Episode 100 #100 "Under Heaven, All Men Are Equal"

The monk Isilla set a cup of mint tea in front of Ian. It was the kind of brew that cleared the mind right down to the depths, befitting an ascetic.

"What a fine saying. Heh heh."

Ian took a sip of the mint tea. Mint—mint, as it was called in other tongues—filled the air with its fresh, invigorating aroma. Ian nodded in satisfaction.

Nice. This is mint. Anyone who wanted to ruin this tangy scent by shoving chocolate into it had to be a total lunatic.

"Too many clerics forget that fact."

"Can't be helped, can it?"

"Can't be helped?" Ian set down his teacup and shot back. "There are plenty of nobles who become priests, aren't there? That Joltin guy seemed like nobility himself."

"Spot on. His uncle's Duke Gazus."

Ooh. A duke. Ian had figured the guy carried himself with more than average authority, but a duke's nephew? That was a surprise.

The Empire boasted five dukes in total, commonly known as the Five Dukes of the Empire. At that rank, they projected an aura rivaling the kings of lesser realms. Joltin might as well have been the emperor's nephew.

"The Church is getting more stratified by the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠day."

Isilla spoke gravely, fretting over the future of the Celestial Faith. In truth, the Celestial Church knew no hierarchies. The Lord of the Heavens reigned supreme, and all other humans stood equal beneath Him. Even the Thirteen Saints, for all their greatness, were mere mortals. Disciples of the Thirteen Saints? Less than nothing.

Yet the world fawned over direct lineages from the saints. Disciples of the Thirteen were dubbed "cardinals," and among them, the disciple of Saint Cassius was called "Pope." It was proof of the Church's creeping secularization.

"Because nobles are becoming clerics."

Under heaven, all men are equal—but was that true even under the roof of a temple?

Could a beggar scraping by on the streets and a wealthy noble ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠who worshipped the same god truly be called equal devotees?

The answer was a resounding no.

Noble-born clerics wielded their money and connections freely, dominating the religious sphere. A respected commoner cleric? No matter the esteem, without displaying miracles from the divine, their limits were clear as day. Meanwhile, the count's son next door passively multiplied loaves of bread from his pockets like it was nothing. How was a common priest supposed to compete with that?

"Equality" was doomed to shatter.

Thus, farmers bowed to priests as they would to nobles. And priests strutted about with chins held high, as if they were lords themselves. A second wave of aristocratization was underway.

"Hm. Yeah, the Imperial Church definitely has a bad vibe."

Belenca shrugged her shoulders. Isilla burst into hearty laughter.

"Different from the Eastern Church, eh? They don't even know who the Pope is over there, do they?"

"The only cleric I know is the priest from my village."

Belenca hailed from the eastern duchy of Winz. Unlike the Imperial Church, steadily infiltrated by nobles, the faith in the duchy remained the people's own. The reason was simple: Winz was a poor, barren land. Nobles had no need to snatch priestly posts there.

So Belenca followed the Celestial Faith without even knowing the Pope's name. She had no reason to. To her, the Pope was just another cleric. Humans were equal anyway—what made him special?

And she was right. The Pope was just a man.

"The secular world's influence is growing stronger by the day, and that emperor isn't just failing to rein it in—he's egging it on..."

The Empire had "bishop-barons": nobles who were both lords and clerics. Hybrids, through and through. Granted lands by the emperor, they served the faith—priests and landowners in one!

Such hybrid nobles usually swore loyalty to the emperor. Isilla viewed them dimly, as they sowed seeds of jealousy in the Pope. Would the Empire's wolfish nobles let that feud fester? They'd scheme to drown one side or the other without batting an eye.

"I hope that fool comes to his senses this time."

Isilla refilled Ian's cup as he spoke. "Thanks for schooling Joltin. That was no ordinary lesson—have you studied the scriptures before?"

"A bit, from a knight-monk named Deektry of the Order of Saint Santiago back in the day."

"Ah! The Order of Saint Santiago! I've heard the rumors. Righteous bunch, they say?"

Ian had no choice but to nod. By modern standards, knights who wandered the Empire performing acts of charity and service solely to aid humanity were impressive indeed.

"That's what faith is supposed to be..."

Isilla smiled bitterly. "But these days, it's all about brewing beer all day and hawking worthless gospels..."

The monk Isilla was a man burdened with worries.

Abbot Renath and Monk Isilla spent quite some time in conversation. Joltin? That punk was an outsider to begin with. Strutting around claiming to be Saint Marcus's disciple until Isilla's honest punch shut him up. He probably wanted to turn into a rat and hide in a hole.

Joltin used to treat the monastery like his personal playground, but after getting reamed by Ian and Isilla, he hadn't set foot in the guest quarters.

"Ian. I have a favor to ask."

Once their discussion aligned, Renath and Isilla summoned Ian.

"A favor?"

"Yes. It ties into that holy relic you brought back."

Ian tilted his head. Not done just by returning it, then?

"First off, that 'relic' Takarion 'borrowed'... I brought it back from the north in my youth."

"What?"

Ian blinked in surprise. Isilla with a holy relic?

"Back then, I was brimming with pointless youthful vigor. As I studied various things, one question nagged at me. Ian, do you know that barbarians and Imperials share the same roots?"

"Eh, more or less..."

His teacher Eredis, the goddess of Namuwiki, had already explained. The Empire's lands once housed natives, but northern barbarians swept down, cleared them out by force, and claimed the territory. Thus, barbarians and Imperials shared blood.

"Isn't it strange? Why do we worship the heavens while barbarians still revere their frigid ice god?"

Not strange at all. The words rose in Ian's throat, but voicing them would just earn a "Are you fucking crazy?" So he stayed mum.

Warm Empire lands favored farming, hence sky worship. Cold northern barbarians clung to ice gods for survival, right? But that was a very non-religious take. Ian opted for empathy.

"Yeah, when you put it that way."

"Knew you'd get it. To satisfy my curiosity, I headed north myself. I preached the word of heaven to the barbarians there."

"..."

In Korea, there's a saying: "Curiosity = heaven." Meaning the world is full of things that kill the curious. To Ian, Isilla's brand of curiosity screamed "doomed."

A monk venturing into barbaric lands to spread the gospel? 200% martyr material!

Yet Isilla survived. He even succeeded in conversion!

"It was tough, but I found a tribe that listened. They were the Ice Claw tribe once—now they've renamed themselves the Heaven Claw tribe."

"..."

Ian was floored. How the hell did you pull that off?! Successful barbarian proselytizing was refreshingly novel. No wonder the other monks revered him...

Crazy acts make lunatics, but pulling them off flawlessly makes heroes. Isilla straddled that line.

"To symbolize abandoning their ice god faith, the Heaven Claw tribe gifted me their sacred object. 'We don't need it anymore—take it to the Empire,' they said."

"And that's what you brought back..."

"Yes. That 'relic.'"

Isilla glared at Renath, who broke out in cold sweats, floundering.

"I-I thought it was a genuine holy item..."

"It is holy! A heretic's holy item!!!"

No arguing that. Isilla had fetched it in his youth, so the monastery had guarded it for nigh on 30-40 years. Miscommunications among monks turned it into a "sacred relic" misunderstanding.

"Caw! Caw!"

Ian eyed the bird perched on the table. So the little guy was northern-born, smuggled south by a monk, and hatched by Ian... His backstory was as convoluted as a chain letter.

"But since you went and awakened that bird, we need to return it north."

"Why? Can't we raise it here at the monastery?"

Isilla looked baffled. "You want to keep a creature heretics deem sacred in a monastery?"

"Well, just tame it properly?"

"Yeah, right—next you'll say manticores can be house pets."

"..."

Ah. Got it. The only way to "tame" a mantacore was to kill it and send it heavenward. Some things in the world just didn't domesticate.

"To me, that bird looks like a phoenix."

"Phoenix? Takarion called it a paradise bird."

"Takarion? What does he know?"

Ian was genuinely impressed by Isilla's razor-sharp logic. Ah, that's how he converted barbarians. Wise old man. Ian's esteem for him rose a notch.

"Just return it to the Heaven Claw tribe, and we're done. But I hear it won't leave your side?"

Ian shrugged. Truth be told, it stuck to Kira just fine—maybe ship Kira north solo? Nah, that'd be trashy. Abandoned folks deserved company.

"So we'd like you to take it north."

Renath jumped in eagerly. "T-Takarion too! If he's alive—please rescue him!"

"Ah, a rescue."

Ian felt zero motivation. If it were some kidnapped princess, sure—hero cosplay time. Trek to the frozen north for a soup-slurping Celestial Faith otaku fanfic writer? Romance? Dead.

And Takarion probably wasn't alive. Dragged off by assassins? Sliced and diced, no doubt.

Main quest: Return the barbarian-sacred bird. Side quest: Confirm Takarion's status, rescue if possible.

"Hm..."

Ian pondered. He'd planned a northern trip anyway. At the far edge lay the Chronomancer Conclave—he wanted to meet some. Plus, check out that ice phoenix Longtail the drake mentioned.

But actually committing to the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cold? Kinda annoying...

"If you go north, I'll give you something you'd find interesting."

Isilla read Ian like a book. Truly a sage elder.

"You're a mage, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then you know barbarians have magic too?"

"Barbarian magic?"

Isilla pulled something from his pocket. Renath freaked out beside him.

"No! Elder! Why bring a heretic's item into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the monastery?!"

"My heart."

What Isilla produced was a half-torn card.