Chapter 315: A Casual Chat Turned into a Lead

By evening, after a restful afternoon, everyone was in good spirits. The noble delegates, wealthy merchants, and political elites all generously expressed their reverence and devotion to the gods.

Gold-covered offerings were carried into the temple under the watchful eyes of believers with divine tokens, those lucky enough to participate up close in the ceremony. Others simply donated money. After all, if the gods loved gold, surely they’d love cash too.

And they did. The High Priest’s barely restrained smile said it all: the gods loved money—especially checks.

“Tell the High Priest, this is my tribute to the gods,” Lynch said as he placed a check inside a wooden box with a hinged lid and handed it to a clergy member.

All donations, whether cash or checks, were placed in such boxes. It was a custom designed to protect donor privacy—no one knew how much anyone else gave.

This also avoided the awkward question of how much to donate.

Give too much, and people would start questioning the source of your wealth or your intentions. Something simple would become complicated. Give too little, and especially if you were someone of status, you’d be branded stingy or disrespectful.

The temple’s solution was simple: the wooden box. No one but the officiant knew how much each person donated. With no comparison, there was no judgment—only respect for the donors.

The clergy member carrying the box soon reached the High Priest and whispered something in his ear. The High Priest lifted the lid and glanced inside.

Upon seeing Lynch’s check and signature, a faint smile curled at his lips. In Nagaryll, any foreign currency was more valuable and more useful than the local Valier.

All those zeroes made the High Priest quite pleased. He thought of his youngest son, preparing to study abroad. The federal sols on that check would be perfect for his expenses.

As for the donation being for the gods?

The gods didn’t care for vulgar things like money. What they cared about was piety and respect. Understand?

Closing the box, the High Priest looked across the distance at Lynch. Their eyes met. The priest gave a slight nod, acknowledging Lynch’s devotion, fervor, and the return he received for the golden bone token gifted to him.

With the donations complete, the High Priest delivered his closing remarks for the festival and withdrew into the temple.

Priests and clergy began dancing around the temple’s central fire. Their outfits were strange, bodies painted in eerie patterns—some disgusting, some disturbing. Their stiff, puppet-like movements added to the unsettling air.

They were puppets, indeed—puppets moved by the gods, singing and dancing under divine will.

Low-ranking temple servants started distributing food to the guests: grilled meats, fresh fruits, and mildly tart fruit wines. People feasted, watched the dances, and sang praises in the local tongue.

Then a priest approached Lynch as he ate. “The High Priest would like to speak with you.”

Lynch glanced at him, straightened his clothes, and followed him to the back of the temple.

The High Priest had already retreated to rest after a full day of leading ceremonies. There were no more major events that night.

Lynch found him in a vast chamber—three to four hundred square meters, rectangular, with a raised platform at the center. Atop it sat a stone chair, and in that chair, the High Priest.

The room was stuffy. Likely designed to retain heat in winter, it lacked airflow. Several braziers lit the room, casting warmth and shadows in equal measure.

“Mr. Lynch,” the High Priest greeted, his smile natural and warm. “I’ve heard what others have said about you—and what you’ve said about our faith.”

“You’re a rather unique foreigner. At least when it comes to matters of faith, you don’t speak like the rest.”

In this rapidly changing era, where science was breaking the darkness of ignorance, the clash between science and superstition had clearly divided the faithful from the non-believers.

Believers had become more devout than ever, never doubting their gods and shunning all foreign faiths.

Non-believers refused to believe in anything they couldn’t explain, always clinging to scientific rationality.

But Lynch was different. His words were ambiguous—neither fully affirming nor denying. And somehow, both camps accepted him.

Believers interpreted his words as confirmation of their gods’ divinity. Non-believers thought he was just one revelation away from fully discarding superstition.

It was clever—not flattering to all, but offending none.

This made him stand out starkly from other foreigners. Take Mr. Simon, for instance—like most outsiders, he had only two attitudes toward the local religion.

The first: atheism. Complete denial of gods, branding faith as ignorance.

The second: branding local beliefs as heresy, clinging only to their own as true.

Even those who eventually changed their views always started with one of these two. Lynch, however, was different from the beginning.

Lynch bowed slightly. Speaking to the leader of a religious district required respect. “I come from the Federal Republic of Baylor, a nation that values freedom. Our laws encourage and protect religious freedom.”

“We approach all matters—be it religion, government, culture, or custom—with tolerance and broad vision. We respect all, embrace all, accept all.”

The High Priest’s eyes shifted slightly. “That sounds… interesting.”

Lynch gave a small smile. “In the Federation, anyone can preach, so long as their faith is registered with the religious office, and the doctrine is legal and not antisocial. No one will interfere.”

“God’s vicar, have you heard of the Church of the Earth Mother’s Throne?”

“God’s… vicar?” The High Priest blinked, confused. “Are you referring to me?”

“Of course,” Lynch answered naturally. “You are the embodiment of the divine among mortals. You wield the power granted by the gods and bear the duty of guiding people toward goodness. Am I wrong?”

Surprised by Lynch’s reverent tone, the High Priest grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, then quickly composed himself. As a divine representative, he couldn’t show too much emotion. Still, he nodded. “No, you are right. That term—God’s vicar—it fits. It fits well.”

He paused, savoring the phrase. After a moment, he gestured, “You were saying—go on.”

Lynch bowed slightly again and continued. “The Church of the Earth Mother’s Throne—one you likely haven’t heard of—promotes eating hot horse dung as a cure for disease.”

Perhaps it was the pleasant atmosphere, or the zeroes on Lynch’s check, or simply that they were getting along—the High Priest laughed loudly, almost exaggeratedly.

“Eating hot horse shit to cure illness?”

Lynch maintained a serious expression. “Yes, preferably fresh—steaming hot horse dung.”

The High Priest burst into laughter again, laughing for quite a while. Perhaps finding it unbelievable, he couldn’t help but ask, “I’m really curious—do people actually believe in this religion and what they preach?” His laughter gradually faded, his brows furrowed. “Eating horse dung to cure illness…”

“Why not?” Lynch replied with a question of his own. “In the Federation, we value freedom of belief. Eating horse dung may sound absurd, but it’s neither antisocial nor does it incite wrongdoing. At worst, it’s just unhealthy—it’s not deadly.”

“And yes, people do believe in it. At its peak, the sect reportedly had tens of thousands of followers…”

The High Priest chuckled in disbelief. “That’s truly foolish—and ignorant. I thought foreigners were all smart…”

He trailed off suddenly. Even a religion based on eating horse dung could survive in the Baylor Federation. Then a thought struck him—if that could thrive there, could his own religion survive in the Federation too? Would there be people willing to worship his deity?

As the thought took hold, the High Priest’s heartbeat quickened. The Baylor Federation—a country far wealthier than Nagaryll, where people wanted for nothing and everyone was rich. Just like this Mr. Lynch in front of him.