When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist-Chapter 660 - 618: Loud Thunder

The church's lights flicker amid the rain, the yellow candlelight casting the hanging image of the Saint Master on the pillars in stark relief, its pupil-less eyes quietly observing Ansel on the bed.

Ansel's face is slightly pale, but after drinking the medicinal soup, he is now peacefully asleep.

If it weren't for the occasional kick sending the lower half of the blanket flying, Bryson wouldn't have been sure that this was a young man under twenty.

A child under twenty, who in three months learned more from the church than Bryson did in twenty years at the Church School.

Bryson turned his head toward the room's side, the cold wind rattling the window, bringing the shouts of mountain folk and sounds of wood smashing from outside.

Lalor's shouts mingled with the rain: "Quick, pile up these fences, you two, dig the trench deeper!"

Following his voice was Old Laver's cry: "Did you pry open the blacksmith's shop? What's there to fear, just pretend it's on credit, tie a dagger to a long wooden stick, it's almost like hunting wild boars as usual!"

"Those good at archery, come to the back, just treat those cavalry as if they're foxes and wolves."

No one knew when, but Lalor and Old Laver somehow turned into commanders, their shouts alternating incessantly.

Under the gray sky, nearly two hundred mountain men and women efficiently erected pointed wooden stakes and fences around the church.

On the small square in front of the church, a semicircular row of pointed stakes stood, while mountain folk wielding temporary spears made from daggers and flails wandered back and forth on the square.

Truth be told, mountain folk possess a martial spirit more prevalent than the plains' farmers, not to exaggerate the mountain folk's capabilities.

They routinely deal with monsters, bandits, bears, wolves, pigs, and wandering deep mountain beastmen, making tasks like these seem easy; no wonder mountain folk can become mercenaries, they barely need training.

However, can these two hundred really withstand infantry led by two Knights?

Listening to the shouts outside, Bryson slowly sat down, placing his hands on his knees.

Even though these mountain folk are ferocious, less than ten might possess the Knight's breathing technique, and they lack armor and weapons.

Letting them oppose the Knights, can it truly be effective?

Moreover, according to Ansel, the ry Court Barracks may not allow the Salvation Army direct involvement in the war, and the Village Magistrates' attitude is akin to Knight Adrian, ambiguous and siding with whoever's ahead.

If the ry Court Barracks chooses to compromise, these monks and brothers may die in vain.

Even if the Knights only want to take Ansel, considering Ansel's current condition, once drenched by rain, a minor cold might turn into a severe illness.

Then, it would test the Knights' conscience, which Bryson trusts the least.

Looking down at Ansel, Bryson wonders whether he's asking him or himself: "Is it worth it? What's the point?"

Previously, whenever Bryson felt lost or faced a crisis, Ansel always had a bunch of wise words or solutions, but now Ansel lie silently in bed, saying nothing.

"What should I do?"

Bryson looked at his hands resting on his knees, compared to the past when they only held a feather pen, they had gained many calluses and injuries.

He remembered where some injuries occurred, but had forgotten about some calluses.

"Someone's coming!" The mountain folk responsible for lookout on the small chapel tower shouted down into the rain.

Feeling a pang of worry, Bryson quickly approached the window.

The mountain folk surrounding the church stopped their work, gazing into the depths of the rain.

The faint sound of hooves approached through the rain, splashing through mud.

Gradually, a cavalryman with two mule-mounted followers pierced the rain curtain, riding toward them.

Their silhouettes ghostly and vague, and rain flowed like streams over their armor reflecting the gloomy daylight.

Leading them was a tall man in worn leather armor, with a muddy oilcloth cloak draped over his shoulders.

The mountain folk stood behind the trench, wearing thin vests with hoods on their heads, tightly clutching sickles, flails, and dagger-spear hybrids, many trembling.

"You received the message, right?" The war horse exhaled white steam, and the Knight removed his helmet, revealing a shining bald head, "Our martial law troops have reached the avenue, hand over the two monks, don't resist, and we won't kill anyone, how's that?"

Lalor shouted at the Knight: "Our monks are ill, they can't be exposed to rain, come when the weather clears."

"You say they're illness, and they're ill? Let us in to check if they truly are ill?" The bald Knight impatiently tugged his reins, pacing in front of the pointed stakes.

"No way, what if you forcefully take them away after entering?" Lalor continued, "Let someone come in unarmed, and I'll take him to see."

"What are you bargaining about? Hmm? Bargaining about what?" The bald Knight lost his patience completely, "I don't care if they're sick or not, I'm taking him now." 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

"Then we have no choice but to resist."

The Knight laughed, turned to his two followers: "Listen to this, they said they want to resist."

"Hahaha." Behind him, the two mule-mounted followers let out exaggerated, theatrical laughs.

Compared to the Knight's and his followers' mockery, the mountain folk behind the stakes and trench gritted their teeth fiercely, their pitchforks and flails even slightly trembling.

"Last chance, hand over the monks and the wool, and we won't kill! Otherwise, when my martial law troops arrive, it won't be as easy anymore!" After the laughter, the bald Knight threatened lightly.

The ground in front of the chapel fell silent, the mountain folk stood by the trench and stakes, exchanging uneasy glances.

After all, hearing from Lalor about the Knights' arrival and actually seeing them were entirely different concepts.

When an Extraordinary Knight truly stood before them, the oppressive force wasn't simply countered by a few impassioned words.

Only the rain dripped from the eaves, splashing into the puddles, creating tiny ripples.

And some of the mountain folk were subtly retreating.

Rain pounded on Bryson's window, outside cries, laughter, and the sound of rain pummeled the window like drumsticks.

He stood by the window, the mountain folk in the rain resembled a wheat field bent by wind and rain, while the cavalryman was like a steel plow ready to crush them at any moment.

Lalor and Old Laver were frequently glancing at the church, seemingly expecting Ansel to come out and say something to boost everyone's morale.

Bryson stepped back from the window and glanced at Ansel; it was a face much younger than his own.

He looked around at the simple church, yet it felt more familiar and intimate than the Church School he'd lived in for twenty years.

He had resided at the parish church for twenty years, yet he was merely present there.

But this was different. This was his church, his place. He did not stay here merely for doubled wages.

Walking to the door, he picked up a flail leaning against the wall. As he raised his head, the hesitation on Bryson's face was replaced by an inexplicable calm.

He made his way to the church door, pushed it open, and rain slapped against his face, cold and piercing.

The mountain folks looked at him, stunned, and Lalor strode over with a frown, asking, "Brother Bryson, why did you come out?"

Bryson rested the flail on his shoulder and calmly said, "This is my church, the Saint Master's domain. Without my permission, not even a knight may step inside."

Rain streamed down his brow, into the corner of his eye. After wiping his face, Bryson looked at the distant cavalry.

He stepped forward, the mountain folk clearing a path around him.

Taking a deep breath, Bryson puffed out his chest and stared directly into the cavalier's disdainful and intrigued eyes, swinging the flail forcefully: "This is the land of the Saint Master, and the home of His people. Your armor may resist spears, but it cannot obstruct belief.

To enter this church, fine, but before your filthy hooves make it to the steps, you must first trample over my corpse!"

Bryson's tone was calm yet firm, like a shepherd facing a pack of wolves, with merely a wooden staff in hand, showing no sign of retreat.

The mountain folk first froze, then tightened their grips on their weapons.

The leading knight raised an eyebrow, a hint of chill flashed across his face. He rode back and forth several times in front of the fence posts, observing how the initially dissolving morale had steadied, then he laughed sinisterly:

"Since you are determined to die, I'll grant your wish. I hope later you can maintain this courage."

He did not continue speaking, merely turned and waved to the knights behind him.

Hooves again trodden on the muddy roads, slowly receding, while the rain sound engulfed the sound of retreating hooves once more.

The rain continued to fall, increasingly heavy, while the mountain folk outside the church stood by the trenches, their gazes no longer uneasy.

Their eyes roved between the church and Bryson, with some quietly departing, yet more returned to their positions.

Lalor scanned around and gave Bryson a hearty pat on the shoulder: "Brother Bryson, thank you."

Bryson merely shook his head without responding; he leaned against the church wall, silently watching the busy figures of the mountain folk.

Just three months ago, these people regarded them as strangers and even enemies; now, they took up arms, fighting desperately for the Saint Father's Association.

Those hands that usually tilled the soil could today tightly grip weapons.

As the knights departed, it seemed the battle flames departed with them, yet Bryson and others did not relax vigilance, continuing their patrolling and dispatching scouts for reconnaissance.

This time they didn't have to wait long; the lookout in the church's wooden tower suddenly shouted: "There's movement, those knights are back!"

Everyone raised their heads, but they couldn't see how many people the knights brought back, only hearing the approaching dense footsteps in the distance.

"Get ready!"

"Blow the whistle, recall the scouts!"

"Everyone return to your positions!"

Under Lalor and Old Laver's shouts, the mountain folk followed the bandit defense measures, returning to the edge of the spiked stakes.

Only, before they protected the knight's manor, but today they protected the church.

Lances soaked in rainwater, palms of mountain folk dampened. Their tattered clothes clung tightly to their bodies, shivering from the cold rain but still standing behind the stakes.

Thatched roofs quivered, everyone tightly pressed their lips, rainwater trickled into their back through their collars, yet they seemed unaware.

Footsteps and hoofbeats drew closer, ever closer.

Only, the footsteps and hoofbeats lingered outside the door, never revealing their presence.

This further strained their already taut nerves; why aren't they coming?

"Can you see where they are?"

The lookout leaned most of his body out, trying to open his eyes in the rain yet remained silent for a while.

Old Laver spun anxiously in place: "Speak, don't force me to come up and hit you!"

"They... aren't... but how is it black-red… huh? The knight's manor, what's?" In the blurred rain, the lookout's voice followed suit to blur.

"You damn well give me the truth, you pig!" Old Laver flushed, at such a crucial time, the lookout proved unreliable.

"No, I, I can't describe it, a group of mountain folks upfront, another at the rear, a dozen cavalrymen accompanying... they headed for the knight's manor!"

"What?"