Chapter 237 - 232: Northern Territory Special Missionary Fund
In the early morning of Minas Tirith, the sea fog was like a damp, cold shroud, enveloping everything at the dock construction site.
Fabian stood on the church’s wooden scaffolding, the pine boards under his feet covered in a layer of frost.
Before him, fewer than a hundred workers stood with hats off, heads bowed, listening to his morning blessing.
Many more had gathered in circles not far off, their clamor drowning out the sea breeze.
There, a literate artisan held up a crude pamphlet, painstakingly repeating the pronunciation of a word over and over. Their enthusiasm stood in stark contrast to the quiet scene before Fabian.
"They’ve forgotten the Lord’s teachings," a young assistant said from behind Fabian, his face filled with indignation. "Their minds have been bewitched by those vulgar stories."
Fabian descended from the scaffolding without looking at him. His gaze fell upon the engrossed workers in the distance.
"It’s not the stories that have bewitched them."
"They are simply filling a void. Once the belly is full, the mind grows hungry."
He headed for his quarters.
Along the way, he saw a worker trade a salted fish from his own lunch ration to another literate man in exchange for an old copy of the *Gray Swamp Weekly*.
Once he had the paper, the worker carefully tucked it inside his shirt.
Fabian stopped in his tracks, watching the scene unfold.
’Velin Klein is, in his own way, putting a new price on everything in this land.’
’Knowledge, entertainment, even fabricated hope—it has all been turned into tangible commodities for the common folk.’
His assistant grew increasingly agitated.
"Sir, we must do something. We can’t let this blasphemous ideology spread. We should burn those pamphlets and arrest that so-called theater troupe!"
"And then what?" Fabian shot back. "Have everyone believe the Lord’s light pales in comparison to some dockworker’s tale?"
The assistant was left speechless.
"They’re like children, so captivated by a story that they’ve forgotten the pangs of hunger," Fabian said, pushing open the door to his room.
"You may rest. I will call for you when I am ready," Fabian said. The assistant took his leave.
The room was sparsely furnished with only a hard plank bed, a table, and a chair.
Fabian closed the door, shutting out the noise from the world outside.
He did not light a lamp. In the dim light, he dragged a wooden chest out from under his bed.
Inside the chest was a stone slab about as high as his calf, its surface covered in sharp quartz granules.
He removed his outer robe, leaving him in a thin linen tunic, and knelt upon the slab.
The fine quartz crystals pierced the skin of his knees, but his expression remained unchanged.
From within his tunic, he produced a small obsidian bowl and a fine silver needle.
He pricked his left index finger, and a drop of dark red blood fell into the bowl. The vessel was empty, yet the drop of blood hovered in the very center, spinning slowly and emitting a faint red glow.
Fabian closed his eyes and began to report in a low voice, speaking the ancient tongue of Susa.
"Target: Velin Klein. He is attempting to win the hearts and minds of the populace. He uses theater and popular literature to construct a narrative called the ’Gray Marsh Dream.’ Its core is a labor theory of value, encouraging individual effort and promising worldly rewards. This ideology has already spread rapidly in Newly Town and the Minas Tirith Port District, severely eroding the foundations of the Church’s faith."
He paused, as if listening for a response.
"I recommend we shift our strategy. We must use the Church’s material resources for direct intervention."
"He promises them bread they must pay for; we shall give them bread for free. He makes them sweat for a dream; we shall let them rest in the glory of the Lord."
"I request authorization to use the ’Northern Territory Special Missionary Fund.’ I require a large supply of grain, cloth, and wine. I will distribute these freely to all believers, in the name of the Lord’s grace."
The drop of blood in the bowl began to spin faster, its red glow intensifying.
A warm current rose from the bowl, flooding into Fabian’s body.
It was the signal of approval.
He opened his eyes. The drop of blood in the bowl had vanished.
The pain in his knees remained, but in his heart, he was exultant.
「A week later.」
More people than ever had gathered at the church construction site.
They were not there to work. They had been drawn by a rumor that began circulating the day before.
Fabian stood on a newly erected wooden platform. Behind him stood two assistants, and beside them were towering piles of burlap sacks wafting the aroma of freshly baked bread.
The crowd stirred, whispering amongst themselves, their faces a mixture of doubt and longing.
Fabian did not lead them in prayer, as was his custom.
He simply gazed out at the pairs of eyes below.
"The Lord’s temple requires devout believers. But the Lord also has mercy on His people who suffer in this world."
His voice, projected by some technique, carried clearly to every person’s ear.
"From this day forward, the Lord of Eternal Radiance shall bestow His grace upon this place."
He bent down and pulled a loaf of white bread from one of the burlap sacks.
"Every person who comes for morning prayer will receive one of these Blessed Breads, free of charge."
A low gasp rippled through the crowd. A single loaf of white bread cost a worker half a day’s wages at the merit shop in Mi Port!
Fabian wasn’t finished. He pointed to the wooden barrels on the other side.
"Anyone willing to contribute their labor to building the Holy Temple during their rest time will receive a cup of wine in addition to their bread. Anyone who works for a full week will be given enough linen to make a new shirt."
If there had only been gasps before, the crowd now erupted.
"For free? Is he serious?"
"Gods, there’s wine and cloth, too!"
A foreman pushed his way out of the crowd and shouted, "Father! Are you telling the truth? No merit points? No Copper Leaves?"
"The Lord’s grace does not come with a price," Fabian answered, his voice ringing out.
The foreman spun around and roared at his crew, "What are you all gawking at! Didn’t you hear the Father? Go help move some stones! You want new clothes this winter or not?!"
More and more people surged toward the church. They dropped their tools, abandoning any thought of heading to the docks to work.
The crowd that had been gathered in the distance to listen to the storyteller instantly broke apart, its members scrambling to get closer.
The few guards on duty tried to maintain order but were quickly swallowed by the frenzied mob.
News quickly reached Tristan at the town hall.
The same workers who, just yesterday, had been wringing their hands over whether the play’s hero, Rocky, would be victorious were now shoving their own comrades aside for a piece of bread and a cup of wine.
Fabian stood on the platform, calmly watching it all unfold.
He knew that the order Velin had spent two months establishing—a system of labor in exchange for reward—was disintegrating before his very eyes, piece by piece.