The evening had settled quietly over the town when Zimus gave his explanation to the people.
The remnants of the earlier celebration had already faded. The decorations still hung loosely across the streets, swaying gently in the cooling air while the liveliness had diminished into something softer and more contemplative.
A few townspeople lingered in small groups, speaking in low voices as if they were reluctant to let the day fully end.
At the center, the old man was surrounded by a modest crowd. As expected, he had begun speaking again.
Unlike the priest at the church, Zimus did not stand above the people nor did he deliver his words with rigid authority.
Instead, he positioned himself among them, speaking in a tone that invited their participation rather than obedience.
It felt less like a sermon and more like a gathering of the equals, just like an open exchange where several doubts were not suppressed but welcomed.
Somehow, people seemed to prefer it this way.
They did not simply listen and nod. They questioned, argued, and at times, they even disagreed. Yet through that process, something that was resembling the understanding began to take a shape.
Baston stood at the edge of the gathering, observing in the silence.
"Zimus…" one man asked after a moment of hesitation, "What should we do if we encounter someone poor nearby? Should we help them or leave them be? We don't have the means to help everyone in the world after all."
A murmur spread among the others. It was a question many of them had likely considered but never voiced.
Zimus did not answer immediately. He stroked his chin and his gaze was drifting briefly across the group before returning to the man who had spoken.
"The first thing is to understand why that person has become a poor…"
The crowd quieted. Everyone started to take a note about what the old man wanted to explain.
"If the misfortune struck them and if they suffered from the disaster, illness, or circumstances beyond their control, then offering help is a good thing. That is the kindness and that is what people should do."
Several nodded in agreement. However, Zimus did not stop. He continued and his tone was shifting slightly.
"But, if they lost everything because of their own actions, if they squandered their wealth, if they gambled it away, or if they refused to take the responsibility for their own lives, then helping them may not be the right choice."
A few exchanged glances. The old man then clarified further about what he understood based on the experience.
"Why should we help someone who destroys themselves willingly? There are many others in this world who struggle despite doing their best. If we must choose, should we not give our help to those who truly need it?"
"Yes… that makes sense…"
"I agree…"
The responses came gradually but they were firm. Baston also listened without interruption.
The reasoning was not unfamiliar yet it carried a different weight in this world. In his previous life, such a viewpoint would likely have been challenged more aggressively.
There would be arguments about the systemic inequality, unseen circumstances, and the complexity of human failure. Here, the perspective was simpler.
It was more direct. Perhaps, even harsher yet he did not feel the need to interfere.
Every world functioned according to its own rules, shaped by its own history and limitations. Imposing his former values onto this place would not necessarily improve it. If anything, it might create the imbalance.
He had no intention of playing the role of a savior.
Living quietly was enough and surviving comfortably was better. And if possible, returning to his original world remained a distant and unspoken desire.
The discussion continued for a few more minutes before it was gradually dissolving. One by one, the townspeople departed. Their conversations were trailing off into the night until only Zimus remained.
The old man exhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders as if he was releasing the weight of the new responsibility.
That was when Baston approached.
Without a word, he placed a bottle of ale in front of him. Zimus slowly blinked before he broke into a grin.
"This is your reward from earlier. The innkeeper gave it to me since she assumed you caused trouble for her guests."
"Ha… ha… ha…"
Zimus laughed heartily, accepting the bottle without hesitation. He uncorked it and took a long drink. His expression was relaxing almost instantly.
"It's a perfect timing," he said with satisfaction, "I was just getting thirsty."
Baston watched him for a moment before speaking again, "I thought you would avoid drinking now that you believe in God."
Zimus lowered the bottle, raising an eyebrow, "Why would I?"
"Doesn't your faith forbid it?"
Zimus chuckled, "Not from what I've seen. I've gone through the Ten Commandments more than once. There's nothing in there that says I can't enjoy a drink."
"I see…" Baston said calmly, "Still, you should be careful not to overdo it."
"Of course..." Zimus nodded and his tone was turning slightly more serious, "Drinking itself isn't the problem. What will be a problem is losing control. If I get drunk and start doing things I shouldn't, then that becomes a sin. So, I'll keep it in check."
For a brief moment, the silence settled between them. What had begun as a simple act of returning the ale had turned into an unexpected conversation.
Baston found himself studying the old man more closely. Zimus had changed and that much was undeniable.
The man who once spoke crudely and acted without restraint now carried himself with a strange sense of purpose. His words were more polite, his actions were disciplined, and almost every sentence he spoke somehow circled back to his newfound faith.
It was unsettling how one event could change the old man completely. He wondered how long it would last.
The change, especially the drastic one, was rarely stable. The habits that were formed over years did not disappear overnight. At some point, something would test that transformation.
Whether Zimus would endure it or revert remained to be seen.
"You know…" Zimus said suddenly, placing a hand on Baston's shoulder, "You were right about something earlier."
Baston glanced at him, wondering what thing that was correct from him. After all, his earlier action had already fooled everyone.
"I didn't do anything to those women. At least, not in the way people might think. Back then, I convinced myself I was helping them. I gave them work and I gave them an income."
His grip tightened slightly, "But at the same time… I took away their dignity."
"Selling their bodies was never right but I told myself it was better than nothing. That if I couldn't do things properly, then doing something halfway was still better than doing nothing at all."
He let out a dry laugh, "It's a convenient logic, isn't it?"
"It is…" Baston replied.
"Now… I want to ask for their forgiveness. But they… they don't blame me as much as I expected. They say they understand my limits. That I was at least kind enough not to abandon them completely."
He shook his head, "Honestly, I don't deserve that kind of understanding but I'm grateful for it."
Baston let out a faint chuckle, "Sounds like you're quite lucky to avoid the punishment."
"I am…"
Zimus smiled. For a moment, neither of them spoke before Baston stepped back.
"My vacation is nearly over. I should return to the academy tomorrow. It's better to get some rest."
"I see…" Zimus nodded thoughtfully, "Before you go… how about making a donation to the town?"
Baston's expression twitched. Of all things, the old man had chosen to ask that and he did not talk it subtly either.
The old man burst into laughter after noticing his reaction. He sprouted his reasoning while waving his hand.
"Relax, relax… I'm just joking… You don't have to take it seriously."
Baston narrowed his eyes slightly, "Are you sure?"
"Of course… I don't want to turn into those priests who pester every passerby for the donations. If you feel like giving, then just give. If not, then forget it."
"I see…"
With that, Baston left. He returned to the inn alone and his thoughts were lingering on the conversation.
Regarding the donation, the idea itself was not unreasonable but giving money directly felt inefficient.
If he was going to contribute, it would be better to do so in a way that actually served a purpose.
After some consideration, an idea formed. He approached the innkeeper, asking another means for something like the donation.
"Is it possible to purchase several vouchers for lodging? It will be traded for staying here then."
The innkeeper blinked in surprise, "Vouchers?"
"Yes… For a night's stay… It's a part of my donation to this town though…"
The understanding slowly dawned on her face, "You plan to donate them but in different way?"
Baston nodded. Of course, it was not for his personal use. The vouchers would be given to Zimus and it would be gifted for what he would undoubtedly call the God's work.
The innkeeper's expression brightened, "That's… actually a wonderful idea..."
Compared to the direct donations, this approach carried more meaning. It allowed the town to extend their hospitality to the visitors, especially to those who might come seeking the answers after hearing Zimus's preaching.
"If people from the outside grow curious and come here, this could help them stay longer. It would show that our town welcomes them."
Baston did not dwell on her reasoning. He simply paid for one hundred vouchers with fifty-five thousand pounds.
The innkeeper nearly froze. She stared at the money, then at him before her disbelief quickly turning into delight.
"Thank you… truly!"
She had not expected someone so unassuming to possess such wealth, let alone spend it so casually.
The boy offered no explanation. With the matter settled, he returned to his room and rested.
*****
The next morning came quickly.
The innkeeper had already arranged a carriage for him, one that would take him directly to Prius Academy. It was not a magical carriage, merely a standard one but it would suffice.
The coachman was waiting outside by the time that Baston finished his breakfast.
"Safe travels, young master!" the innkeeper called, waving enthusiastically.
"Thank you…" Baston replied with a nod.
"If you ever return to Maskar Town, please stay here again!"
"I will…"
The carriage then began to move. As the inn receded into the distance, he allowed himself a small smile.
His stay had been eventful.
Reaching into his belongings, he retrieved the old book and opened it. His quest results appeared before him.
"Not bad…" he murmured.
It was not exceptional but it was far from poor. Given the circumstances, he had expected worse.
Perhaps, the outcome was limited because the women still relied heavily on Zimus.
Taking the reward, he examined it closely, "Sanctuary Insignia…"
His expression grew thoughtful.
Previously, he had obtained Blizzard and Inferno. The former had already been used, leaving him with Inferno as his primary offensive option.
But for this one, it was different since a holy attribute was very rare and dangerous.
Magic of this nature was closely tied to the church. Using it carelessly could attract unwanted attention. Such attention that would complicate the matters significantly.
Even revealing his lesser abilities had been risky.
"This could cause an uproar… It's best to keep it hidden…" he muttered.
Closing the book, Baston leaned back slightly as the carriage rolled forward.
The pace was slow and unrefined. It was nothing like the efficiency of magical transport and yet, it was peaceful.
The scenery unfolded gradually with fields of green, scattered wildflowers, and birds across the sky. For once, he allowed himself to simply observe. In the sky above and unseen, his puppets hovered.
It was watching, tracking, and monitoring him below. It did not take long for the birds to notice something unusual.
There were scattered people far away, keeping their distance yet maintaining a clear line of sight to the carriage.
The coachman remained focused and unaware.
Another puppet observed him closely but nothing was suspicious which meant he was not involved with the people from the back.
Baston directed several birds downward, guiding them toward the figures that were hidden among trees and bushes. Their voices carried faintly their own intention.
"The mission is failed and the target is still alive..."
"What do we do now? Our lord won't tolerate this…"
"Damn it… that kid is stronger than he looks…"
"Should we ambush him now?"
"Are you insane? That's suicide…"
"Then, we could only report back..."
"Yes… We'll need stronger people next time..."
"That boy… Baston… He won't live long... Sooner or later, Master Clark will deal with him…"
The group of people split shortly after. Some retreated while the others remained. They were still watching and waiting for an opportunity.
In the meantime, Baston exhaled slowly. He never thought it had come to this.
For a brief moment, he considered acting and eliminating them before they could escalate the situation.
His puppets began to shift, preparing to strike but then, he stopped the urge to kill the people. The transformation halted and one by one, the puppets returned.
There was no need to act impulsively. It was not yet the time. However, the name of the mastermind echoed in his mind which was Clark.
With it, a memory surfaced once again where he met with the arrogant and obsessive boy in Zeverius Academy who relentlessly in pursuit of Alicia.
On the surface, he played the role of a refined noble but beneath that, something darker lingered.
"So, you're still holding onto it…" Baston thought.
He had underestimated him.
The boy even dared to track his movements, to wait for him to be alone, and to orchestrate an attack that was disguised as the coincidence.
"He's really persistent..." Baston leaned back and his gaze was steady, "This could become troublesome..."
A faint smile formed on his lips as he looked ahead.
If Clark truly wished to play this game, then sooner or later, someone would have to lose.