Olga retreated, step by step, slowly backing away. This female warrior, once known as "Olga of the White Wolf" on the icy plains before she became a tribal priestess, quietly tugged at the wolf pelt on her shoulder. The white wolf’s ears, silent and alert, twisted inward and outward, swiftly rotating.


    The sound carried by the breeze was thus, through the white wolf, funneled into Olga’s ears.


    "I am but an old and frail elder, wishing only to treat the people here, to aid them, and to let them know of our Lord’s grace," the elderly priest’s voice was gentle and slow, tinged with weariness:


    "Let the task of glorifying our Lord with sword and fire, blood and flame, not fall upon me."


    "You are too modest, Master. The name ’Justice Martin’ has been mentioned by my teacher no less than ten times. My teacher also emphasized before coming to the North that we must seek your assistance for this mission, no matter what."


    A young man took over the conversation. Olga frowned upon hearing the voice:


    It was brimming with vigor, clearly that of a knight. Despite the earnest tone, there was a hint of slickness that reminded her of several unwelcome suitors from before her marriage. Who was this fellow? The leader of this group?


    "I’ve grown old, merely wishing to live out the rest of my days in peace," chuckled Priest Martin. His worn-out shoes shuffled towards the church’s entrance. With a creak, the door hinge moved but jammed midway:


    "Lord Martin, our visit to the North this time does not bring blood and fire," another voice, older and more composed, interjected:


    "We’ve brought food and strong liquor, as well as numerous medicines, hoping to express our goodwill and spare the Northern people from hunger and sickness. Lord, could you see if there are any more supplies needed to better assist these people?"


    "Hmm..."


    The old priest hummed softly, continuing inside. Five or six footsteps followed him, while more people dispersed in every direction, surrounding the small church and extending their search further out.


    Olga gestured in the darkness. A group of barbarians, carrying gifts, silently withdrew like a pack of wolves. Returning to her husband’s side, she thought for a moment, penned a line of text, and had it sent to the Crow Inn.


    Thus, when they set out the next day, it was no surprise to the Magic Council’s trade group to see a squad of Radiant Church’s knights trailing behind them.


    With the road stretching towards the sky, each party went their separate ways. The church’s group did not provoke, and the council’s group had no intention of attacking—they were not here to fight. The mages remained vigilant, otherwise acting as if the other party did not exist.


    Garrett took an extra few glances at them. Seeing Priest Martin among the group, he nodded and smiled at him.


    So they went on peacefully for two days. On the third day, however, a problem arose.


    No rooms available.


    "No rooms?"


    "Uh—"


    "We are here." Archmage Serrano stepped forward leisurely. The rider turned, beaming with joy:


    "Thank you for that day! I bring you good news, our leader, ’Walker’ Horik has awakened, able to speak and move his limbs. The Thinker sent me to accompany you, asking for the tribe’s care along the way. I’ve been on the road all day to catch up!"


    Turning back to the innkeeper, he raised the triangular flag in his hand. On the flag, a black crow spread its wings, ready to fly towards the sky:


    "The Thinker says, it was these people who cured Horik’s madness; they are our lifesavers, and her friends—"


    "What? They can cure madness?!"


    The innkeeper’s volume suddenly spiked. Even from a dozen steps away, Garrett felt as if thunder had struck beside his ear, his chest somewhat stifled. Boom, boom, boom, boom, the inn exploded with noise as five or six barbarians rushed out:


    "Who? Who can cure madness?"


    "What happens after the madness? Can it really be cured?"


    "Can other diseases be treated too?"


    "Borlu, bring out your little Larry, let them have a look!"


    The burly men clamored together, their effect ten times louder than five hundred ducks—mainly because the volume was too great. Garrett was bombarded into retreating, but the messenger spotted him immediately and charged over like a whirlwind:


    "Right! It was this gentleman! The entire plan to save Lord Walker was his idea!"


    A group of barbarians thunderously approached. Fortunately, Bernard stepped in just in time, giving Garrett a bit of breathing space. He looked left and right, slowly raising his hand:


    "Uh... can we check in first?"


    "Of course!" Borlu thumped his chest:


    "The savior of Lord Walker is our savior too! And with the Thinker’s Raven Flag here, this little matter is no problem! You, you, you! Go clean out the rooms, welcome the mages! —Ah, and a dwarf master, dwarves are our brothers, we can’t have them without a place to stay!"


    At the inn’s entrance, the Radiant knights who had secured lodging for their priests beforehand, all turned pale with embarrassment.


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