In the dark of night, somewhere deep within the vast deserts of Busalet, two figures stood atop a wind-eroded stone outcrop, their silhouettes framed against the swirling sand and cold night wind. One of them was a bald, plump man—none other than Jawadin, the Longevity Church officer who had been overseeing affairs in Bastis. He stood respectfully in the wind. Opposite him stood a hunched, deeply wrinkled old woman with withered white hair. She wore patchwork drapes adorned with twisted patterns, strung with jewelry made from beads and fragments of bone. A gnarled, crooked wooden staff supported her. Her pupils were cloudy, and yet she stood perfectly still in the biting wind, seemingly unaffected by either the cold or the gale. “Chieftain Amuyaba... those Radiance Church lackeys outside the city have now taken in over twenty thousand refugees. Based on my estimation of their grain reserves, they’ll be completely out of food within two days. If they keep trying to maintain their ridiculous scale of relief efforts, the entire camp is going to collapse soon…” Jawadin reported respectfully to the woman he had addressed as Amuyaba. After a brief pause, she replied in a raspy, gravelly voice. “I see… So, they still haven’t tried to attack Bastis?” “No! They’re staying completely calm—haven’t shown the slightest sign of preparing for an assault. They’re just sitting there, watching. They haven’t even tried to sneak in and abduct me for interrogation or anything like that. It’s all... not quite what we expected.” Hearing this, Amuyaba paused, then spoke again. “Looks like they have a steady hand leading them. Pity... if they had gone for brute force against Bastis, the Radiance Church’s reputation in Busalet would’ve been finished.” She spoke with a tone of mild regret. Jawadin added. “Yeah, that nun—Vania—she really isn’t aggressive at all. It’s going to be hard to lure her into the Bastis trap. But it’s fine. Our other plans are already working. Once their grain runs out in two days, they’ll either storm the city for food—or pack up and leave.” “And have they made any effort to cure this Holy Plague?” “None that I’ve seen. Just dealing with food and logistics has them running around like headless chickens. They’ve got no time to research a cure. Honestly, I hope that nun spends more time looking into the plague. The more they try, the stronger the plague gets. If it flares up among the Radiance faithful, they’ll be the first to fall apart.” Jawadin grinned smugly. Amuyaba said nothing more, simply turning back toward the direction of Bastis, her cloudy eyes staring into the distance. After a moment, she said: “As long as the Holy Plague continues in Busalet, we remain undefeated. Still, don’t get complacent. Keep watching them closely. Don’t let your guard down until they’re fully withdrawn… “That’s enough for tonight. Return to Bastis—but remember, do not speak of anything important inside the city, especially not matters involving the Holy Plague… or me. We still don’t know what trump card Holy Mount gave that little nun, and she may have ties to that so-called Heaven’s Arbiter Sect. No crucial intelligence is to be discussed beyond my direct influence.” “Yes,” Jawadin replied firmly and reverently. With that, Amuyaba turned her gaze once more toward the horizon. ... As night passed and the moon sank, dawn broke over the desert. From the far edge of the sands, the rising sun cast light upon the world. At the Bastis oasis, the relief camp of the Church’s diplomatic mission awoke to a new day beneath the morning light. Wisps of smoke curled up between the tents as people stirred in every direction. Compared to just a few days earlier, the camp had grown once again. With refugees continuing to arrive, the camp had expanded many times over. Everywhere one looked, there were lines of weary and suffering people. The original mission staff were now utterly overwhelmed. Of course, even more concerning than the shortage of hands was the worsening food crisis. Because of the growing scarcity, food distributions had been reduced for several days in a row. Many refugees were going without. Though most cooperated after the situation was explained, a small number had begun to grumble—and their dissatisfaction was now spreading, giving rise to a series of incidents. “This morning, in the South and East camps, there were 21 reported fights over food. One of them involved at least 25 people, resulting in 10 injuries and 2 deaths. In total, we’ve had 47 casualties from food-related incidents so far...” Inside the central tent designated for Vania, Sister Phil stood reporting before the seated nun. Vania froze slightly upon hearing the figures, then asked. “So many more than yesterday? Even with the reduced rations, things haven’t yet reached the point of starvation, have they?” “No… not yet,” Phil confirmed. “But the cutbacks have caused widespread panic. Many believe our food is about to run out, so they’re trying to hoard whatever they can… and unfortunately, they’re not wrong. If we keep distributing at this rate, we really won’t last much longer.” Her voice was serious and grave. Vania sat in silence, her expression heavy as she wrestled with the crisis. Seeing her silence, Gaspard couldn’t hold himself back any longer. Stepping forward, he declared: “Sister Vania, we no longer have the luxury of hesitation. Our grain won’t last much longer. We should order an attack on the city! No matter how much food is inside Bastis, if we seize it, at least we can buy more time!” But Vania still didn’t respond. She remained seated, unmoving, lost in thought. Gaspard watched her quietly, frustration growing in his heart. “Sister Vania… she’s far too merciful. This isn’t the time for kindness…” “As a faithful and compassionate nun, she’s flawless. But as a leader—maybe not so much. Whether we fight or retreat, we need a decision. This indecision… it’s no wonder some in the Church call her a lucky ornament rather than a capable leader…” On the other side, Sister Phil thought the same as she looked at Vania’s silent figure. As an appointed aide from the Redemption Faction, she had her own views and competencies. “Maybe this mission to Busalet is a test—one granted by ‘that one’—to see if Sister Vania is ready to lead. But from the looks of things… she’s failing. Not every hardship can be resolved by divine favor, Sister Vania. I understand your desire to save as many people as you can… but food won’t appear just because you wish it would…” Just then, the tent’s flap was suddenly lifted, and a mission guard stepped in quickly. “Sister Vania! A large caravan has been spotted approaching Bastis!” “A caravan?” Vania’s eyes lit up with surprise. “What are they doing?” “We’re not sure yet,” the guard replied. “But we’ve already sent scouts to make contact. We should have news soon.” He then stepped aside and waited silently. Gaspard spoke again, still serious. “In the middle of a plague like this… a caravan wandering around the wilderness? That’s suspicious...” As he voiced his doubts, the flap lifted again—another guard hurried in and loudly reported. “Sister Vania! We’ve made contact! The caravan says they’re merchants—here in Busalet to trade grain!” At this, both Phil and Gaspard froze in disbelief, exchanging incredulous looks. Meanwhile, seated in her chair, Vania let out a long breath and quietly closed her eyes, as if offering a silent prayer of gratitude. … Many in the mission camp found it hard to believe—how could there still be legitimate merchants operating in Busalet under these circumstances? And not just any merchants, but actual grain merchants, hauling massive quantities of food. Plague and bandits were things merchants typically avoided at all costs, yet someone had dared to do business here. As unbelievable as it seemed, it was real. “This way! Over here, quick now, boys! Set everything down over here—let the clients take a look, let them inspect everything carefully~” On the outskirts of the Bastis oasis, a little distance from the relief camp, a massive caravan had come to a halt. Camels and carts loaded with goods stood in tight clusters. Under the command of a rotund, bearded merchant draped in a luxurious robe, porters bustled about, unloading sack after sack of heavy canvas bags from the carts. These were lined up in neat rows, and each bag was opened immediately to reveal heaps of fine white flour. Bag after bag of flour was opened as mission guards, led by Gaspard, swarmed in to inspect every one—ensuring not only the quality of the flour but also checking for any hidden contraband or malicious items. Meanwhile, the bearded merchant, having finished giving instructions, walked over with a wide smile to where Vania and Phil were standing. “Ahaha, back in Addus I heard that Sister Vania was coming to Busalet to provide aid and relief. I thought to myself, maybe—just maybe—my business might bring me your way. And what do you know, it actually worked out! What a great honor this is for me…” He gave Vania a polite bow as he spoke, and she returned his smile with one of her own. “I never would’ve imagined that in today’s Busalet, there would still be proper merchants in operation. Things here are far worse than they used to be… Aren’t you afraid of the danger?” “Afraid? Of course. But as they say—where there’s crisis, there’s opportunity. Grain is a hard currency; the harsher the environment, the more it’s worth. If the profit’s high enough, not even danger can stop those with the will to earn…” The bearded merchant grinned as he spoke. Vania, still smiling faintly, responded more seriously. “In any case, I’m very grateful you came at this time. Your supplies mean a lot to us. But… could the price be lowered a little? The one you just quoted is more than ten times the normal market rate.” “Ehh-heh… since Sister Vania herself is asking, I’ll bring it down a bit,” he replied, chuckling. “Call it my way of thanking you on behalf of all Addus, and of supporting the Church’s work. Let’s say… I’ll give you a 10% discount overall.” With that, the negotiations began. Not far off, Phil watched the exchange somewhat dazedly. “To think… in a time like this, a grain merchant with such enormous supplies would appear out of nowhere… Sister Vania... is she truly blessed by divine providence?” As she looked at Vania, Phil felt a sudden realization: if someone was truly favored by the divine, then all other qualities—competence, strategy, boldness—became irrelevant in comparison. While the deal was being actively negotiated, far in the distance on a small hill, a nun in a black habit—Sister Faith—watched everything from afar with a faint smile and spoke softly. “My, my… what a wondrous and unexpected caravan. I wonder what sort of power shaped their arrival?” “What a shame… looks like that little nun won’t be forced into any desperate choices for now. But grain alone only alleviates the crisis—it doesn’t solve it. As long as the plague still ravages this land, this is merely a bandage over a festering wound…” Her voice was soft and illusory, like a whisper that might never have existed—neither her lips nor her words seemed real at all. ... “Phew… well, that’s the food problem taken care of for now.” Inside a tent on the other side of the camp, Dorothy sat cross-legged on a carpet, stretching lazily as she spoke. At this moment, she was personally controlling the entire caravan, orchestrating its trade with Vania’s mission and selling them vast quantities of grain. That’s right—the entire grain caravan on the edge of the camp was made up of Dorothy’s own marionettes. She had sent them specifically to deliver food to the struggling relief camp, easing the crisis while making a bit of profit in the process. As for all that grain? Nearly all of it had been grown in one of Dorothy’s pseudo-historical worlds. It had taken her less than a day to gather this entire haul. The pseudo-historical world might have been forged from fictional history—but the world itself was real. Built with the spirituality of Revelation and shaped by various mystical forces, it was a tangible reality she could partially control through her manipulation of false historical texts. First, she crafted a pseudo-history set in a relatively favorable agricultural climate. Then she brought real wheat seeds into the pseudo-world. By removing the timeline’s current year, she traveled into that world’s past, where she hired in-world farmers to plant the wheat. Afterward, she re-added the later dates in the manuscript to leap forward in time, allowing her to harvest the fully grown wheat and have it processed into flour. A few cycles of this, and she had created a massive stockpile of grain. All that remained was for Dorothy to pick a location in real-world Busalet, retrieve the grain, assemble a caravan using her marionettes, and “journey across the land” to deliver it to the camp for sale. And the higher the price, the better. After all, the Church’s funding for Vania’s mission was incredibly generous, and Vania herself was unlikely to embezzle a single coin. It would be a shame not to profit a little for her trouble—if she charged too little, it would only make people suspicious of her motives anyway. “So now… the food crisis is handled. Next up is the Withering Plague itself. Only by eradicating the plague at its root can Busalet’s suffering truly be relieved…” As she finished her stretch, Dorothy rubbed her chin in thought. It was time to seriously consider how to tackle the Withering Plague, because she finally had an important lead. “Amuyaba… the one overseeing the rot in Busalet? If I can get control of her—or just eliminate her outright—I might finally uncover the key to curing this plague…” With that thought in mind, Dorothy rose to her feet, stepped out of the tent, and turned her gaze toward the towering city walls of Bastis. … At that moment, atop the walls of Bastis, Jawadin stood grimly, his gaze fixed on the trading scene unfolding at the edge of the distant relief camp. Beside him, a monk of the Longevity Church exclaimed in surprise. “Ritual Envoy, did you see that? It’s a caravan!” “I saw it. I don’t need you to tell me,” Jawadin replied coldly, his expression stern. But the monk continued, still astonished. “A grain caravan, here in Busalet at a time like this… This is highly unusual! That lot’s got food again now! What should we do?!” The monk's voice was a bit too loud, drawing a look of irritation from Jawadin, who snapped at him. “Stop shouting and panicking like an idiot. I’m well aware of everything you just said. You don’t need to remind me. Now get lost and send Gedu up here.” “Y-yes, at once!” The monk stammered and hurriedly scrambled down the wall. At the base, he met another monk who had been waiting patiently. “The Ritual Envoy is displeased with me at the moment. I’ll be stepping aside for now. Go up there and attend to him.” “Understood,” the other monk replied calmly. The two exchanged ritual bows, one pressing a hand over his chest before parting ways—one returning to the city interior, the other ascending the stairs to the battlements to take over the duty of serving Jawadin and receiving his commands. But at that moment, hidden in the unseen void, threads of invisible spiritual thread extended from each of them—subtly manipulating their every movement. Not just them—every person near Jawadin bore the same kind of hidden connection. No one could say when it began, but Jawadin had long been engaged in a constant stream of conversations… orders… exchanges… … At the edge of the mission camp, in the heart of the large-scale trade underway, the bearded merchant finally let out a small sigh of relief after concluding tough negotiations with the mission representatives. He left the transaction details to his subordinates and wandered off to a quiet corner by himself. There, he lit a cigarette and watched the bustling trading scene from afar. Just then, a voice—hollow and ethereal—echoed softly nearby. “Your arrival… was truly like rain in a time of drought…” Hearing the voice, the merchant paused slightly and turned his head. What he saw made him freeze: a nun, translucent and ghostly like a phantom, hovered faintly in the air, smiling gently at him. “Just like last time in Kankdal… you’re still just as devoted to Sister Vania, aren’t you… O you who seek ancient wisdom…”