When the Saint comes, she does not collect food.

"Bread time again, brothers!"

A refugee, face smeared with dirt, brandished a moldy black bread sandwich, showing off to his companions.

"Why so early today?"

"Hurry, or you'll be too late."

A group of refugees scrambled up from their grass shacks or beneath trees, scattering like urine flowing in rivulets across the ground, rushing haphazardly towards the monastery.

This was the Gulag Monastery of Hedgerow Shire, situated on high ground, where clergymen would retreat to escape the floods.

Surrounding the monastery were countless gray-black mushroom-like grass nests; a wooden frame covered with thatch was considered a small shelter from the rain.

Arguments over food, staged accidents, or theft frequently erupted among the refugee shacks, while soldiers in chainmail, wearing red and white checkered surcoats, chatted and patrolled, seemingly oblivious, less than five steps away.

"…Reward for information on those involved in the Secret Society, heretics, and the families of witches and other devil worshippers; informants will receive 50 denarii and ten loaves of bread…"

Atop the millstone, a black-robed monk held up a vertical scroll, loudly reciting the ignored bounty notice.

Numb refugees walked around the millstone, struggling towards the aid tent.

They had to hurry, or it would be gone; Bishop Duldav only released enough grain each day to feed one-fifth of the people.

Behind the tent stood the towering Gulag Monastery.

Thin rain mist blurred the monastery's outline, washing through the gaps in the square stones, the delicate columns of the arcades and spires swaying in the misty rain.

Raindrops landed on the mosaic stained-glass windows beneath the semi-circular arches, painting irregular streaks.

On the second floor of the monastery was a scriptorium called the "Dining Room," where Bishop Duldav went to pray.

Compared to the stench of corpses and mold in the outside rain, the scriptorium was filled with the aroma of roast chicken, mead, and white bread.

Scrolls of books were arranged on shelves, covered in dust, and exquisite carvings and delicate tapestries were scattered on the walls; to showcase Messala's glory, crucifixes made of gold, platinum, and amber were essential.

Inside the scriptorium, the slanted writing desk was gone, replaced by a large rectangular flat writing table, reflecting the bishop's daily paperwork.

On either side of the writing table, two figures sat facing each other.

"Huh?" The demon hunter, Jairo, who had barely touched the stool with his backside, suddenly stood up, "Father, are you sure that's the knight you knew? Corpses swell after being in the water for too long; could it be a mistake?"

Sitting opposite the demon hunter was Dalduv, the priest of Hedgerow Shire; he wore a small, brimless hat, his wrinkles filled with smiles, his narrowed eyes often obscuring his gaze.

Stuffing a roasted chicken leg into his mouth, he slammed the table with his fat, coarse palm in dissatisfaction, Duldav said indistinctly, "Impossible to mistake, before the flood, he often came to me to discuss matters, many people here know him, I had a prostitute familiar with him identify him, it's him."

"Messala above." The white-haired demon hunter took a sip of mead to calm his nerves, making the sign of the cross on his forehead with his finger, "Such a noble was murdered, a true pity."

"May his soul find eternal peace in the embrace of the Holy Father." Dalduv coughed, "But the problem is, he didn't die a natural death called by the Lord, but died unnaturally, have you examined his body?"

"I've examined it, I think it's a riot by the mob, because he has hundreds of wounds on his body, all stabbed by different people."

"Mob riot? Knight Barnett has a third-level Knight Breathing Technique, and a master-crafted armor, he once fought vampire pirates in the Zealand Islands, experienced, not some rookie knight." Dalduv slowly shook his head.

The Knight Breathing Technique has always been the secret of the noble class to suppress the commoners, but the level of the breathing technique is only the upper limit of combat power, and does not represent true combat performance.

A rookie knight with a fifth-level breathing technique is likely to be killed by an experienced knight with a third-level breathing technique, which is greatly related to combat experience, weapons, armor, and skills.

"Maybe a monster, maybe a robber, or, there's another possibility."

Dalduv paused slightly, and Jairo's heart trembled.

"The Secret Society and witches." Dalduv stopped the hand that was stuffing food into his mouth, a look of disgust appeared on his face, as if saying the name was a defilement.

"Witches?" With a serious and steady face, the end of Jairo's voice was a bit high-pitched and out of tune.

"It's just a possibility, I didn't say it's certain." Not noticing Jairo's abnormality, Dalduv spread his hands, "I don't believe this is just a mob uprising, it may be the Secret Society and witches stirring things up."

"Why?"

"Oh, Jairo, my old friend, you should know, we have a dangerous witch imprisoned in our dungeon, she's not alone, she was able to hide her identity in Upper River County for five years, I don't believe she has no accomplices."

Standing up, the light of the silver candlestick swayed in the wind, Dalduv walked to Jairo's side, raising his index finger and waving it down heavily: "Barnett's death must have been done by a witch! It must be a conspiracy of the Secret Society!"

Jairo clamped his legs together, trying hard not to pee himself.

"So, Jairo Don Carmado, in the name of Messala, I entrust you with this sacred and dangerous task, find out the cause of Barnett's death, I have sealed off the news, in case someone tips them off, when the rain stops a little, you will take a boat over there, find out the situation there, I will allocate a batch of manpower to you."

Jairo was speechless, his voice stuck in his throat, he could only nod numbly.

"Well! Then I'll leave this matter to you."

Dalduv looked at the cold and stern demon hunter in front of him, who didn't show his emotions and had two scars running across his right eye, and was very satisfied.

Among the many gambling addicts and drunkard demon hunters he had seen, this Jairo was the most reliable.

If Duldav could get promoted this time, continuing to cooperate with the two might be a good idea.

He turned around, took out a bottle of expensive Chuck Monastery wine from the cabinet behind him, and took two bone china wine glasses, pouring a cup for himself and Jairo respectively.

"Okay, don't look so bitter, come have a drink, you've made merit twice in a row, enough for you to be promoted to Wolfsburg." Dalduv raised his glass to Jairo, "When you come back, I'll write you a promotion report, Toast! (Elvish for cheers)"

"Toast!" Jairo drank this cup without tasting it.

With a faint smell of urine, Jairo left.

After Jairo left, a hook-nosed monk immediately entered the door.

He glanced back at the leaving Jairo, looked at the frowning Duldav, and asked in a low voice, "Master, is that Barnett just a country knight? Do we need to care so much?"

"What do you know? Get out!"

With a big belly, Duldav walked back and forth in the scriptorium for two laps, and finally made a decision.

"Floods and famine, witches and secret societies, it's really an eventful autumn."

Looking at the red circle on the wall calendar, Dalduv put on an exquisite cloak embroidered with triangles and vine geometry.

Walking out of the scriptorium door, calling on two armed monks and two guards, Dalduv opened the small door at the back of the corridor, raised a torch, passed through the damp mossy stairs, and entered the dark dungeon.

The light of the torch made the dungeon slightly warmer.

Several mosquitoes and flies flew in the air, behind the sturdy iron bars, a slender and tall figure cowered in the corner.

"Witch!" A guard knocked on the iron bars.

The figure did not respond.

Through the gaps between the iron bars, a gentle smile bloomed on Dalduv's face: "Witch, I'll ask you one last time, where did that thing go? As long as you tell me, although I can't let you go, I can let you live comfortably in prison for the rest of your life."

There was no response.

"This is the last chance I'm giving you, don't be ungrateful."

The witch, with her back to them, still ignored them.

"Is she still alive?" Dalduv asked the guard beside him.

The guard took down the whip hanging on the wall, holding the whip handle and stretched it through the gaps in the iron bars, with a miraculous technique, he lashed out fiercely through the iron bars.

"Pa—"

After the explosive sound of whipping flesh, the body instantly straightened, covering the part that had been whipped and making a suppressed "woo woo" pain sound.

"You son of a witch!" The guard was about to ask for credit, but was kicked in the waist by the armed monk beside him, "Didn't you see the Father Priest here? What if this blow drew blood and infected the Father Priest?"

The guard smiled embarrassedly and threw the whip into the holy water bucket beside him.

"Still not cooperating?" Dalduv continued to smile at the witch, still getting no response.

"Okay." After a long silence, Dalduv completely lost his patience, his slender eyes projecting a venomous light: "Tighten the guard during this time, as soon as the rain stops, pour ten times the holy water into her, turn her into an idiot, hum, what a waste!"

Knocking on the bars again, Dalduv's face was filled with a viciousness that was usually impossible to see.

"I gave you a chance, witch, you should think about it carefully, I won't come down to see you again before the rain stops."

The torch and footsteps gradually faded away, until this time, in the dark corner of the dungeon, a pair of red eyes slowly opened.