When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

Between the towering hills, the riverbed meandered, wetting the grassy banks along the road.

The original dirt road had been mostly destroyed by the flood, and each step sank into the mud up to the ankles.

Yet, countless straw sandals or bare feet still trod into the mud, pushing carriages stuck in the mire forward.

Beside them, armored soldiers in chainmail and night watchmen ambled along, chatting and laughing about which girl in the village was the juiciest last night.

Leading this group was Quincy, the militia captain of Highfort City.

Quincy's face was covered in red blotches, and his swollen, bulging eyes made one fear they might pop out.

At this moment, he was sitting on a carriage, humming a tune, and counting the silver coins in his pocket.

It was already September 25th, and he should have already arrived at the Gulag Monastery, but he had only traveled two-thirds of the way.

After all, there wasn't much profit to be made in this bandit suppression mission.

A bunch of poor hillbillies who had elected their own pope, what could they possibly have?

When Quincy first heard about the actions of these rebels, he almost laughed for a full five minutes before stopping.

A pope, a papal state, even cardinals, why don't you just add a few decree companies?

And get some titled knights, create a few legions, and you're all set?

All the farces Quincy had seen in the circus weren't as funny as this.

However, in Quincy's opinion, even if these rebels were audacious, they probably wouldn't dare to touch Father Dürdafer.

After all, he was a priest, with the protection of unwritten rules.

If Dürdafer was present, it would be more difficult for Quincy to skim from the monastery's warehouse.

When rescuing Dürdafer, he would have to make a trip to the warehouse first, and the locks were not a problem.

Quincy was a thief by origin!

He became the militia captain by stealing from nobles, betraying his comrades, and then returning the stolen goods to get a noble's recommendation, and bribing the canon with his hidden wealth.

After thorough market research, he discovered that the fastest professions for stealing were priests and nobles, followed by petty officials and city councilors.

For Quincy, the flood was an excellent opportunity because all the tax checkpoints had been washed away.

He decisively mortgaged his position as militia captain, and exchanged it for these ten large carts and matching horses.

Of course, he was short on goods, but he didn't have the money to get them.

Fortunately, he had channels, so he found the Grocer's Guild and a representative from the Megerd Merchant Guild.

He provided transportation, escort, and channels, while the Muse Merchant Guild was responsible for providing the goods.

If everything went smoothly without any risks along the way, the profits would be split fifty-fifty, but if there were risks, it would be forty-sixty.

The standard for casualties in case of risks was the death or injury of night watchmen and armored soldiers.

As for the serfs and tenant farmers pushing the carts, Quincy could get a whole bunch with a wave of his hand.

The ten large carts were now filled with grain, salt, iron ingots, and medicinal herbs. After the flood, the Thousand River Valley, the main grain supply area for Black Serpent Bay, would definitely have reduced or even no harvest.

Then the price of grain and salt on the black market would skyrocket, and with the roads blocked, grain couldn't be transported in anyway, and grain merchants and nobles were hoarding.

Throughout the Thousand River Valley, in the hollows, ditches, and forests, there were riots of starving people and bandits.

The flood also destroyed the connection between the Secret Party and local forces, and the witcher groups took the opportunity to hunt down Secret Party members and destroy disobedient black markets everywhere.

Knights needed weapons to defend against starving people and bandits, witchers needed weapons to pursue Secret Party members, and Secret Party members needed weapons to resist witchers.

Weapons, whether for repair or creation, needed iron.

For the same reason, medicinal herbs could also be sold at a good price.

Not to mention, along the way, he had already earned a full 20 gold pounds from those knights and armed farmers without any backing.

Chaos is a ladder.

Quincy didn't dare to imagine how much this batch of goods could be sold for. He even hoped that some short-sighted bandits would attack him.

As long as one or two night watchmen and armored soldiers were injured, he could get sixty percent of the income from this trip.

Unfortunately, he was holding the banner of Barney Foss, and no starving people or bandits dared to offend him.

How to get his own people injured reasonably was Quincy's problem all along the way.

He had previously asked his confidants to pretend to be bandits to test the waters, but that monk named Bonnerd had recognized him at a glance.

If he hadn't given him a way out, he would have almost fallen out with that little girl from Megerd.

Now that little girl sends people to inspect every day, intentionally or unintentionally, leaving no room for manipulation.

Thinking of this, Quincy resentfully looked into the distance, focusing on the man and woman in the carriage on the left front.

Sitting in the swaying carriage, the girl was wearing simple riding clothes with tight wrists and ankles, but one could still see its simple yet extraordinary lines.

"Monk Bonnerd," the girl with wavy curls covered her mouth and nose with a delicate indigo feather fan, "Look, our militia captain is watching us again."

"Don't mind him, Miss Sissy, he's just a rat in the gutter," Bonnerd snorted. "Just playing these dirty tricks."

"You are so manly," Sissy's eyes were almost sparkling.

She reached out and held the edge of the carriage, as if accidentally, pressing her hand on Bonnerd's hand, and then quickly withdrawing it.

Then she covered more of her face with the feather fan, as if her cheeks were already blushing.

Anyway, Bonnerd's face was already red.

But on his blushing face, his expression was even more serious.

He said righteously: "I have urged him several times to speed up his march to suppress the abominable Secret Party, but he is still dawdling like this. If it were me, I would have arrived at the Gulag Monastery three days ago."

"You are different from him. You are a monk from the Feiliubao Monastery, strictly abiding by the rules, with lofty aspirations, intelligent and self-disciplined..."

"You praise me too much. Compared to the wisdom of Catherine of the Megerd Merchant Guild, my wisdom is just a speck of dust."

"Hahahaha, you are so good at talking, but compared to my mistress, I can only be considered a speck of dust. We can just make a pair."

Bonnerd's mouth was almost grinning to the ears: "Is, is that so?"

"Yes," Sissy giggled, and the side of her calf inadvertently brushed Bonnerd's foot, "Even though I haven't known you for long, I feel like I've known you for a long time. You are the first man to give me this feeling."

"I feel the same way about you."

"Alas." As she spoke, Sissy suddenly sighed again, "How wonderful it would be if you weren't a monk?"

"Things are unpredictable. If I had met you earlier, maybe I wouldn't have become a monk." Bonnerd's mood immediately followed and fell.

He was a Frenchman, from a knight family. Because he was the third son, and because he had excellent grades in the church school, he was sent to the Feiliubao Monastery to study.

From childhood to adulthood, he had only seen nuns who abided by the rules, or monks and priests who were classmates or even bedfellows.

Perhaps Barney Foss had seen too much and returned to simplicity, and preferred the shy and reserved nuns, but Bonnerd didn't like it at all.

He had never seen such a charming and sensible person in his life.

At the thought of parting with her, even though they had only known each other for four or five days, he was so sad that he was about to shed tears.

"Alas, Monk Bonnerd, the thought of parting with you soon breaks my heart."

Bonnerd felt both sweet and painful in his heart. Was she feeling the same way?

"If only I were a member of the Secret Party, then I could take you away, fly away, to a place where no one could find us..."

Bonnerd straightened up and leaned closer: "Miss Sissy, don't make fun of me."

"Then, suppose, I mean suppose, I really am a member of the Secret Party, what would you do to me?"

"...Out of piety to Messala, I shouldn't let you leave, but out of my own heart, I hope you live. If that day really comes, I will let you go, and then atone and pray for you."

"Oh, really?" Sissy covered half of her face with a feather fan and giggled, "You are so kind."