Questions and Answers

Irene didn't immediately rush up to the platform to demand answers from this cheap son of hers about what he was doing, what had happened over the years, and why he was doing all this.

Although her mind was filled with questions, her relatively calm composure kept her from making a scene.

Like an ordinary believer, she sat quietly in her seat. As she listened to Arthas recite obscure scriptures that were countless times more sleep-inducing than an English listening comprehension test, she lowered her head and examined the Holy Scripture of Redemption in her hands.

The book she had acquired from that poor minotaur wasn't particularly large—a bit smaller than a standard magazine—but it was quite thick, with a heavy, substantial feel to it. The cover seemed to be made from the hide of some creature, offering a slightly rough, high-friction texture to the touch.

In the center of the cover was a cross, white on the top and black on the bottom. From the upper half of the cross extended a pair of spread white feathered wings, while the lower half featured a pair of crossed, folded black bat wings, perfectly mirroring the statue of the Goddess of Redemption.

Even someone thinking with their gut could guess that this was undoubtedly the holy symbol of the Goddess of Redemption.

Under the connection forged by the power of faith, this otherwise meaningless design and the statue had both become bound to the entity known as the Goddess of Redemption, serving as her “phone number.”

As long as someone drew a reasonably similar holy symbol or carved a similar statue, they could “place a call” to contact her through prayer.

Irene reached out, gently tracing the metallic holy symbol. She couldn't help but mock herself internally, thinking she was probably the first “deity” in history who didn't recognize her own holy symbol.

But she couldn't really be blamed. Her vassals were simply too competent.

It felt like transmigrating to ancient times and finally working up to becoming a small landlord, thinking she could finally lie back and relax.

Only to wake up and find a recently hired servant leading a troop of elite soldiers, holding a yellow imperial robe. As they draped it over her shoulders, they said, “The weather is getting cold, Your Majesty. It's time to add a layer.”

What else could Irene say to that?

In the face of such a situation, she could only follow her heart, put on the yellow robe, and mutter to herself, “My entire life has been like walking on thin ice. Do you think I can make it to the other side?”

Amidst the cold recitation of scriptures from the platform, Irene flipped to the first page of the Holy Scripture. With the mindset of an emperor reviewing state memorials, she began to read. She figured she should at least familiarize herself with her own teachings, lest someone ask her about them in the future and she ended up completely clueless—that would be deeply embarrassing.

Time ticked by, minute by minute.

Amid the soft rustle of turning pages, the sky outside the cathedral gradually darkened without her noticing.

The sermon had stopped at some point. Although Arthas still stood on the platform, the book in his hands had long vanished, replaced by a loaf of black bread as long as an adult's arm, which he had just retrieved from his storage ring.

The eager believers, who had been waiting for this moment, began lining up starting from the very front row. One by one, they stepped forward to receive a loaf of black bread that Arthas retrieved from his storage ring.

They would then bow respectfully, turn around, and walk toward the cathedral doors, which had opened at some point.

Outside, a crescent moon now hung in the sky. Under the illumination of the starlight, the interior of the cathedral seemed even darker.

The few yellow wax candles lit along the walls were clearly insufficient to illuminate the massive central hall.

Had it not been for the excellent darkvision common among beastkin and half-beastkin, they might have tripped and fallen before even making it out of the cathedral.

Meanwhile, Irene, shrouded in the darkness, remained seated in her spot, flipping through her book with absolutely no intention of going up to claim a loaf of black bread.

Once the last person took their bread from Arthas and stepped out into the starlight, the massive doors of the cathedral slammed shut with a heavy thud.

The central hall, which had been packed just moments ago, fell completely quiet and empty once more. Only Arthas, looking like a solitary stage actor, remained on the platform, while Irene sat below as his sole “audience.”

A heavy, rhythmic sound of footsteps suddenly echoed as Arthas walked down from the platform.

His cleric robes had vanished at some point, leaving only his suit of black armor and the chainsword slung across his back.

The candlelight on the walls flickered and swayed from the chill radiating from him as he walked, making the light dim even further.

Stopping beside Irene, Arthas placed his right hand over his chest and bowed. In an extremely respectful voice, he said, “Welcome back, my great and noble Master!”

But Irene acted as if she hadn't even noticed him, continuing to flip through the book in her hands.

Seeing this, the blue soul fire beneath Arthas's helmet flickered twice. He stood up straight, quietly waiting for his master to finish.

Fortunately, there were only a few pages left, so he didn't have to wait long. With a soft snap, Irene finally closed the book, shut her eyes, and exhaled a long breath, as if she had just accomplished some monumental feat.

“Let's talk.”

Irene opened her eyes and turned her head. Her golden vertical pupils, shining like a sea of stars, fixed upon Arthas, who stood waiting at her side.

“Why did you make my statue look like that? It doesn't even have a face. Do you think I'm too ashamed to show my face in public?”

“...”

Arthas remained silent for a moment.

Even he hadn't expected Irene's very first question to be about such an insignificant detail. The speech he had carefully prepared in his mind was now completely useless.

However, after over fifty years of learning, he was no longer the simple-minded, newborn little lich he once was.

After a brief moment of bewilderment, he spoke slowly, “Because this allows for a more efficient gathering of the power of faith.”

Then, in a voice devoid of any emotional fluctuation, Arthas continued to explain, “Your true draconic form is prone to instilling fear in believers, which would affect the quality of the power of faith. Meanwhile, your humanoid form has too great a physical disparity from the races of your believers. These differences in aesthetic perception would cause slight discrepancies when different believers pray.”

“In contrast, a faceless statue makes it easier for believers to project the image of the person they hold closest and revere the most. This yields a much more abundant harvest of the power of faith. This is the optimal result I obtained after numerous experiments.”

Finally, he added, “This information was gathered from books regarding ascension through faith. Your divine title was decided after convening a high-level meeting. If you are unsatisfied, the appearance of the statue can be altered at any time, and we can even redesign the holy symbol and title.”

His tone was incredibly icy, even more detached than it had been fifty years ago.

This emotionless, textbook answer gave Irene a sudden wave of deja vu, as if she were back in school listening to a teacher read out the correct answers to an exam.

It also gave her the illusion of being a demanding corporate client.

Her brilliant golden eyes met Arthas's gaze. Looking past the visor of his helmet, she seemed to see a pair of completely emotionless soul fires.

Tsk, emotionless undead really are so boring, Irene thought to herself. She had wanted to tease her subordinate, only to get shut down completely.

She simply waved her hand dismissively, dropping the topic. Standing up, she stowed the Holy Scripture of Redemption back into her storage ring and walked toward the cathedral doors, saying:

“Let's talk about why you did all this instead.”

Irene glanced back at Arthas. “I recall that before I went to sleep, the task I assigned you was to research the technology of those ancient beastkin, wasn't it?”

“Master...”

Within the hollow sockets of Arthas's helmet, the blue soul fire that had long replaced his eyes flickered twice. He had no intention of beating around the bush. Using his decayed, ruined throat, he gave a simple and direct response:

“This was all... to obtain your approval...”