Over time, Valewatch transformed from a ragtag bunch of miscreants into a surprisingly capable standing militia.
As a drill sergeant, Ziegler turned out to be frighteningly efficient—strict, yes, but also sensible and fair. Like that psychotic, cool uncle who came back from the Gulf War with a duffel bag full of war stories, clever combat tricks, and just enough PTSD to keep things interesting.
Our numbers grew. From a mere 183 reformed mercenaries to a staggering 678 citizen-soldiers ready to answer the call—most of them still learning which end of the spear goes into the enemy.
The Bovinids were grouped separately into specialized units. Men-at-arms. Living tanks. Special forces with roles that sounded oddly familiar—like old company days. There were axe throwers, centaur heavy cavalry, and minotaur shock troopers.
Their leader? Kalkengard. A massive black-and-white bull-man with arms like tree trunks and a voice like a collapsing roof. He named himself the Gorebull.
Yes. The Gorebull.
Because clearly, subtlety died somewhere in the last war.
Our militias were armed with whatever we could scavenge: makeshift spears, wooden shields, repurposed farm tools, a few bows, the odd bandit sword. It wasn't pretty—but it worked. For now.
I hope they never have to see real war… not yet.
We were lounging in Gerhart's so-called throne room after drill, when Karl burst in, red-faced and panting like he just ran from a wildfire.
"The new Suffragan Bishop's arriving tomorrow!" he wheezed. "We're expected to give him a warm welcome."
Suffragan Bishop? That sounds… important. I've never been religious—not in the old world, and certainly not in this one. I always imagined church people as fragile old men handing out candy and whispering about forgiveness. Unless they're the cult leader type. Then it's just fire and knives.
"Is that such a big deal, Franz?" I asked the surly veteran, who already looked like someone just spat in his tea.
"Yes, it is," he said, practically growling. "He'll have his own land inside ours, take his own tithe, and rule over the Temple holding like his personal kingdom. Best be nice to them—they might throw blessings your way, heal your wounded… or better yet, spend their gold in your markets. But rub them the wrong way?" He took a loud sip of his new favorite drink—Bovine Tea, gods help him—and added, "They'll snitch straight to the Holy Church, and next thing you know, you're excommunicated. No blessing, no protection. And then your neighbors are free to grab your lands like vultures."
"Can't we just… send him back and ask for a different one?" I asked, already sensing the answer.
"Ancient law," Franz muttered. "The Church isn't under the Crown. Equal authority. Every domain gets their own appointed clergy. Suffragan Bishop for a Count, Bishop for a Duke, Archbishop for the Kaiser. That's the ladder."
Then Gerhart, who'd been silent until now, turned to me with unsettling sincerity."Tell me, Leo. Do you believe in God?"
I blinked. "Uh... I don't know much about God, but… I guess I believe He exists?"
"I see," he said softly, placing a hand over his chest like a boy scout pledging allegiance. "I am a believer. If the Church disapproves of how I rule, I'll lay down my title and walk away with nothing."
Well, that's terrifying.
"Then I suppose we should pray that tomorrow's Bishop isn't the kind who undoes everything we've worked for," I offered.
Karl raised his hand like he was in class. "Sure. But to which god? If I have to pray to all of them, I might miss dinner."
The big day arrived, and everyone dressed in their best. Which, in Valewatch, meant full war armor, polished medals, and helmets so shiny you could fry an egg on them. As for me? I wore whatever didn't smell like regret and mud.
The night before was... rough. Gerhart insisted I study the local religion—said it would be "wise" to not look like a heretic in front of our new guest. Apparently, the people here worship... the sun. Yes, the actual star in the sky. A living god named Solarius Ignis. His symbol? A winged sun. I've seen it everywhere since I got here—on banners, on temples, even on Karl's belt buckle.
Then there's the pantheon:Aureon – strength and valor,Luridia – purity and healing,Thamnos – intelligence and logic,Bellastris – justice and wrath,Varos – order and loyalty.Honestly? These names sound like someone's D&D homebrew gone off the rails. The teachings emphasize righteousness, unity, and obedience. Definitely not a pacifist religion—they preach mental toughness like a boot camp sermon. No wonder people here are so literal. They don't think, they believe.
Out of curiosity, I asked around about the Bovinids and how they'd fit into this divine hierarchy.
"They'll be judged, I guess. By the Church. They got their own beliefs, y'know?" Ziegler said, scratching the back of his neck.
"But I'm sure," Karl added, dead serious, "if the Bishop gets a melted cheese sandwich, he'll be nice to them."
Franz just sighed and muttered into his tea, "Depends on who we're getting. If he's a zealot, we're in trouble. If he's a rationalist, we can maybe talk him down."
Great. That's comforting.
Morning came. We gathered in the courtyard as the Church's carriage rolled in—nothing like the majestic white chariot I was expecting. This one was grim and heavy-looking, with dark wood, skull motifs carved into the door panels, and two griffin statues glaring from the roof like bouncers at a medieval nightclub.
The carriage door slammed open.
And out jumped the Suffragan Bishop.
Bald. Muscular. Goatee. Wearing layered black robes like a bouncer cosplaying a monk. The man reeked of cheap beer, iron, and raw testosterone. No smile. No greeting. Just a hard stare that made our most decorated knight adjust his belt like he suddenly forgot how to wear pants.
Our Suffragan Bishop...is Stone Cold Steve Austin in clerical robes.
Oh boy.
"Good day, your Holiness. Welcome to Tharros Vale. I am Leonhart Alder, scribe of Count Gerhart. I trust your travel was pleasant? We recently solved our bandit issues here," I said, my tone like a student trying to impress a killer professor.
The man before me cracked his neck, eyed me like he was measuring me for a casket, and then growled,
"Cut the pleasantries, son. I pity the fool who tries to rob me—I'd stomp a mudhole in their sorry arse and walk it dry. I ain't the healing, preaching, teaching type, y'hear?" He cracked his knuckles. "Like these boys here, I'm a war monk. Means I stand at the frontlines, crack open a box of whoop-ass, and lay divine justice on every sorry bastard in my path."
His voice was raspy, soaked in grit and menace. Gods help me. He really was cutting a promo.
"Now listen. I'm in a bad mood. I'm short on drink. Cut the crap and point me to where I can drown this mood, yeah?" he said, rattling the large, very empty bottle at his hip like a threat.
The whole room stared in stunned silence. So much for Franz's hope of a "rationalist." What we got was a brawler with holy backing and a liver of steel.
We looked at each other. Franz blinked. Ziegler coughed. I smiled.
Opportunity.
We escorted him into the throne room and poured him a glass of our prized apple-berry moonshine. He picked it up, sniffed it once, then chugged like it owed him money.
"Boy, that's some damn tasty beverage, son... Better than the ale in the capital," he roared, followed by a guttural AHHHHHH that echoed off the stone walls.
"Forgive me, your Holiness…" Gerhart piped up like a nervous altar boy, "What should we… call you?"
The Bishop smirked as he reached for a refill. "Name's Stefan, Count. But you can call me sir, boss, or Steve."
"Can I call you Austin?" I asked before my brain could stop my mouth.
He froze, then rubbed his goatee thoughtfully. "Austin? Like Emperor Austin I, who singlehandedly decked the orcish invasion two centuries ago?"
I nodded slowly. He grinned wide.
"I like it, son! You can call me Austin."
Sweet mercy. I just dodged divine lightning.
"Now pour yourself a glass and drink with me, boys!" he bellowed, slamming his cup down. "I hate being the only one drinking!"
We had prepared ourselves for intense theological debate, for intricate treaties and doctrinal landmines. What we got instead was poker night with a loud, foul-mouthed, terrifying Suffragan Bishop who could probably pile-drive a wyvern.
After our thirteenth glass, Ziegler was crying about old battles, Franz had blacked out, and Karl was snoring on the floor. The Bishop? Still going strong, firing off crude jokes like an artillery cannon.
"Son," he said to me, "you're holding out better than any of them. I haven't had anyone drink with me like this in ages."
"He's called the Unquenchable around here, sir. He can outdrink anyone—any race," Gerhart said, grinning.
Austin paused. "What?"
"Yes?" Gerhart answered.
"What?What?What?!"
If memory serves, a Stunner usually follows that line.
"Any race? You've got more than humans living here?"
"Indeed," I said. "We live peacefully with the Bovines. You may know them as Beastmen. But here, they're not slaves, outcasts, or jobbers." I regretted the wrestling reference immediately.
I stood, heart thudding. "Here, Solarius shines His light upon everyone. Beastmen, humans, nobles, peasants—we all drink from the same well, and rise with the same toast. This realm? We're building the most badass patch of land in the damn world." I said with my best rendition of Martin Luther King.
The Holy Redneck stared. Unblinking.
"Matter of fact, sir... This very moonshine comes from them. The Bovines."
He rose slowly, planted a hand on my shoulder. My knees buckled. Was this it? Kick to the gut? The Stunner?
He laughed. Thunderously.
"I like the way you think, son! Nobody who brews this kind of drink could be all bad! What do you say—we toast to that?"
He turned to Gerhart. "Count, I don't need no fancy land with a temple. Give me a spot to build my own brewery! I'll make a drink that'll knock angels out the sky. As for where I'm staying—I'll stay wherever I damn well please! In fact, I'll be here for council meetings. See what your boys are brewing."
Gerhart nodded, stunned, grinning like a fanboy meeting his hero.
And that's the bottom line... cause the Suffragan Bishop said so.