Chapter 17

“There are no mages in Albion, so it can only be magic scrolls,” Veris said as he continued walking forward. “Generally, you just need to use up the magic in the scroll, but judging from the looks of it, it won’t be able to use it up anytime soon.”

"A scroll with such magical power is probably not from an ordinary magic apprentice."

He stood in front of the door, his eyes turning cold.

The priests of county churches and below mostly possess magic scrolls made by magic apprentices. They only store more powerful magic scrolls in dangerous areas.

During the previous defense of Albion, he saw that the magic scrolls in the hands of those priests were at least of the fourth rank, but he didn't think much of it and assumed that they were rising magicians from Mercury. Generally speaking, magicians would cooperate with the church, which was also the monopolist of most information such as magic books.

As for whether anyone would be unhappy, Veris didn't care.

Accepting the protection of the High Papacy, obtaining learning materials, and receiving instruction from high-ranking mages, only to end up with these mages providing some magic scrolls for practice—this deal isn't exactly a bargain.

Besides, their church doesn't use magic scrolls to kill and set fires.

But things are different now. Burning relief supplies is no different from murder and arson. On a grand scale, it's a provocation against the entire Orlando Church and an open challenge to the church. On a smaller scale, it's settling a personal score. No matter what, it cannot be forgiven.

Veris raised his hand, and the air seemed to distort itself. With his other hand, he took a piece of paper from his satchel, released it, and the paper flew towards the fire.

The scorching heat fell on his face, and the young man's usually pale face flushed red.

Her lips had gained a bit more color, whether from the heat of the fire or from anger, I don't know.

The fire dwindled instantly and soon went out. Veris, standing inside the house, stared intently at a spot near the window, where a small opening had appeared—the very spot where the magic scroll had been inserted.

A magic scroll is essentially a magic circle inscribed on a scroll. To ensure the smooth operation of the magic, the requirements for the magician to inscribe it are extremely high, and the magic power injected is three to four times that used in normal magic.

This method has existed since the Orlando era, but the magicians of the past were much stronger than they are now. Magic scrolls existed, but not many. Magicians advocated true magical clashes, chanting spells, wielding staffs, and a powerful magic circle was enough to carve out a great rift in the territory of the continent of Icarus.

Back then, any famous magician could be compared to the five great magicians of the High Priestess.

Savagery and bloodshed were the themes of Orlando before the turn of the century.

Veris's eyes flickered. He turned and walked out of the room, which reeked of burning, and looked at Nelson: "When did that caravan leave?"

“This morning, they spent a large sum of money to ransom the people last night and left early this morning.” Nelson said with a grim face, clearly not expecting that the group would hold a grudge and return to set fire.

More precisely, he hadn't expected that group of people to have magic scrolls.

Ordinary magic scrolls are sold at high prices, while the next best are those produced by the Vatican and used by priests or other clergy.

Using expensive magic scrolls to retaliate against the church is... truly acting on impulse.

However, the fat businessman seemed very powerful. Although he behaved himself a bit during his few days in prison, Nelson couldn't help but feel annoyed that he hadn't taken the sinister look in his eyes when he left.

It was getting late, and after this incident, Veris simply gave up the idea of ​​going on a field trip. Nelson was still having people take stock of the burned relief supplies. He sat on a chair in the front hall of the Mercenary Association, thinking about whether to ask the church to send another batch of supplies.

As the sun set, its orange-yellow light bathed the ground. Veris, gazing at the light streaming in, snapped out of his reverie, stood up, and prepared to go have dinner.

He usually has dinner at Martin's Tavern.

However, I happened to be there during the Mercenary Association's mealtime today, so I can freeload a meal.

Veris, who had done Nelson a great favor, soon received a lavish dinner. The Mercenary Guild had a communal dining hall where some people liked to eat together, while others preferred to take the food back to their rooms.

When Nelson finished his work, he was covered in sweat. After his subordinates reported that Veris had gone to eat, he went to the dining hall and, sure enough, found Veris in a corner, having almost finished eating.

Because some of the mercenaries had gone with the church to the countryside to help refugees, there weren't many people in the hall at the moment. Veris was sitting in a corner with his back to the door, making him even more inconspicuous.

Nelson walked over quickly. Veris heard the footsteps behind him, put down his spoon, and turned to look at Nelson.

"Were the supplies damaged a lot?" Veris asked him.

Nelson nodded, his brow furrowing. "Only the stuff piled at the bottom wasn't burned. The fire was too fierce; it damaged at least most of the stuff."

“Let’s wait for Father Webster to return and then have him inform the church to replenish supplies,” Veris said. The lights in the hall were not very bright, and since the sun had completely set outside, the light inside was dim, so he was almost completely sitting in darkness.

“It was my fault for not keeping it safe. I will transfer some money from my private account to the church.” Nelson frowned; he was a man who kept meticulous accounts.

However, in this case, even if it had been discovered earlier, it probably wouldn't have changed the outcome.

Veris lowered his eyes. The small magic circle on the magic scroll was very ingenious. If it were discovered in advance, the magic scroll would be activated instantly, and the person who discovered it would be engulfed in flames that could not be extinguished.

They wouldn't stop until people were burned alive.

He frowned. He hadn't seen such a ruthless method of killing in many years. The creator of that scroll must have done it intentionally. No wonder that merchant had the audacity to act so arrogantly. If he hadn't been there, the mercenary guild would probably have been destroyed in flames.

He'd like to find an opportunity to visit Mercury City. He wanted to see who had trained the magician who could create a magic scroll with two magic circles.

In that case, that person's rating is probably above the sixth rank. According to the minimum standard of the five great mages of the High Papacy, the inscription of a double magic circle can only be done by a seventh-rank mage.

In a short while, after a thousand thoughts raced through his mind, Veris, sitting in the darkness, finally looked up and smiled: "It's getting late, I have to go to the tavern. The priest and the others should be back later."

Nelson nodded absentmindedly. After the fire, he had someone write a letter and send it by pigeon to the priest and his party in the countryside.

Veris tidied up his dishes, handed them to the helper, and then turned and walked out of the Mercenary Association.

As we approached the front hall, we heard a commotion, presumably because Father Webster and his entourage had returned.

The front hall was brightly lit, as bright as day. The priest and another pastor each led a group of mercenaries to help the refugees. It was the priest's group that returned, including Arnold and Allen.

As soon as Veris appeared, Arnold's eyes lit up, but the next second, he suddenly remembered the strange stories he had heard in the tavern a few days ago, and the words of greeting stuck in his throat. Seeing this, Allen next to him tugged at him.

The two stood in the corner, hunched over like quails, afraid of being discovered by Veris.

However, this time Veris didn't pay attention to the two men's little tricks. Father Webster immediately went up to him and thanked him, saying, "It's good that you're here, Mr. Veris."

Veris shook his head: "The fire is too fierce, and there's only a small portion of the supplies left. We should contact the church as soon as possible to send more... It would be better to have a few apprentices or warriors escort them." He had a feeling that the group of merchants would cause trouble again.

The old priest's bright eyes were now filled with anger: "Replenishing supplies is not a problem, but this time the church must hold the magician behind him accountable. The relief efforts concern hundreds of refugees, how can we delay because of this person's selfish desires?"

He naturally assumed that Veris could solve the fire, probably because of the magic scroll left behind by that holy son.

However, the urgent matter of rescuing refugees is right now, so he has to put this matter aside for now and investigate it in detail when he gets back.

Veris was still thinking about his work hours, so after exchanging a few words with Father Webster, he hurriedly left the Mercenary Guild.

In the corner, Arnold whispered, "He doesn't seem to see us."

Allen: "He was going to be late for work, that's why he walked so fast."

Arnold's eyes widened: "Alan, how did you know?"

Allen took a slight breath and remained silent. What could he say? That he had been secretly observing Veris for a long time? But over the years, he hadn't actually discovered anything.

Perhaps the biggest discovery is that Veris's former adopted son was no ordinary person, but that person was also sent away by Veris and has not returned to this day.

The words spoken by bards are three parts truth and seven parts falsehood. Sometimes he doesn't even know if those strange and unpredictable stories are true or just something Veris made up on the spot.

He once casually asked Veris during halftime.

The poet was engrossed in writing the story he had just sung, the ornate characters falling onto the paper. He didn't even look up when he heard this, but his languid voice was particularly noticeable in the noisy tavern.

"Whether it's real or fake doesn't matter; what matters most is that people like it."

"Things that are liked are the things that have value."

A note from the author:

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