In the remote small town of Letania, a deacon priest from the Holy Rite of the Light Cross had arrived. Since then, the townspeople loved going to the church for prayers on their days off. The small church was often packed, and even the once-empty donation box began to fill with copper pennies.

Old Father Andre stood on the semicircular altar, with the book version of the “Book of Holy Words” placed on the polished wooden surface. He looked at Olovice standing on the right side below the steps and showed a loving smile.

Since it was Sunday, the church doors were wide open. The pews on both sides were filled with early-arriving believers. Among them were the mayor’s wife, Lady Borgia, the wealthy local farmer Sman, and Ramon, the owner of the Little Bee Bakery. Outside, Sister Hiran and Brother Martin were maintaining order, kindly organizing the crowd, mostly young girls, some with traces of sleep still in their hair, whispering in small groups, their faces excited as they sneaked glances at the deacon priest leading the morning prayer.

A few girls in simple dresses yawned quietly in the distance. It wasn’t their laziness to blame; after all, the morning prayer was too early, and they had to walk a long way to the church, unlike the mayor’s wife, who had a comfortable unicorn carriage, accompanied by a butler and two maids.

The dew on the roadside grass hadn’t disappeared yet, and the thin mist of the Dawn Goddess still enveloped the small village town nestled in the Zimneya Mountains. But the light of a new day was about to arrive.

With the sound of the morning bell, the morning prayer began.

“Father of all gods, omniscient and omnipotent Lord of Light, you grant us the sanctity of soul and body. We welcome the new day with joy and peace.”

“With my spirit, I chant your name, my merciful Heavenly Father. May your wisdom and strength accompany me, keeping pain and disaster at bay.”

“May we ultimately reach your heavenly kingdom.”

“Praise the Heavenly Father, eternal holy light.”

A gentle and clear voice flowed through the small church, like a spring breeze, making everyone feel so comfortable and at ease. As soon as the young deacon spoke, the men and women in the church immediately quieted down.

Listening to Deacon Olovice speak was a pleasure, everyone in the small town thought so. They closed their eyes, interlaced their fingers under their chins, bowed their heads slightly, and recited the morning prayer together.

After the morning prayer ended, Olovice put away the heavy black leather-bound “Holy Rite of the Light Cross,” made a cross over his heart with his right hand, and bowed slightly to the believers.

The believers stood up, and the gentlemen in the front row would remove their hats and nod in return, while the ladies and young women would clasp their hands in front of their chests and bow slightly to show their devotion.

Then came the distribution of the Sunday sacrament.

The sacrament was simple: a piece of bread and a cup of clear water, free of charge. The mayor’s butler took the sacrament on behalf of the lady, placing it in a parchment bag, taking only the bread.

The light brown paper bag was decorated with purple sparrowtail flowers, with a beautiful Hearn script advertising slogan: “Harry’s Paper Bags, for your noble convenience.” At the bottom was the address of the paper bag manufacturer, located at 104, Area 2, Sparrowtail Manor Industrial Park, outside Mincheswei.

It’s said that Mincheswei is a romantic city, one of the main cities in the north of the Hearn Kingdom. The people of Mincheswei are passionate, accustomed to decorating their city with various flowers. Even the noble titles, street names, and various business logos are often named after flowers. The main city even has a sky garden built by a great noble, filled with ever-blooming flowers…

Olovice looked at the manufacturer’s address and instantly thought of the book “Mincheswei, the Eternal Flower Kingdom” he saw in Father Andre’s study. However, it took him six or seven seconds to understand the advertisement because he had only been learning the language of this other world for a year and a half. When the Hearn script got fancy, he needed time to decipher it.

The mayor’s wife walked to the donation box and pulled out a Hearn gold note from her handbag. To be honest, since coming to this other world, this was the first time Olovice had seen such a large denomination note.

The note, with its fresh, pungent ink smell, glowed with a faint green luminescence in the sunlight. It had intricate silver patterns around the edges, with a golden wheat ear on the right side of the front, featuring the portrait of the great Hearn Empire’s ruler, Caesar VII, and the empire’s emblem, a roaring lion with crossed swords. The back flashed briefly, with the number one in the upper left corner and what seemed to be the church’s symbolic Light Cross emblem in the lower right corner.

Olovice quickly averted his gaze.

He smiled as he distributed the sacrament and encountered the owner of the Little Bee Bakery, a middle-aged man with a cheerful width. The increasingly plump Ramon had a rosy complexion. He drank a cup of clear water, beaming, and said, “Olovice, can I invite you to baptize my little John tomorrow morning?”

“Of course, it would be my honor,” Olovice replied with a smile. Uncle Ramon’s youngest son was born on Friday, and to celebrate his arrival, the lemon cakes at the Little Bee Bakery were 20% off. That evening, Olovice gritted his teeth and spent one soule and three pennies to buy a cake. Uncle Ramon even gifted him a small bag of breadsticks.

I must say, after sharing the refreshing, not-too-sweet lemon cream cake with Father Andre, Sister Hiran, and Brother Martin, the sweetness was a great comfort to Olovice’s soul, which had been tormented by the intense study of the otherworldly language for the past year and a half, akin to a high school senior’s final sprint.

Ramon walked to the donation box, thought for a moment, and put in three soules. Father Andre had just thanked the generous mayor’s wife, and he said to Ramon, holding the sacred cross on his chest, “May the Lord’s light bless your family.”

Uncle Ramon left, satisfied.

Father Andre watched Ramon leave and then said to Hiran, “Tomorrow morning, Olovice will replace me to baptize Ramon’s youngest son. Hiran, you should go with him.”

Sister Hiran adjusted her washed-out nun’s habit and nodded, her light brown eyes full of understanding. “The child will do well. He’s just like you were when you were young, serious and responsible.”

Andre said, “I’m not worried about the baptism process, but Olovice’s curiosity is too strong. He’s like a fledgling eagle that has just opened its eyes and hasn’t learned to fly, interested in everything, which isn’t a good thing.” He paused and added, “The witch of the black swamp in the dense forest isn’t good-tempered. You need to make sure he doesn’t go into the forest.”

Brother Martin said in a muffled voice, “Don’t worry, Father. Hiran and I have already warned him. Olovice won’t go, and we’ll keep an eye on him.”

Farmer Sman approached the donation box, and Andre smiled as he saw Sman put in five soules. He offered a blessing. Not everyone who attended morning prayers donated; only those with wealth would donate when in a good mood, or when they felt particularly troubled and needed guidance.

A donation of five soules was considered quite generous for a small town like Letania, usually only seen during major festivals like the Lord’s Holy Feast Day.

And today, the mayor’s wife donated a Hearn gold note worth one gold pound. This winter, the patients and orphans at the Cross Welfare Institute would have a much better life. Thank you, Lady Borgia, thank you, Heavenly Father, Father Andre said sincerely in his heart.

“I’ll keep an eye on him too,” Sister Hiran said. “I’ll handle the blessings for the remaining people. Father, you’re getting older; you can go to the back hall and rest.”

“I’ll help you back,” Martin said.

“And don’t forget to have Olovice prepare the holy water for tomorrow’s baptism,” Andre told Hiran. He was indeed getting older, already seventy-three this year, and needed reading glasses to see who was coming. His legs weren’t good either. Technically, he should have retired three years ago, but Letania was too remote, separated from the nearest city, Montpelier, by a mountain range. Compared to the holy clergy in the big cities of Hearn, Letania was an extremely backward rural place.

There were no fast telegraphs, no extensive steam trains. The village’s only communication point was an old post office, and the postman’s mode of travel was a worn-out, slow bicycle. Similarly, most families in Letania didn’t have convenient, advanced gas lighting; they still used old oil lamps or lanterns. Streetlights were a luxury, a high-end treatment only available in big cities. When it rained, the country roads were muddy, and even when it didn’t rain, they weren’t much better. There was nothing here.

No wonder the orthodox clergy from the Light Cross Seminary didn’t want to come. Three years ago, he had expressed his desire to retire to the higher-ups, namely Bishop Ulrich of the Montpelier Diocese, and subtly hinted that a new priest was needed to take charge of the Letania church.

In response, Bishop Ulrich wrote back, saying that the graduates of the Montpelier Light Cross Seminary had been assigned to churches near the city, and unfortunately, there was no suitable candidate at the moment. They would have to wait for the next graduation season.

The following spring, he wrote again, and Bishop Ulrich replied that due to the good relationship between Montpelier and the Baron of the Black Tower in Morito City, the few graduates of that year had been invited by the Baron to Morito City to assist in repairing and maintaining the Black Tower’s forbidden area, as there were disturbances from the demons imprisoned there, requiring clergy to suppress them.

Andre was helpless. The main force in fighting demons was the church’s Inquisition and the Black Knight Tribunal, those combat personnel. He remembered that Morito City had a Black Knight Tribunal outpost. Sending graduates to assist seemed reasonable, but Andre wasn’t sure if this was just an excuse to refuse.

So he stayed year after year, guessing that perhaps in a few years, the Letania church and the nearby city churches would merge.

But then, one rainy night last spring, he found Olovice at the edge of the dense forest.

The rain was heavy in the dark night, and the winter chill hadn’t passed. Accompanied by howling winds, Father Andre, holding a lantern, saw a young man stumbling along, eyes blank, looking like a drenched chicken.

Olovice was truly in a sorry state back then.

Father Andre quietly watched Olovice now. He had a head of extremely brilliant golden hair, slightly curly and tied at the back with a linen strip. The sunlight danced on his hair, making the edges of his long golden hair almost appear translucent, as if soaked in light.

Olovice wore the simplest deacon’s long white robe, cinched at the waist. In the sunlight streaming through the window, he seemed to glow.

The light favored him so much.

His sky-blue eyes were listening to the believers, gently guiding them through their troubles, his handsome and deep face full of warmth.

Andre noticed a little girl in front of Olovice, who at first listened to him speak, but eventually just stared at his face.

Andre coughed from a distance, and the little girl blushed and ran away.

Olovice maintained his perfect smile and demeanor, a smile he had practiced in front of the mirror for a long time, the gentlest and most approachable.

Father Andre shook his head, left the hall, and entered a two-story small building behind the church. The small town of Letania lacked funds and didn’t have a monastery. Sister Hiran and Brother Martin lived on the first floor, while he and Olovice lived on the second floor. Father Andre looked out the window and saw the unicorn carriage still parked in front of the church.

Lady Borgia wore a wide-brimmed lace hat and a green corset dress, the latest fashion from Montpelier, clearly having dressed up. Her two maids, one holding an umbrella for her and the other tidying her dress.

“Olovice must have been a noble before, right?” Martin also saw it and speculated, “Otherwise, how could he know so much and paint Lady Borgia so accurately? By the Father above, when I saw Lady Borgia’s portrait, I thought she was standing right in front of me.”

Andre was also curious about Olovice, but Olovice had lost his memory and couldn’t remember anything. Even his name was self-given, making it impossible to know his past.

However, Andre agreed with Martin’s words. Olovice must have been a well-off noble or upper-class person before. Only they would have the leisure and money to study and learn those arts, like painting, music, and dance.

Olovice naturally noticed Lady Borgia outside the door.

The unicorn with a spiral horn really caught his attention. Maybe the villagers were used to it, but Olovice found it fascinating every time he saw it.

Olovice nodded and smiled at Lady Borgia, indicating for her to wait a moment. Last week, Lady Borgia had invited him to her vineyard to paint her portrait, and Olovice had accepted.

After all, Lady Borgia was always wealthy and generous. Once the painting was finished, she would also give him a gratuity.

But first, he had to finish his duties at the church. After everyone left, Sister Hiran brought over the donation box, the copper pennies inside making a pleasant sound as they clinked together.

“Olovice, don’t forget to prepare the holy water,” Sister Hiran said. Before Olovice arrived, she was responsible for managing the church’s property and facilities, recording funds, and handling external charity and aid. Martin was in charge of cleaning and maintaining the church and organizing church activities. When the priest was in good health, he would personally conduct masses, baptisms, weddings, pray for the sick, guide believers, spread the Father’s gospel, and teach the Bible.

Now that Olovice was here, he shared half of the priest’s work, allowing Father Andre to relax a bit.

“Okay, Sister Hiran, I’ll prepare it when I return in the evening,” Olovice said. Since learning the Holy Light technique, he had become quite adept at preparing holy water.

Sister Hiran said, “Just remember. Now go, don’t keep Lady Borgia waiting too long. Give me the Holy Rite, and I’ll put it back in your room.”

“Thank you, Sister Hiran,” Olovice said, handing the book to her.

Sister Hiran advised, “Lady Borgia buys the ‘Lady’s Handbook’ published by a Montpelier publisher every month. If you want this trip to the vineyard to be a success, you can listen to her talk about the fashion trends in the big city. She’ll be happy to have someone to discuss these things with.”

Got it, be a patient listener when necessary, Olovice understood. Indeed, Lady Borgia’s needs were no longer the basic needs of most villagers but a higher level of spiritual needs. In a remote town, she longed for the prosperity of big cities, chasing the latest fashionable dresses and jewelry, but there weren’t many people around to notice, appreciate, or even admire her. She must feel frustrated and restless.

But this topic was also a challenge for Olovice.

After all, in his previous life, he didn’t pay much attention to fashion.

Olovice tried hard to recall a book he had read in Father Andre’s study about the Silver Moon Capital. That book had a few extra lines about the makeup and clothing of the Silver Moon nobles. When discussing trends with Lady Borgia, he couldn’t afford to slip up.

After all, Lady Borgia had just donated a Hearn gold note worth one gold pound, equivalent to twenty soules, or two hundred and forty copper pennies!

For the sake of those lovely coins… no, for the sake of art, he had to try his best.

Olovice was determined.