Guide to become a Holy Knight!

3-Lucre and Herbs

The struck-up rich second generation of nobles or the wealthy wore suits that somewhat reminded Abelard of Saint Laurent's with their French moody irreverence; a relatively dark and arrogant attire.

Through the prosperity of their families, many second generations came to Raguel Abbey - the title named in honour of the angel, though it seemed unfitting for the unholy monastery - to become a holy knight, priest, or monk.

They were easily seen and spotted as they take their stroll through the courtyard, where the disowned and orphaned children such as Abelard, himself, worked their finger slavishly to the bone.

Although Abelard was not a victim to their abusive and outlandish nature because of his status as apprentice knight, which he no longer held the title of, many of the orphaned, in particular the disowned, who had once lived a life as wealthy as theirs, fell prey to their many "pranks."

In comparison to the minor villains such as holy knights and priests, the rich parents brats were more focused on breaking the mentality of their targeted individual; the protagonist specifically.

The numerous times they made an appearance in the novel overthrew that of the beautiful bishop, Nathanael, who was supposed to be a supporting character rather than a villain. Granted, Abelard had not finished the novel, but that didn't mean he didn't know the value of the first arc in the series, especially in revenge-biased novels.

"Huu.."

Exhaling, Abelard stood up, blocking the sun's glare from his eye with an arm. He wore a commonly seen grey tunic, tied tightly on his waist was a thin rope that held the pants neatly up.

His hands, full of both weeds and dirt, were layered thickly with calluses and dents from swordplay, which seemed to healed having not held a sword in his hand for some time.

Abelard had picked the majority of weeds, but he knew they would grow back at an abnormal pace.

Compared to yesterday, there was a lack of herbs, and Abelard mildly assumed that there had been a visit from a guest; not that he would want to get involved and figure who it was, he was not so phlegmatic.

The priests must have wanted to put up good appearance considering the herbs they currently had the larger lack of was chamomile, mullein, peppermint and ginseng, majority for flavor and soothing. Regardless, they were fairly cheap herbs. Well, sort of.

The author was a little ignorant of the costs of herbs; saffrons and borages as an example were not grown in an environment where it rains constantly. However, in defense for the author, it was sympathized and many claimed that this was indeed a fantasy world; it doesn't have to be accurate.

It only goes to show how popular the novel was, considering herbalist read it.

Abelard walked in the shadows through the monastery's remote corridors, which were dimly lit by a couple of torches because magic devices were considered a luxury. The stone head statues of many, what he assumed, important individuals were spotted in the long empty corridor Abelard strolled through, and he occasionally came to admire the artistry of the details.

In particular, a man with a, to a certain degree, Romanian nose.

The hallway tended to be quiet and he hasn't been found once roaming here, but today; Abelard interrupted a conversation.

If it could even be considered a "conversation" when one was being kicked in the stomach by two others. Of the two standing individuals one was a slim youth wearing a slick suit from what Abelard would have guessed was from Tom Ford if it weren't for his transmission. Or, maybe Dries Van Noten. Tight fitted black twill suit, chest welt pocket, a two button fastening blazer.

The other, who was a bit more bulky, wore a rather light coloured brown suit that would befit in Brunello Cucinelli's wardrobe.

He immediately regretted turning that corner upon coming across the two rich brats.

In an attempt to save his own ass, he spoke with an empathizing smile, "I don't want to fight," retreating a step, "Let's just go our separate ways."

Abelard reeled their attention, and the slim teen responded, "Yes, we could, but it's best if we removed your ability to speak," smirking, "Then, you'd most certainly keep your loose mouth shut."

"Kinda want to keep my laryngeal nerve intact, you know?"

"...What the fuck are you even saying?"

Abelard frowned, "If your laryngeal nerve is cut there is a huge chance of voice loss and respire damage—no, wait, screw it."

Taking a moment, the slim teen paused before glancing at the bulky adolescent beside them. Though they spoke no words, the muscle mass charged at Abelard unexpectedly.

Abelard dodged the first fist to his left with a duck, but with quick reactions Abelard's hair was grasped at, roughly slipping through the larger fingers in a close call.

Rolling further to the left on his back he managed to make some distance between the opponent as he stood, bracing himself in a semblance to the rugby form.

"Didn't I say I did not want to fight-?!"

-Bang-!

His head hit the statue above him, causing it to shatter on his head. Abelard fainted as his brain jolted into a concussion.

Luckily, he awoke a little later as he witnessed his body completely fold inhumanly impossible and being thrown over the bulky shoulder of the adolescent.

He felt sick as they moved and exclaimed between his incoherent groans in misery, "You're an assho-"

"Shut up! You'll bite your tongue, you fool!"

'You know damn well I already have-!!'

Eventually, Abelard fainted again, this time due to the shakiness of his ride. If this were a cab ride, Abelard would give it the very generous rating of 0.

*

*

*

Abelard blinked his blood-stained eyelids, gaining a momentary focus before losing it just as soon with another blink of his still grey eyes.

Laid bare in front of him was a seated male adolescent on a commonly seen wooden chair, though with one knee on top of the other, in a rather arrogant position, the cheaply crafted wooden chair seemed to deceive its outer appearance, becoming that of a golden throne.

They wore warm toned clothing, which was a contrast compared to the caliginosity of the shed Abelard had woken up in with a thudding headache.

He wanted to groan, but held it in for a reason that he, himself, did not know.

With his roughly gained sight, Abelard moved his hand to inspect the flooring hoping to latch onto a vague clue — except it didn't move much. Something was restraining his arms. His legs, too, were bent down in a forceful kneel.

He was completely, utterly immobilized.

'Fuck.'

———

Have a good day.

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