keeper looked toward Father Anchi with a pleading gaze, his hand already reaching for the heavy club he used to settle drunks. Several burly villagers stood up, waiting for a single nod from the priest to tackle the madman spreading blasphemy.
Finally, Father Anchi moved.
He stood up with unhurried grace, fastidiously straightening his spotless priestly robes. He moved through the crowd, stopping directly in front of the young minstrel. The young man looked up at him—there was no fear in his eyes, only a calm, open honesty.
Father Anchi said nothing. He simply reached into his pocket, withdrew a single copper coin, and dropped it gently into the minstrel's coin pouch.
Then, Father Anchi turned and walked out.
The entire tavern stood stunned. That was... it?
Father Anchi pushed open the tavern door. Outside, the sky was a velvet black. The night wind carried a chill, fluttering the hem of his robes. He looked up at the stars and let out a soft, weary sigh.
"I really, truly hate the thought of war," he murmured.
War meant chaos. It meant the breakdown of order. It meant the donation boxes would be lighter and the price of good wine would skyrocket. His leisurely afternoon tea sessions would be replaced by endless pre-battle prayers and post-battle masses.
More importantly, if what that young man said was true—even a fraction of it—then this wasn't a duel between Holy and Evil. It was the collision of two different civilizations.
That meant many deaths. Much blood. And it would be very, very troublesome.
Father Anchi despised trouble. He only wanted to stay in Orlando, bicker with Sister Cecilia every day, skim a few coppers from the donation box to reward hard-working minstrels, and listen to juicy gossip about knights and princesses.
Thinking of Cecilia, Anchi's lip curled. The woman was surely sulking in the church right now. She was probably whispering curses under her breath while stuffing her face with the "emergency bread" she thought he didn't know she had hidden.
He began to stroll back toward the church. It was time to face the wrath of the thunderous nun. Compared to a war that could flip the entire continent on its head, Anchi felt that handling Cecilia's temper was the much larger headache.
However, Anchi wasn't truly worried. He had an ace up his sleeve.
Little Jamie.
That big-mouthed brat. Anchi had paid him two whole coppers to spy on Cecilia.
What the Father didn't know yet was that his three-copper "industrial spy" had already been flipped by Cecilia for the bargain price of a single copper coin.
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