Chapter – 30
“Looord! Please! Please, stamp the funeral certificate! My husband… he died last month! How are we supposed to pay taxes!”
“How many times must I tell you that the watermill in Letington Village was destroyed?”
“We can’t postpone this tax meeting any longer! Loord! Taax! Taax!”
“You need a watermill to grind grain! Come up with a solution! Please, just listen to us, you blasted—!”
In front of Count Bechdelace’s mansion, the screams and wails of the citizens echoed in all directions.
How they ended up at the lord’s mansion required tracing back to the events in the village.
Ultimately, Biretta’s predictions about the so-called bandits had all been correct.
It was true that Medlidge had broken off his contract, cutting off the mercenary company’s income—but that alone wouldn’t suddenly turn perfectly healthy young men into bandits.
Moslin and the “bandits” were actually a security force hired by the villagers.
Here’s what had happened:
Three months ago, the lord had begun slacking off. For some unknown reason, he completely neglected his domain and obsessed over personal matters.
This village was a small settlement directly under Count Bechdelace, who had normally sent his personal guards to maintain order.
The guards protected the village and collected tolls from passing travelers, sustaining the village economy.
But for the past three months, the guards had not been sent.
With no protection in a village frequented by travelers and ruffians, law enforcement and tax collection had fallen into chaos. The village was in crisis.
The biggest problem was that strict laws prevented the villagers from organizing a vigilante force or collecting taxes themselves.
They needed the lord’s permission to hire mercenaries—but that authorization hadn’t been issued for over a month.
So, the villagers resorted to disguising their hired mercenaries as bandits to collect tolls and maintain order.
Officially, they weren’t allowed to act as mercenaries, so they wore the “bandit” facade—that was the whole story behind the incident.
“So the tolls were a legitimate request. I feel guilty now.”
“Well, yes. It’s actually what you’re supposed to pay. And we even charged less than what we would normally owe the lord.”
Iola and Lanken, who had inadvertently troubled the unfortunate villagers, felt a little ashamed.
Either way, Moslin couldn’t simply be taken away from people with such circumstances.
Biretta boldly promised to resolve the village’s problems as compensation for the commotion she had caused.
Anyway, they needed prior road permits to transport the dragon’s corpse. Transporting such a massive body required proper authorization.
It was audacious to think about transport methods before even being guaranteed success—but Biretta was always that kind of woman.
Lanken sighed as he looked at the crowd gathered in front of Count Bechdelace’s mansion, resigned to Biretta’s antics.
“So… all these people came to see the lord?”
“Apparently, our count really has dropped the ball—more than we expected.”
Looking at the crowd at the door, it was clear that the lord wasn’t simply neglecting his duties.
He was actively and decisively ignoring them.
“And that’s not all. He’s refusing all visitors. He hasn’t stepped outside at all. We brought people here for a meeting, but the guests will likely end up empty-handed.”
The carriage driver snorted, not at Biretta’s party, but at the lord himself.
Although he had warned them during the carriage ride, seeing it in person was spectacular.
The distance between the main gate and the mansion was short, enough that any noise at the gate could be heard inside.
Yet for three months, the lord had remained secluded—he was no ordinary man.
“No one has been able to change the mind of someone like this for three months… what will you do, Biretta?”
“Let me tell you in advance: I’m terrible at things like this.”
Lanken frowned, and Moslin, who had only heard about the mansion but never seen it, looked disgusted at the sight.
“Hmph. Just watch. That Biretta is a master at getting into people’s hearts.”
Confidently stepping forward, Biretta inhaled deeply and puffed out her chest.
With her usual self-assured expression, she pushed through the crowd and walked to the front door.
The wailing crowd parted for the bold newcomer.
Biretta’s posture alone commanded attention, and an unspoken rule encouraged letting the new figure have their moment.
Even though Biretta didn’t know the backstory, she politely bowed to the crowd for making way.
“Thank you for your kindness. I may be great in stature, but I will repay your support in full.”
Given the situation, no one questioned whether she was “too weak” to handle the task.
Biretta cleared her throat, heightening the tension and focus of her audience.
Moslin and Iola watched her expectantly, and even Lanken looked on with anticipation, silently thinking, let’s see what she can do.
As the opponent was a noble lord, Biretta—accustomed to attending aristocratic parties from childhood—was well-suited for commanding attention.
Biretta, enjoying the stage spotlight, looked at the mansion’s large windows with joy. It had been a long time since she had been in such a position.
With her rosy, delicate lips slightly parted in excitement, she declared:
“The end is approaching!”
A heavy silence fell over the crowd.
The hardest people to deal with in life are “sane-looking lunatics.”
It’s easy to avoid someone obviously insane, but you can’t do the same with someone who looks perfectly normal.
Biretta Medlidge exemplified this.
With her clean, normal appearance and innocent, bright expression, she dropped strange statements like bombs on the audience.
The crowd grew uneasy, but before anyone could stop her, she continued energetically:
“Dark clouds cover the sky! Crops fail to grow on the land! In such ominous times, what must we do?!”
“….”
“What! Must! We! Do!!”
When no one answered, Biretta singled out one person. Flustered, he stammered a reply.
“P-prayer…”
“Exactly! Prayer! In the face of the end, your prayers will reach the Father in Heaven, who has sent a messenger to reveal His will!”
“Oh, y-yes, yes.”
“I am the poor daughter called by the Father. I am here to offer counsel at a special discounted price, guiding you to honor the elder as if he were your own heavenly Father.”
“Ah… you charge money?”
The man, caught in Biretta’s flow of words, asked reflexively. Biretta snorted, placing her left hand on her hip.
“Good question. If you contact me within the next hour, I’ll do it for free. The Lord is like a Father, caring for His children. Even expensive counsel can be given freely.”
When her bold declaration ended, sighs and grumbles ran through the crowd: Who is this? A private nun? If the Lord wanted to help, it would have been done already.
The introduction was provocative, but what followed was mundane. Just as people were preparing to resume their wailing, Iola stepped onto the platform beside Biretta.
He respectfully bowed to the crowd.
“I apologize for conveying false information to many of you to catch the lord’s attention. Talk of gods must be careful, and it was disrespectful of me.”
“Y-you, Iola?”
“In Filian, we call God ‘Father,’ but it is not rational to call the progenitor of all things a ‘Father.’ Surely the progenitor of all beings is a Mother.”
“Oh… that part?”
Iola seriously corrected what Biretta had ignored.
He seemed to have said something similar the last time they visited the chapel.
“When one claims to be a child of God, this is even more important. All children fundamentally belong to their Mother. A Father is only one who is permitted to be the child’s progenitor.”
“That’s unacceptable! Of course it’s important that a mother bears the child, but to deny the father’s existence—”
A priest from the church, who had come to plead with the lord, boldly countered.
“I have not denied the Father. I only say that family passes from Mother to child. Unless we have a way to designate the Father, a Father is a role achieved through effort, not inheritance.”
“Not inherited?! Then there’s no responsibility! According to your logic, children wouldn’t be the Father’s responsibility, only the Mother’s!”
“Exactly. Bearing, raising, and passing on inheritance is the Mother’s duty. The child belongs to the Mother, and the responsibility is hers.”
“That’s absurd! You expect a woman to raise children alone, without a husband? You’re educated, yet you speak such cruel words.”
“You are mistaken! In Saha, all women and children—”
Just as Iola began lecturing about the culture of his homeland, the mansion doors opened.
For nearly two months, they had remained closed.
No matter the effort, the front gate had never opened—but now, the regional lord, Count Bechdelace, appeared.
He ran faster than his attendants, brushing aside the citizens trying to grab him, and seized Iola by the collar.
“You! You! You wretched man! Elena sent you, didn’t she?!”
The young lord, trembling, tried to strangle Iola’s neck.
