Yullan Egoman
Marina knew that name too. Yullan Egoman. Anyone claiming the Silanatiell name had to know it. At the same time, Egoman was a name she wasn't supposed to touch.
As far as Marina knew, saints had no family. If someone bore a saint's name, they were surely connected to the saint directly. That meant Mar Silanatiell might have heard something about the true Silanatiell lineage from him.
But if Alasil faced even a question tied to her family, she couldn't answer even the simplest facts.
While Marina froze in place, Alasil extended her hand first.
"You must be nobility. Nice to meet you."
"Ah, yes. Nice to meet you."
Marina took Alasil's offered hand in a daze. And that was it.
Alasil turned to Marhal. "What brings you here?"
"Does Sister Alasil do dispatch work too? If there's something that absolutely needs a priest, I was hoping you could come by for a bit."
Donate a certain amount to the church, and you could hire a priest temporarily. It was mainly for fresh-faced newbies or oddballs who threw themselves into battlefields. Something the Holy Empire, armed with its sense of chosen superiority, would never seem to do—but real combat built skills as fast as treating high nobles.
The Holy Empire's prestige held because of priests who performed true miracles. The more chances to produce exceptional priests, the better, and dispatches were one way. They weren't cheap either, so financially, it wasn't bad for the Holy Empire.
"What kind of job?"
"Supporting a migrant caravan."
"I'll go."
"Can you decide that on your own?"
"Hey, there's a bug here."
Alasil stepped closer to Marhal. Their bodies nearly touched. She reached for his neck and whispered, "If you need to reach me, toss a note through the second-floor window in the farthest corner of the church the night before or at dawn on the day."
"Won't that cause big trouble?"
"You've seen my skills, right? They overlook my sins because of them, but my standing in the Holy Empire isn't low. Not enough to get pushed around by some potbellied bishop."
"You're even more impressive than I thought."
"Of course."
Alasil stepped back from Marhal. In her hand was an unfamiliar bug. She crushed it between her fingers, then wiped the juices on her clothes.
Marina, who had been watching the two with her hands over her mouth, recoiled in horror at Alasil's actions.
"I'll be waiting."
Alasil smiled and returned to the treatment room for patients.
"Um... are you two dating?"
"No. This is only our third meeting."
"Third time and already that close..."
Marina's face mixed confusion and anticipation. Marhal doused it with cold water.
"What's your first impression of Sister Alasil?"
"First impression..."
Marina's mind grew complicated. She couldn't be sure how much this man knew. He knew the Silanatiell name but not Egoman? It wasn't impossible, but if so, why bring her to the church to meet someone who seemed tied to the saint?
Alasil Egoman was strange too. She'd asked for a handshake right after hearing her name. Did she not know Silanatiell? Or were they both in on teasing her? Their closeness made that seem plausible.
But it was all speculation. Nothing certain.
"Alasil's an odd one, sure. First time I met her, she was selling flags in the pioneer village. You two might've crossed paths."
"You mean that pioneer village with the unusually burly general store owner?"
"Ena's a village landmark. Yeah, that one."
"I've heard of women selling flags there... but why was a church nun hawking flags?"
The more they talked, the more baffling it got. Bearing a saint's name would make her a VIP even in the Holy Empire. For such a person to come all the way to the western edge selling flags? If Marina, prepping for surveys, hadn't heard, it meant utmost secrecy—which made even less sense. Why?
"She said she saw the ad. I was shocked to see her again at church. A chosen priestess running the infamous flag racket."
"Got it. It's all lies to mess with me, right?"
"No, it's true. Plenty bought flags from her—why lie and get caught? Ask her yourself."
"...What the hell kind of person is she?"
Marina muttered with genuine feeling.
"Beats me."
Unfortunately, it wasn't a question Marhal could answer.
After sending off the last patient, Alasil left the chapel. Beyond the door at the back lay the church staff's living quarters. Up to the second floor was her room at the end—the model religious ascetic's space with only bare essentials.
But every piece of furniture was master-crafted luxury; selling one could buy a house in the city center. She hadn't ordered them. The church had placed them there on their own.
Alasil hadn't refused. Why turn down something this nice?
She flung herself onto the bed. It cradled her softly. According to the bishop who'd boasted about it, a mage had custom-made it—drop a boulder, and it wouldn't break. Funny how he hated mages but loved using their goods.
"Silanatiell, huh..."
She'd expected meeting the Hero Party if someone named Egoman showed up. But family instead? Not anticipated.
Her reaction showed she knew the Egoman name but avoided the topic—odd. Probably some family drama.
More concerning was... "That guy. What is he?"
Marhal. He knew. Knew Mar Silanatiell and Yullan Egoman for sure. Otherwise, why bring a church-shunned mage here and introduce her?
Azenman's referral had seemed like just a capable guy at first, but it wasn't that simple. He was hiding something.
Report to the Papal Court, and they'd act—but Alasil wouldn't.
"Nothing in it for me."
As long as she didn't get dragged back to the Holy Empire with the dispatch, it was fine. Watching whatever happened next to him would be a hundred times more fun.
"Migrant caravan. Sounds fun."
Alasil buried her face in the bed and laughed. Staring at patients all day was boring enough to kill; an outing after so long wouldn't hurt.
Marhal returned to the villa to find Strekl and Bayola eating.
"Where'd you go?"
"What you mentioned."
"The migrants?"
"Got a reply right after I sent word. They're coming. Around two hundred, give or take. Could grow."
"Definitely will. Triple if we plan loose?"
Early western pioneering saw floods of demon-displaced refugees. Marhal had experience escorting migrant groups while recruiting for the city.
Once a group formed, locals joined, snowballing numbers.
"Lords won't sit idle if their domains lose masses now."
"We'll bring bargaining chips too."
At pioneering's start, lords let people go. Tables were bare, famines rampant—starving folk just bred plague. But post-war recovery meant lords blocked exits. Losing farmhands left idle land even with generous plots; other sectors suffered too. Mass exodus had to stop.
Individuals like Karian were hard to stop, but groups drew lords personally. Some attacked with soldiers or lured them away. Poor domains trapped folk who wanted out, so big groups sparked secret joiners—then soldiers, fights...
Just grabbing people wasn't simple.
"...Bigger than I thought."
He hadn't expected it. These lifelong duchy folk casually ditching home? Surprising.
"Two hundred's a whole village. But we've poached talent, so no worries. Even a mage!"
"Going's fine, but explain."
Marina spoke up.
"You're okay going? I worried most about you. Union work?"
"Nothing for a while. And I'm not the Union's puppet."
"True."
Surveyors weren't chained. No one bearing Silanatiell would feud over a short absence—especially not after seeing her magic.
"Then explain. What's happening?"
"Strekl's personal matter—bringing about two hundred duchy folk west. Preps for that."
"Understood. That's why Sister Alasil too. Plenty sickly, I bet."
"Right."
Poor health care felled even hale men on long trips. With women, elders, kids? Doubly tough. A healing priest smoothed it.
The Hero Party couldn't have pierced the black fog to the Demon King without their saint.
They'd have failed without any one.
Hero's raw might, thief's odd jobs—not to belittle, just miscellaneous—mage near-omnipotent, saint essential for fog wounds.
Am I the weak link?
He'd guided well. But with the mage's world map, they'd have reached eventually, slower maybe.
Marhal stopped thinking. No point souring his mood.
"Once prepped, round trip to the duchy'll take over a month and a half. Gotta see Lord Azenman first."
"Azenman?"
"Deepest ties there, and hates 'em most. His lordship does."
Impressive in every way. Marhal headed to Azenman's mansion.
He hadn't visited that often even during city-building, but lately it felt frequent.
Luckily, Azenman was home. "Exhausted from all-night ride. Make it quick."
"Need rations for two hundred for three months, fastest possible."
"Why?"
"Time to take in folk, right? One migrant batch."
"Again."
Azenman remembered Marhal's history. Leading migrant trains, influx of talent each time.
"Where to?"
"Duchy."
"Cost price."
Azenman, recalling Marhal's migrant escapades, answered without a second's hesitation.