When the Church establishes holdings in a realm, it usually marks a divine endorsement. The land is then considered sanctified by Solarius—purged of darkness, heresy, and all forms of degeneracy.
No worshipping demon kings in candle-lit basements.No shady witches muttering to their cauldrons past midnight.No bowing to your favorite action figure and calling it a god.No dark power lurking beneath your neighbor's turnip patch.Clean. Pure. Orderly.
It also means:No excessive display of wealth.No hedonism.No corruption.No naps during working hours.No snacking past schedule.And absolutely, absolutely, no drunkenness.
In theory, this ensures a healthy, productive, and morally upright society where everyone works efficiently toward noble goals.
In theory.
Then came Tharros Vale. And then came Suffragan Bishop Stefan, also known—depending on who you ask—as "The Holy Redneck," "Boss Austin," or simply "That Guy."
He was supposed to be the symbol of divine order. Instead, he became the walking antithesis of every ecclesiastic code.
Public drunkenness? Check. Excessive violence against street scum? You should've seen the suplex he gave a pickpocket last week. Public indecency? If crude jokes were a sin, the man would've been excommunicated thirty-seven times over. Formal title? Forget "Father." He insists on sir, boss, or just Austin.
If Solarius truly shines His light equally on all realms, then Tharros Vale might be blessed with the kind of divine favor we never asked for.
Yet…As unholy as he looks, Bishop Stefan isn't all bad.
Church business? He delegated it to a poor, random priest and moved on.Healing hospice? "Spit on it and rub some leaves, son!" His official holding? The Smoking Barrel Brewery. Tithe? He accepts wheat. And lots of it, courtesy of the ever-productive Bovinids.
As for inter-species diplomacy? Wrestle the minotaurs. Outdrink the centaurs. Trade fart jokes with Adolf, the so-called solemn bray shaman. Call it a day.
Honestly? I'll take one of these wildman warrior-priest types over a sanctimonious zealot any day. He might not preach salvation—but he sure knows how to keep peace, order, and barrels rolling.
It was one of those particularly cloudy days in Tharros Vale. The kind of sky that looked like it forgot to wake up properly, still half-draped in mist and dreams. Just as I contemplated whether this ominous weather was some sort of divine foreshadowing or just bad scheduling by Solarius' sky intern, the door to the council room slammed open with the subtlety of a warhorn.
Ziegler burst in. Stern. Tense. Eyes locked on me like I owed him rent.
"I have something—no, someone—to report, sir," he said.
Gerhart didn't even glance up, still polishing his blindingly radiant holy hammer. "Who is it?"
Ziegler took a breath, eyes hard. "He appeared last night while I was inspecting the Valewatch drills. I couldn't sense his presence. At all. Then he said things… personal things. Stuff no one should know. And before I could ask anything—poof. He vanished into the night."
I blinked.
"Well, Zieg… if this is about that mole on your buttcheek, I'd say a peeping tom isn't something we need to escalate to council level, you know?"
His face flushed instantly. "Wha—?! No! That's not—And I do NOT have a mole there!"
"Yes you do," Franz replied flatly.
"Everybody knows already," Karl added helpfully.
Gerhart nodded with a solemnity usually reserved for funerals.
"Ahem," Ziegler coughed, pulling his dignity together like a tattered cloak. "Anyway… this is different. He knew things. Where we were born. What mercenary units we served in. Past jobs. Everything. He even knew about my wife and children. They're still on the western front, planning to move here once I finish building them a house."
A beat of silence settled in the room.
"That's… ominous," I muttered.
"You have kids?" Gerhart asked, genuinely surprised.
"You're building a house?" Franz blinked.
"Do you have a pet?" Karl asked with perfect timing, eyes dead serious.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Ziegler. If you see this man again, tell him I want to meet. Personally."
Ziegler saluted, perhaps a bit too relieved to exit, and marched out into the cloudy dusk.
I don't know much about this body I'm in. Leonhart Adler. A name with a past I haven't unlocked. If this stranger knows about Ziegler's entire family tree, there's a solid chance he knows about mine too. And if he came to us first... maybe that's a warning. Maybe that's an invitation. Or maybe Ziegler just owes him a drink. Who knows?
Either way, I need to find him—Before he finds me.
The fated day finally came. The next morning, Ziegler barged in again with that face he only wore when something seriously weird was happening.
"He'll come to us," he said, eyes darting like a man who just saw his reflection wink at him. "Eventually."
"How?" Gerhart narrowed his eyes, one hand instinctively gripping his holy hammer. "This castle is the safest place in the realm. He might not be able to get in." he said. genuinely concerned about the safety of our uninvited guest.
"We might not even have the chance to prepare a feast to welcome him," Karl added. For once, he had a point. Taking your competition out drinking is not uncommon tactic, even in my world.
"I have an idea," I cut in. "What if we propose a meeting? Neutral zone. Outside the castle walls."
"Oooh! Eatery near the square!" Karl's eyes gleamed like a kid on market day. "They serve a divine roast chicken!"
"Or the brewery," I offered. "Low profile. Lots of booze. Enough to loosen his tongue."
"All in favor of the eatery?" Karl raised his hand alone. No one followed. He looked like a puppy denied a treat.
Before anyone could argue further, something in the air shifted.
A pressure.
Not magic. Not malice.
Just… awareness.
"I appreciate the gesture, gentlemen," a voice said, clear as ice cracking in winter. "But I believe it won't be necessary. I am already here."
We all froze.
Even Ziegler shrieked.
Karl, of course, smiled and marched right over to the stranger with his hand outstretched.
The man certainly looked the part — bandaged face, lithe leather armor, silent steps. Two curved knives at his hips, moving with practiced ease. He glided past Karl without a word and stopped right before us.
"…Welcome to Tharros Vale," Gerhart spoke first, standing a little too tall. "I am Count Gerhart. I do not know who my parents are, I was raised an orphan, became a mercenary at twelve because I was strong. My favorite colors are red and yellow. In my free time, I enjoy combat training, long walks on the battlefield, and dueling. I am immune to all magic and poison due to the blessings of Solarius."
Everyone stared.
He had just… disclosed everything.
To a complete stranger.
This is not how intel games are played, Count. Seriously?
The bandaged person nodded.
"You may call me Mat. Others refer to me as… the Rat."
Of course they do.
"I judge that you are to be trusted, Count Gerhart. You speak only truth. I, however, know a little more about you."
Uh-oh.
"Lifted a rock the size of an ox… at age two."
"I was strong for my age," Gerhart replied with a modest nod.
"Defeated the evil witch Konrad at four. Crushed his bones."
Gerhart shifted awkwardly. "I was just giving him a hug."
"Eradicated an entire crime syndicate at six."
"Oh, right. I did do that…"
"Forged your golden hammer from a meteor, barehanded, at ten."
Gerhart clapped once. "Good times, good times."
"…And that was all before your mercenary years."
I blinked.
What.The.Heck.
Gerhart wasn't just some overly shiny musclehead.
He was a walking demigod origin story.
Everyone around me nodded like this was perfectly normal. Franz even looked bored.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!
I came here thinking I'd be dealing with bandits, tax disputes, and maybe the occasional plague.
Now I'm in charge of a small realm where our Count is basically Hercules, and our new informant has omniscient spy powers.
Nope. This is definitely not Kansas anymore.
"The legendary exploits of Count Gerhart are barely a secret anymore, Rat," Franz said coolly. "You don't amuse me."
The Rat tilted their head, voice still calm and surgical. "Certainly, Franz von Bachenhoff. But yours are more... unheard of, I must say."
They paused.
"For a fifty-year-old spinster who failed thirty-eight matchmaking arrangements, you seem remarkably dignified."
Franz flinched.
It was subtle — but it was there.
For a man usually colder than winter glass, his expression cracked like frost under pressure.
Ziegler took a small step away. Karl's eyes sparkled.
"Oooooooh," Karl whispered, waving his hand like a schoolkid at recess. "Do me! Do me next!"
The Rat didn't miss a beat.
"Karolus Magnus, or Karl. Youngest son of the Magnus merchant dynasty. You left home because you refused to continue the family business — despite not knowing a single thing about trade. Once, you gave away your entire month's supply of candles in exchange for eight pot pies."
Karl blinked, then nodded solemnly. "He's good. He's very good…"
The Rat turned to me, the last unknown in the room.
"I can see you're well-versed in intelligence gathering, Mat," I said, keeping my voice steady. "So let's skip the dance. What do you want from us?"
There was a pause.
Then the Rat's voice lowered, sharpening like the edge of a knife.
"Release my bandit crew from your prison. Now. Or I will sell every scrap of information I've gathered — including your bovinid population statistics — to the Duke."
Ziegler sucked in a sharp breath.
"Don't bother trying to fight me," the Rat added. "I can slither out of here faster than any of you can draw a blade."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Your 'bandit crew'," I said slowly, "is now part of the Valewatch. They live good lives now — honest lives. They have homes, work, purpose. You, on the other hand, broke into our keep and made demands like a common thug."
I leaned forward, matching The Rat's intensity.
"You're good, Rat. But I know how to play games too. And I think I can beat you at your own."
The Rat chuckled — a low, velvety sound.
"Please, Leonhart Alder. You're a mere scribe. What could you possibly discover about me?"
They tilted their head in amusement. "I'd bet my life that you wouldn't find a single shred of information about me — even if I gave you three years."
I smiled.
"Well," I said, "you should've made that bet with someone else."
The Rat twitched.
"It didn't even take me a day to surprise you."
I took a step closer, slowly.
"For one," I said, "you expected us to believe that 'Mat' is an alias. But quite the contrary — it is your real name."
A flicker in her eye.
"And you thought that hiding behind a false persona would work on me?" I continued, letting my voice drop. You don't do reverse psychology with a trained corporate secretary from the modern world.
A pause.
"And also… you are a woman."
The entire room went still.
The silence could slice steel.
Mat's eyes widened. Just slightly.
"But... I am not— How—?" she stammered. Her voice cracked. Not much — but enough.
"I have my ways," I said.
Truth was, I'd spent too many nights in hostess clubs entertaining clients back home.The perfume that clung too long. The subtle flick of a wrist. The movement. The air around them. It was never about what they said.
It was about what they couldn't help but be.
"You may fool the world with masks and shadows," I told her. "But you can't fake the little things. Not to someone who's trained to read people."
Mat — or whatever her name really was — stared at me like I'd pulled a dagger from her past.
And maybe, in a way, I had.
She slowly unfurled the bandages covering her face.
A cascade of black hair tumbled down, framing a face carved by sharp lines and striking contrast—high cheekbones, a small sharp nose, full crimson lips, and a strong, defined jawline. Beautiful—dangerously so. Like a telenovela actress in mourning.
Then, without a word, she drew her knives, let them fall with a cold clatter to the ground, and knelt in the middle of the room.
"A bet is a bet. I surrender my life to you, Leonhart Alder," she said, her voice clear and steady.
My heart raced. The room fell quiet—stiff with expectation. Every eye watched me, waiting to see if I would exact punishment… or something worse.
"First," I said, "tell me your real name."
She lowered her eyes slightly. A flicker of vulnerability passed her face.
"Mathilda," she said at last. "No surname. I was born low, and lowborns carry no family crest."
"Very good…" I replied, voice calm but firm.
The tension in the air rose again. The council was bracing for a sentence, a dismissal. A judgment.
"Then I will give you one.""Mathilda, the Sparrow of Tharros Vale… and the new Spymaster of this realm."
Silence.
Then all hell broke loose.
"What?? A woman??? In the council?? You've lost your gods-damned mind! What will others think of us?? A joke???" Zieg roared, leaping from his seat.
Franz narrowed his eyes. "Cut it out, Zieg. What's wrong with a woman in the council?"
"What's wrong? Are you joking? Councils are for men! That's why we're councilmen! I'm Marshal, you're Steward, Karl's Chancellor! Not Stewardess, Chancellee, or Marshalee! This is Stahlmark, not some moon-worshipping, silk-draped theatre troupe in Lysvalle!"
Franz smirked. "Well, as long as she does the job, I don't mind. After all, your wife is a woman. And she's not too bad, I suppose."
"Can we marry a man?" Karl whispered toward me.
Do. Not. Go there, Karl. I glared at him.
Meanwhile, Zieg and Franz were shouting over one another, voices rising, fists curling. Looked like it might come to blows.
I raised a hand. "Enough!"
Silence returned. Even Karl shut up.
"Her life is mine, by oath. And I choose to give her purpose, not punishment. She will serve this council as Spymaster—not because of her gender, but because of her skill. And besides..."
I took a step forward.
"Aren't we all equal? Bovinids and humans. Nobles and peasants. Clergy and laymen. Why not men and women? Have we not all labored together for the same cause? Bled the same blood? Shared the same burdens?"
There was a beat of silence. Then Karl leaned sideways to Gerhart and whispered, "Zieg got scolded again, sir."
Gerhart nodded solemnly.
Then, slowly, he stood. Towering and calm. His voice thundered like a mountain shifting.
"Equality is not the erasure of difference. It is the recognition of worth. Men may never bear children, and women may never grow beards—except if Karl is a woman, perhaps—but both may think, lead, and act with honor. If she is capable, let her serve."
He turned toward Mathilda and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"By my authority, I extend the Bovinid-Human Accord to include the rights of women from both races, and I welcome you, Mathilda—not the Rat, but the Sparrow—as Spymaster of Tharros Vale."
The room felt lighter. A weight lifted. Even Mathilda's breath caught, her eyes softening in disbelief. Slowly, she bowed her head.
Just then—SLAM!
The chamber doors burst open. Glass shattered somewhere behind us. Thunder rolled in the distance—or maybe it was just my imagination.
Cue: thunderous rock music… in my head.
"OYYY!! I told you sorry bastards I wanna join the council meetin'! And now you appoint this fine-lookin' lady without me? What the hell, boy? Now pour me a damn drink before I stomp a mudhole in your tight little asses!"
The Holy Redneck. Again.
Looks like tonight's going to be another long, boozy, lecture-filled night.