NovelsAlex Chapter 262: THE FIRST TEST
Chapter 262: THE FIRST TEST
Dong... dong... dong...
The low toll of the shrine’s bell shattered the cold morning mist of Whitebridge.
The caravan gathered in the corner of The Sunny Rest’s dining room. Lena served a few slices of coarse rye bread and last night’s leftover soup—still warm enough to chase away the morning hunger. Outside the window, the village’s daily rhythm began to pulse. The sound of footsteps on the cobblestones and the greetings exchanged between neighbors sounded impeccably polite, almost entirely devoid of emotional ripples. Everything was exactly as it had been yesterday; orderly, tranquil, and for some reason, it made Roland increasingly uncomfortable.
"We head to the shrine this morning," Roland whispered before taking a sip of his warm herbal tea. "To meet Pastor Elias."
Lena, who was wiping down the adjacent table, merely offered a slow nod. "Good luck." Her tone was entirely flat—neither friendly nor cold. Yet, there was a strange, unspoken glint in her eyes.
Roland glanced at Rianor. His brother didn’t react. Rianor had already finished his breakfast and was now busy tapping his fingers across the crystal tablet hidden beneath the table’s edge, well out of Lena’s line of sight.
"Are you ready?" Roland asked quietly.
"For what?"
"To lie before a holy altar."
Rianor locked his tablet’s screen with a soft click. "I don’t need to lie. I simply need to stay silent. That is my specialty."
The Shrine of Whitebridge stood majestically at the southern end of the village.
Its sheer size was far grander than Roland had anticipated. The walls were constructed of the same white marble, but its bell tower pierced high into the mist. The symbol of the seven-rayed rising sun was carved deeply above the heavy oak lintel—far more detailed than the one at the border post. Inside, the sanctuary felt hushed and frigid. Rows of flawless teak pews lined the hall, leading toward an altar where candles burned with a steady, undisturbed calm. The sweet, slightly pungent aroma of incense immediately assaulted their senses.
Pastor Elias stood with his back to them, facing the altar.
His cassock was an immaculate white, devoid of a single speck of dust. His dark hair, beginning to silver at the temples, was cut with military precision. His posture was rigid—not the stooped shoulders of an old man, but the disciplined stance of someone who fully believed the world must operate on absolute rules.
"You are the foreigners everyone has been whispering about," Elias spoke without turning around. His voice was a calm baritone, yet entirely barren of warmth.
Roland stepped forward, deploying his smoothest diplomatic smile. "We are merely merchants from Eastmarch, Pastor. We have come to request a Travel Pass so we may continue our journey south."
Elias turned slowly. His pale blue eyes were piercing, peeling Roland apart from the crown of his head to the soles of his boots. His gaze then shifted to Rianor, before locking onto Dom, who stood vigilantly behind them.
"Merchants," Elias repeated the word with a heavy dose of skepticism. "Hmm. But your palms are far too smooth for a man who hauls cargo."
Roland let out a smooth chuckle, masking his rising anxiety. "I mostly handle the ledgers and transactions, Pastor. As for my brother here... he handles the field logistics."
Elias shifted his gaze back to Rianor. "Your brother? He seems remarkably sparse with his words."
"He simply dislikes wasting breath."
"Or perhaps he deems himself too proud to speak to a servant of the Goddess?"
Rianor met the Pastor’s pale blue eyes directly. "I speak when it is necessary."
The two men locked eyes for a few agonizingly tense seconds. Two polar opposites who shared a mutual disdain for pleasantries. Finally, Elias decided to look back at Roland—seemingly preferring to converse with the man who wore a mask of many words.
"A Travel Pass is not given freely," Elias said coldly, folding his arms across his chest. "Lately, many spies from the north have infiltrated our lands. Bringing forbidden artifacts and spreading heresies that pollute the faith of our flock."
"Our intentions are purely commercial, Pastor," Roland asserted firmly.
"That is what we shall prove." Elias pointed toward the doors. "There is an elderly widow at the eastern edge of the village. Her name is Hilda. Her husband passed away last year, and her roof is now leaking."
Roland waited for the Pastor to finish his sentence, but Elias merely stood in silence, staring at him.
"And...?" Roland finally asked.
"Fix her roof. That will be your first test."
"Eh? A test?"
"You ask for the trust of the Shrine. Trust in this land must be paid for with tangible proof." Elias’s eyes didn’t blink once.
Roland glanced at Rianor. His brother gave a microscopic, almost imperceptible nod—a signal that they had to play along.
"Very well," Roland let out a resigned sigh. "We will fix her roof."
"Excellent," Elias turned his back, facing the candlelit altar once more. "I shall inspect the results myself later."
Hilda’s house was situated in the quietest, most isolated corner of the village’s eastern edge—far from the main road and the shrine. The paint on the wooden walls had severely peeled, exposing aged pine wood that was beginning to rot. The roof sported three gaping holes, haphazardly patched with torn rags and stray branches.
Hilda herself sat despondently on a bench on her front porch. Her back was hunched in defeat, her trembling fingers resting in her lap. Her faded blue eyes watched Rianor’s caravan approach with a mixture of confusion and fear.
"Who... who are you?" her voice was hoarse and frail.
Roland approached with slow, measured steps. "We were sent by Pastor Elias to repair your roof, Ma’am."
Instantly, Hilda’s expression morphed. Her confusion turned into sheer disbelief, which then gave way to the reopening of an old, bitter wound.
"Pastor Elias...?" Hilda whispered bitterly. "He... he hasn’t even bothered to cast a glance at this shack since my husband passed. Not a single villager has come to help. Why now?"
Roland was at a loss for words. He turned to Rianor—but his brother was already standing near the exterior wall, his eyes narrowed as he calculated the roof’s structural damage.
"Three points of structural failure," Rianor concluded without looking back. "Requires new wooden support beams and thick thatch weaving." He glanced at Orva. "You are the most familiar with these materials. Lead the construction."
Orva nodded briskly. "I used to be a carpenter’s apprentice before... well, never mind that." The man immediately rolled up his sleeves.
The repairs began.
Orva moved with incredible efficiency. Hands that normally gripped daggers now wielded a hammer and nails with fluid expertise. Dom helped lift the heavy wooden support beams without a single complaint, though sweat began to bead at his temples. In another corner, Naya sliced the thatch weaving with terrifying precision—every single cut was exactly the same length.
Adul was tasked with guarding the toolbox. He did so with absolute seriousness, visibly relieved that his duty this time involved neither communication signals nor military peril.
Roland attempted to pitch in. He grabbed a wooden mallet, swinging it hard at an iron nail.
Thwack!
The iron nail bent pitifully, entirely missing its intended angle.
"Tch, I suppose I was destined to wield a diplomat’s pen, not a hammer," Roland muttered awkwardly, handing the tool back to Orva.
Rianor didn’t assist physically. He stood a few meters back from the structure, tilting his head slightly while adjusting his spectacles. "Orva. The pitch angle on the left side is too low. Raise it by two degrees to accelerate rainwater runoff."
Orva paused his hammering, looking utterly bewildered. "Two degrees?"
"Yes."
"How in the world are you measuring that with just your eyes?"
"Basic visual geometry."
Orva shook his head in disbelief, but he nudged the support beam slightly upward anyway. Surprisingly, the roof’s structure instantly locked together with far greater precision.
Hilda, watching from the porch, grew teary-eyed. Her faded eyes now radiated a glimmer of warm hope that had long since been extinguished.
A few villagers passing by slowed their steps. They whispered to one another in astonishment.
"Wait, aren’t they foreigners?"
"Why would they bother fixing Hilda’s shack?"
A young girl carrying a water jug even mustered the courage to stop near the fence. "Do you... need some water?"
Roland accepted the jug with a charming smile. "Thank you very much, miss."
The girl stared at them with wide, curious eyes. "We’ve never seen foreigners act like this in our village. Usually... they’re immediately suspected."
"Or reported?" Roland chimed in jokingly.
The girl merely offered an awkward smile, not daring to answer, before hurrying away.
By midday, the task was finally complete.
The three gaping holes in the roof had been tightly sealed with fresh wood and neatly woven thatch. Hilda stood trembling in front of her home, gazing up at her new roof with tear-filled eyes.
"I... I don’t know what to say to you all," she whispered, tightly gripping Roland’s hand with her wrinkled ones. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Think nothing of it, Ma’am. We were acting under the Pastor’s orders anyway," Roland replied gently.
Hilda shook her head slowly. "Pastor Elias... he is a devout man. But to him, holy rules are far more precious than human lives." She looked at Roland with a warning glare. "If he sent you here... it means you have stepped into the jaws of his test."
"We are well aware of that."
"Tread carefully." Hilda’s grip tightened. "His tests will never end until he manages to flay away your disguises and see who you truly are."
Roland fell silent, gently patting the old widow’s hand to comfort her.
Pastor Elias arrived just as the sun reached its zenith.
His white cassock fluttered softly in the midday breeze. His pale blue eyes inspected every inch of the new roof—running his fingers over the wood, ensuring there were no fragile joints or sloppy craftsmanship.
After a few moments, he gave a curt nod.
"Adequately precise work."
Roland secretly let out a breath of relief. "Thank you, Pastor. So, what about our Travel Pass?"
"It is not yet time."
Roland’s jaw instantly tightened. "Not yet?"
"There is still one more matter." Elias turned, pointing toward the village square to the north. "The village’s main well has not drawn water for three days. The citizens are forced to waste time hauling water from the river. That is highly inefficient for a city of faith."
Roland glanced at Rianor. His brother had already stepped forward, his face completely expressionless.
"Where is the well located?" Rianor asked directly.
Elias’s lips curved upward into a thin, chilling smile. "In the center of the square. You cannot possibly miss it."