Chapter 2: The Warmth of the Nun, The Regent’s Recovery 

Guided by Sister Teresa’s warm hand, Yang Hao was led to an ancient, wind-battered monastery not far from Skool village, hidden deep within the mountains.

Yang Hao had forgotten the monastery’s name. When he first arrived in this world and this village, the monastery had no name. Now, standing before it once again, he realized it had become even more weather-beaten, though largely unchanged.

Before he could even assess the solitary building where Sister Teresa resided, she forcefully kicked open the shaky door and hauled Yang Hao inside with an attitude far from nun-like.

“My humble home may be old and drafty,” she said, “but it’s far better than those houses in the deserted village, which not only leak wind but also water, ready to collapse at the slightest gust. My monastery might not be a mansion, but it can certainly pass for an ordinary house~”

“…”

“Why are you staring at me?” she continued, exasperated. “Look at yourself. Even horse dung is cleaner. Have you ever learned magic outside?”

“No,” Yang Hao shook his head in confusion. “You should know that with Priscilla around, I never had to worry about magic.”

“Did that black-haired girl, Priscilla, ever speak up for you? Since becoming a court magician for the Roman royal family, what has she done for you, other than casting the occasional spell?”

Hearing the name ‘Priscilla,’ Sister Teresa’s face twisted into a scowl, her words becoming venomous. What had been the sharp pain of betrayal now felt like continuous torment.

“I’ve heard that no one ever stood up for you. It seems too beastly, even if they had reasons not to speak. Even a dog knows to protect those who feed it, so why are some people even less considerate than dogs?”

“…”

“I shouldn’t have expected anything from you,” she sighed. “Sit down here in the lobby. It won’t be drafty. Rest here while I sort things out.”

With a look of distaste on her face, Sister Teresa lit the candles in the monastery’s great hall. She guided Yang Hao to a bench shielded from the frigid night air and left him to rest, then she disappeared through a door leading further into the monastery.

Yang Hao remained on the bench, lost in his memories of the woman named Priscilla.

As a prodigious mage known as the Night Witch who specialized in large-scale battlefield support spells, she had been Yang Hao’s lover. His former lover.

When he had been falsely accused and compelled to step down for a trial, Priscilla, constrained by her status as a royal court mage, had remained silent.

It seemed most people he had helped in the past had done the same. Whether because of their status as a saint, or their allegiance to a noble alliance, those who might have spoken up were either exiled or executed due to their non-human identities.

Now, in the Roman Empire, he found himself alone. 

With this thought, an involuntary chill spread from his fingertips.

“Sigh…” Yang Hao exhaled deeply. He felt as if death would be preferable. At least then, he would leave some lasting impressions behind.

Just when he was steeped in despair, Sister Teresa emerged from within the monastery. Without sparing him a glance, she grabbed his hand, her palm warm against his skin.

“Come in. Ah, it seems I’ll have to find the spare key to this run-down monastery for you later. And you smell awful, you have to take a bath before dinner.”

“Bath?” Yang Hao was taken aback. 

He glanced back at the monastery, dimly lit by the soft candlelight. It was already night, and while the early spring breeze outside wasn’t excessively cold, getting out from a river with freezing, bone-chilling water made it feel as if it could turn one into a senseless fool.

In these circumstances, was she really asking him to go out, bathe, and then return? 

No. If she was planning on having him bathe, why was she dragging him further inside?

With a look of confusion etched onto his face, Yang Hao was pulled by Sister Teresa into the inner sanctuary of the monastery, then outside a room near the back courtyard well.

Without ceremony, Sister Teresa shoved Yang Hao into a room swirling with steam. Before he could make sense of his surroundings through the mist, she tossed in a set of clothes made of hemp, a shaving razor, a woolen towel, and a water-filled bucket.

“I’m just a woman with limited strength,” she said. “Fetching those two buckets of water was exhausting enough. Clean yourself with the hot water as you wish. I don’t expect you to scrub yourself spotless.”

“You…”

“Also, if you don’t know how to shave, leave it. I’ll help you after you’ve eaten. And don’t ask anything, just don’t.”

“But–”

Sister Teresa stormed in, swiftly tearing off the dirty rags from Yang Hao’s body. Pressing her finger against his lips, she spoke in a frigid tone, “I told you, don’t ask. If you insist on asking today, then I’ll shove the tile brush up your rear and drag out all your confusion through the back door.”

Faced with a threat that seemed completely unbecoming of a nun, Yang Hao was left with no option but to suppress the question burning on his tongue, “Why are you helping me like this?”

He didn’t understand why Sister Teresa was going to such lengths, nor did he believe he held any remaining value to the nun.

But he had to admit, he absolutely had to concede. This was the first time in a year that he felt a shred of warmth from another human being.

***

Meanwhile, in the capital of the Roman Empire.

The round table conference, previously adjourned amid discord, reconvened once more. Anyone present could discern the palpable embarrassment and despair etched on the faces of the others.

The early spring drought had dealt an especially severe blow to the Roman Empire.

According to the mages’ predictions, the drought would persist in the Empire’s central agricultural region for over half a year. Throughout this period, the parched farmland wouldn’t produce a single grain. It was even said that by winter at the latest, the Empire would face its greatest famine since its foundation. Even the most foolish among them understood the critical importance of food to a nation.

Yet precisely because nobody knew how to address this massive drought and ensuing famine, they all sat in silence around the round table.

After an enduring silence, a voice finally broke through.

“We must admit, at this juncture… the former Regent’s numerous reforms were indeed beneficial,” spoke General Dreycar, the military representative, in an emotionless tone. His words provoked an expression of disgust mixed with helpless resignation on everyone’s faces, including the Archbishop.

“However, we lack the understanding needed to implement those reforms. To get those mechanical devices operational again, we need him back,” he added.

“Bring him back? No, that’s out of the question. Do you realize the effort we expended to exile him? Are you suggesting we allow him to monopolize power once more, only to watch our benefits stripped away and distributed amongst the ignorant masses?”

“Well then, Your Holiness Peter,” General Dreycar continued, “please enlighten us on how we should address this impending drought crisis. The food produced on our borders is not enough to cover the upcoming deficit the Roman Empire will face. The Elven Kingdom has long since imposed a trade embargo on us due to border disputes. Even if we were to import by sea, we lack the funds for such purchases.”

“Money? Didn’t a great wealth find its way into your coffers, Duke? I heard that the sum you spent on hiring musicians for your last banquet could have bought enough grain to feed everyone in your Duchy for six months,” the Archbishop said.

“Your Holiness, Peter, what’s done is done, and I can’t reclaim the money from the musicians. The pressing issue at hand is how we address this crisis.”

The round table conference was abuzz with conversation, akin to a bustling marketplace. The Royal Family bore troubled expressions like hapless vendors, while General Dreycar remained silent, a vigilant guard who might flip the table at any moment.

Amid the seemingly endless discord, and nearly at the end of his rope due to General Dreycar’s mounting rage, Archbishop Peter finally capitulated.

By a vote of five to one, the round table conference resolved to cordially invite back the exiled former Regent, Yang Hao.

Yet, how were they to extend such an invitation? 

They didn’t even know whether the man was alive or dead. How were they supposed to bring him back?

A look of mutual uncertainty passed between the attendees.

Finally, it was the representative of the Royal Family, the uncle of the future Empress of the Roman Empire, who broke the silence.

“Court Mage Priscilla is the Regent’s beloved. She would know where the Regent is likely to be, and with their intimate relationship, bringing him back shouldn’t pose a significant issue. Besides, the Regent has always been devoted to the people. His numerous reforms for public welfare attest to this. He wouldn’t stand idle while the populace teeters on the brink of starvation. We believe he will return for the sake of the people. We must concede, at this point, that the Roman Empire can ill afford to lose this man. Consequently, we will need to yield some benefits to him.”

As the royal representative delivered his impassioned speech, General Dreycar merely sneered inwardly, ‘You were the first to wish him dead. How ironic that you are now the most eager for his return?’

Moreover, the whole speech was nonsense. 

The true crux lay in the last sentence, didn’t it? The benefits were to be yielded to the Regent, not the Roman Royal Family.