Chapter 135

Hawke and Karash

Karash was packing up his tools and preparing to leave the mine when the sound of chaotic footsteps suddenly came from the entrance.

Tom, who had been the first to leave earlier, had returned.

Not only that, but trailing behind him was a figure entirely cloaked in a black robe.

That person moved with an eerily light gait, as if floating through the damp mine tunnel.

The dim yellow light of the oil lamp streamed across the robe, yet it never managed to penetrate the shadow beneath the hood.

Hawke reflexively gripped the pickaxe placed beside him.

This T-shaped tool was the most commonly used by miners, serving both as an instrument and a weapon—one end pointed, the other flat. When swung with force, it could pierce even the plate armor worn by noble knights.

"Tom, I haven't heard anything about a preacher arriving at the camp." Hawke’s gaze glinted dangerously.

As the leader of this camp, he had no desire for anything beyond his control—especially not a believer.

Although dressed similarly to a wizard, certain details made it clear that this person was a preacher.

"Leader!" Tom anxiously positioned himself between Hawke and the black-robed man, his frostbitten fingers pointing behind him. "This... this gentleman said he can help us..."

"Help us?"

Hawke’s lips tightened beneath his thick mustache, his voice laced with suspicion. "Which church are you a missionary of?"

The black-robed man raised a withered wrist, and a hoarse murmur came from beneath the hood.

"In the slumber of eternal night, the hungry feast, the barren are gifted fertile soil. All who offer dreams may touch the bounty bestowed by the divine—this is the promise of the Lord of Desires."

A flash of golden light flickered in the black-robed man's hand.

Hawke, who had previously been nonchalant, suddenly stiffened. His gaze locked onto the burlap sack that had appeared in the man’s hand.

Tom immediately stepped forward and untied the rope—inside was an entire sack full of wheat.

This single sack, once milled into flour and mixed with bran, would be enough to supply the camp with bread for an entire day.

“As long as the Brotherhood is willing to accept the Nightmare Faith, and Leader Hawke is willing to help us contact other camps,”

the black-robed man’s fingers, as brittle as dead twigs, traced the air in an operatic flourish as he continued, “the Lord of Desires shall bestow upon you food a thousand times this amount... and the power to cure stubborn illnesses.”

“Pneumoconiosis is but a minor ailment to the great Lord of Desires.”

The flame of the oil lamp flickered in Hawke’s eyes.

His gaze shifted back and forth between the black-robed man and the wheat, a storm surging in his mind.

He had never heard of this "Nightmare Faith," but he knew well that any form of church or religious activity was strictly forbidden on the Wizard Continent.

And behind these so-called churches were most likely some evil gods.

Yet the very real grains in that sack made his breathing quicken...

“The nobles and the wizards gave us nothing. And now you expect some so-called deity to grant us anything?”

Karash’s fist suddenly slammed against the stone table, causing the oil lamp to tremble violently.

He now couldn’t help but question whether Hawke’s leadership was still sound.

Compared to the Hawke of the early days of the Anvil Brotherhood, his current demeanor felt far too weak and hesitant.

He still remembered their first meeting—when he himself had been escorted by a few tax collectors from the Kingdom, headed toward the black mines.

And Hawke had suddenly burst out from an alley, relying on just a pickaxe and some thrown explosives to scare over a dozen tax collectors into fleeing, leaving behind only their hats and shoes.

The image of those wheat grains reflected in Hawke’s pupils kept alternating with Karash’s resolute expression.

In the end, Hawke’s gaze regained its firmness.

Just as the black-robed man’s chilling whisper began again, Hawke suddenly shouted, “Get out! You preachers aren’t welcome here!”

“As you wish,” the black-robed man bowed compliantly and rasped, “but hunger will not wait.”

Karash’s tense shoulders finally relaxed—at the very least, the leader still had some fire in him.

Grabbing a bent iron pipe, he suggested, “That’s how it should be. If we just raid a noble’s grain convoy, all our problems will be solved.”

“Damn right.” Hawke laughed and reached out to tousle Karash’s long brown hair. “Go get some rest, now. The days ahead won’t be any easier than working in the forge.”

“Yes, sir!”

Once Karash’s footsteps had completely faded, the smile on Hawke’s face disappeared in an instant. He called toward the cave entrance, “Come in.”

In the flickering firelight, Tom led the black-robed man back in through a side tunnel.

It seemed they had expected this all along—their faces showed no surprise whatsoever.

“What do you want in return for helping us? The Brotherhood needs a large supply of food and medicine!”

“For every camp that accepts the Nightmare Faith’s prayer rituals, one hundred sacks of wheat like this will be provided monthly.” The black-robed man paused. “And for every devoted believer you bring forth, my Lord will cure one patient suffering from pneumoconiosis.”

Hawke’s gaze flickered constantly.

One hundred sacks of wheat per day would be enough to feed every rescued miner in all the Brotherhood's camps.

As for the devoted followers… worshiping a god who could actually feed them was still better than relying on those nobles who would strip their bones clean.

“I’ll be heading to headquarters next week. You’ll come with me.”

“A wise decision!” The black-robed man let out a soft chuckle from beneath his cloak. “We’re merely a pious mutual aid society. From today onward, the dream will prove everything!”

...

Karash had no idea what his idolized leader had done after he’d left.

He simply clenched that twisted, deformed iron rod, his knuckles turning white from the force.

Though he had appeared resolute in front of Hawke, when it came time to truly give up, it felt as painful as tearing flesh from bone.

The shattered iron pipe stared back at Karash like a mocking face, full of ridicule.

He believed without a doubt that his invention was not flawed but the craftsmanship and materials always fell just a little short.

All the knowledge across the continent was monopolized by the wizards.

“If I could just make one trip to the wizard’s archive, I’d definitely find the cause of the barrel explosion!”

Unfortunately, knowledge from the wizards was never meant for people like them.

Staring at the product of who knew how many failures, the young man licked his cracked lips. The camp’s unique chill and dampness, laced with the smell of rust, seeped into his nose.

Just as he gritted his teeth and raised his arm to throw away the pile of scrap metal, a burst of cheering erupted from the direction of the infirmary.

In the Anvil Brotherhood’s camp, it had been a long time since such heartfelt laughter had been heard.

Even when Leader Hawke successfully destroyed a mine and rescued the miners oppressed by nobles, what awaited them was usually only weary sighs.

He instinctively followed the sound, only to find a crowd gathered outside the camp’s infirmary. From within came bursts of joyful cheers.

He tried several times to push through, but couldn’t squeeze inside to see what was going on. Turning his head, he noticed a small figure at the edge of the crowd, stomping in frustration.

He reached out and grabbed them.

“What are you doing—oh! It’s Brother Karash!”

“Little Annie, what’s happening in there?”

Karash tousled Annie’s short brown hair, imitating Hawke’s gesture.

“Sister Lucy is healing the injured miner uncles.” Annie’s dirty little face turned red with excitement. “She gave Aunt Martha some green potion and even Uncle Rock, who had a broken leg, is standing up again!”

Karash blinked in surprise.

Rock was a Brotherhood member injured just yesterday. His leg had been struck down to the bone by pursuing cavalry. Even the camp’s doctor, Martha, had told him to give up on saving it. But now, he was standing?

“Make way!”

He suddenly surged forward, pushing into the crowd with such force that the seams on his coarse jacket split open, yet he didn’t even notice.

When he finally broke through the last human wall, the young man lifted his head—then froze in place. In that moment, the entire world faded from his mind.