From the Ship of Fools to Earl of Wugang

Several days ago, on the western shore of the Heartbreak Sea, in the basement of the ancient castle occupied by the Abyss Cult.

Jacob pushed open the heavy oak door and walked straight in, his boots leaving a trail of mud and disappointment on the stone slabs.

"You're back?"

On the desk, candlelight cast flickering shadows on the stone wall, and old Gerard's voice came from within.

The half-human, half-fish accountant sat in a high-backed chair, surrounded by piles of recently inventoried ledgers and bank replies, his gills making strange, sticky noises.

Jacob's gaze swept across the ledger, the account information densely arranged, but the "balance" column at the end was quite neat: most of them were just a single lonely number.

Those hubs that once easily mobilized tens of thousands of funds are now as dry as dead riverbeds.

"How's the agent of the Swamp King?" Old Gerard asked, glancing at Jacob's expression, his voice still bubbly.

“Assess the risks,” Jacob said flatly. “Once we’re completely down, they’ll be able to confirm there’s no risk left.”

"The Hastu Club is currently in its quarterly settlement period, and any new financial arrangements must wait for the council to complete its review. The buyer of the arms shipment from Orichalcos has refused to pay the old amount, claiming there were quality issues with the goods."

The old Glad merman's thick lips twitched, emitting a sigh like a sponge being squeezed. "Jacob, you know what this means."

Jacob knew this, of course. A zero balance meant the "heart" of the cult had stopped beating.

Those rituals that rely on regular cash flows, those esoteric workshops scattered across the land, and those projects involving external cooperation will soon come to a standstill, like a machine whose power has been cut off.

Even more deadly were the "messengers of the gods"—although the sacrifice on the night of the stars' alignment was successful, the messengers of the gods were not satisfied. They maintained a kind of periodic "hunger," requiring a continuous offering of blood food.

The plan to purchase three hundred cattle and sheep was shelved as early as when Jacob smashed the first computer; the remaining money might be enough to buy thirty good cows.

This leads to another troublesome issue: the balance of power within the cult.

The Abyss Order is far from monolithic. In addition to the "External Affairs Department" headed by Jacob, there is the "Ritual Faction" which focuses on rituals and faith, the "Mystic Faction" which is responsible for research and collection, and the group of believers of the Old Gods who hold some of the power in the "Elders' Council".

Recently, several cardinals from the ritualist faction have begun to discuss this privately.

Jacob could guess what they would say: the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was incompetent, which affected the offerings to the messengers of God, and they would also question whether it was the right decision to promote Jacob to take over the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

After all, he was just a minor leader in charge of peripheral work for a cult. Although he was ruthless, he was not particularly remarkable.

Harmony and friendliness are clearly not included in the creed of the Abyss Order. Doubt and discontent are like mold in this damp place; once they take root, they spread rapidly.

Jacob knew that if he didn't find a way to produce results—or at least a seemingly feasible plan—in a short period of time, his position within the cult would become very dangerous.

Old Gerard was clearly aware of this, or perhaps he was simply anxious about his finances.

He poked at a document on the table with his webbed finger: "On the Ritualist side, Cardinal Cunning sent someone again yesterday to ask if the 'Deep Sea Hymn' ritual next month can proceed as planned with the preparation of twelve alien species..."

Jacob's temples throbbed: "Tell Canning to go to the messenger and ask for it, see if the messenger can conjure it up for him."

"You and I both know that the divine messenger won't eat for free." Old Gerard's voice lowered. "If the offerings don't keep up next month, let alone the twelve alien creatures, I'm afraid we won't even be able to gather enough blood food. At that time..."

Silence spread through the basement, broken only by the crackling of the candlelight.

Jacob took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the surging anger and a hint of barely perceptible panic in his chest.

He took a folded parchment map from the drawer and spread it out on the table.

This is a detailed map of the area surrounding the Heartbreak Sea, marked with special ink to show the cult's network of relationships in various regions, as well as locations of "notable interest." Next to the map is a stack of information gathered from underground intelligence networks.

He began to meticulously examine each item: "King of the Mud," the Hastu Club, the Orichalcos arms trade, the underground market of the Moral Union...

Jacob's fingers traced across the map, his breathing growing heavier, each point he saw seeming like a dead end.

With a "smack," he slammed the pen on the table.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

If that damned Lockman hadn't laid those damned backdoors before he died, if those banking systems didn't have so many damned vulnerabilities, if—

Just as Jacob's rationality and rage were about to reach a breaking point, there was a gentle knock on the basement door three times, and a young man with shifty eyes walked in.

"Sir, the Moral Alliance has sent over some minor intelligence." The young man's voice trembled slightly, clearly sensing the oppressive atmosphere in the room. "One of the pieces of information might be related to the extraordinary relics. Do you think we should...?"

Jacob didn't speak, but simply stretched out one hand, palm open.

The young man tremblingly handed him a piece of paper, which Jacob unfolded into a handwritten briefing:

*Edgar von Schinkel, Count of Twilight Harbor, of the Moral Union, Prithini Duchy, has for years spread rumors that his family possesses an "ancient heritage." He states that anyone who assists him in discovering or confirming the existence of this heritage will receive half of its proceeds as a reward, and he will also provide a portion of his family's land rights as collateral. Note: His claims are largely dismissed as "the fantasies of a fallen nobleman," and no one has actually invested.*

It was just another ridiculous rumor, not worth a second glance. Jacob finished reading it and tossed the piece of paper onto the table.

"Don't send me this kind of message anymore."

But just before his fingers left the paper, Jacob's gaze fell back on it.

Principality of Plichni...

"The Duchy of Plichni, isn't its Grand Duke a descendant of Frederick the Great, the 'Lion of Glory'?"

Old Gerard nodded with some surprise: "'The Lion of Glory' Frederick, a conqueror who almost unified the central states of the continent of Orion hundreds of years ago. After completing his transformation into an immortal, he renounced his earthly power, and the royal families of the Kingdom of Dusch and several duchies such as Prishni are his descendants."

Jacob leaned back in his chair, thinking of the two children with the blood of the Misner royal family who were sacrificed on the night the stars returned to their places.

The value of these royal bloodlines has never come solely from heredity.

Long reigns, oaths of allegiance from subjects, succession ceremonies, legal confirmations... the recognition of a family's rule by each generation leaves a unique mark on its members.

In the occult world, this mark is called the "Seal of the Crown," a real and tangible "bargaining chip."

The crowned rulers are deeply connected to the national order and are often surrounded by strict ceremonies and extraordinary protection, while the crowning oaths on ordinary collateral descendants are very thin.

The crown prince is undoubtedly a more ideal choice; he has not yet truly integrated into the country, but has already been recognized as the next ruler.

If two children with only partial royal blood of Misner could satisfy the divine messengers, then a true crown prince would be enough to make them temporarily forget about hundreds of livestock.

And let the ritualists shut up.

What is the name of Prishini's current crown prince?

Old Gerard's fish-like face, half mocking and half desperate, stiffened slightly as a bad premonition rose in his heart: "What do you mean by that?"

"Don't the gods make them need blood offerings? Presumably, the bloodline of an 'immortal' would satisfy them. In any case, the 'Silver Bell' line has already been activated."

Old Gerard jumped up from his chair in agitation: "Are you crazy? The Silver Bell isn't for kidnapping! This is simply..."

"This is a golden opportunity—listen, I have a plan."

Jacob interrupted him, gazing intently at the principality on the map, and murmured the name with fascination:

"Prichny, this is the key to breaking this deadlock."