When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist
Chapter 77 - 76: The Pope of Holy Seat City leads poorly, why don’t you replace him?

Chapter 77: Chapter 76: The Pope of Holy Seat City leads poorly, why don’t you replace him?

"Isn’t this Pope just too shameless? How can he still pull the best of three rounds trick?"

The villagers grumbled while bending over to pull the potato roots from the creek.

The other villagers chimed in, starting their daily tirade against the Pope.

After all, ever since Armand became the Gold Medal Scripture Reader, his everyday activity was compiling false news and little jokes about the Holy Seat Pope.

Like in Holy Seat City, the happiest thing is when the Inquisition knocks on the door and says, "You got it wrong, Tom is next door."

Or the most common thing in Holy Seat City is temporary difficulties.

And when it comes to promoting Horn himself, it becomes boldly admitting mistakes when chopping cherry trees and rigorously washing dishes seven times for hygiene.

Giving the Pope a little Gulag shock every now and then, eating in Gulag costs no money, and oil paper wraps are hidden in Gulag’s sewers.

It must be said that the speed and quality of Horn’s little jokes far exceeded Armand and others’ expectations.

These jokes have spread like a virus throughout the entire territory of the Great Pope Country, everyone is familiar with them.

In these little jokes, the fear of the Church gradually disintegrates amidst laughter and war.

"Now the Pope sees he can’t beat us, so he wants to start walking races?"

"Hilarious, can the Church masters walk faster than us? Knight competition might scare me a bit, but running away, I’m their ancestor."

Under the towering monastery walls in the distance, milky white smoke rises from the grass hut.

Villagers with baskets full of potato roots continue to chat as they walk.

Ever since Horn announced the second special walking race, this event has become the most discussed topic in Gulag Papal State these past few days.

"What even is the Church? How many popes have changed in Holy Seat City, and was there any change? It’s just replacing the soup but not the medicine."

"What’s the old Pope’s name? Johnny VIII, right? Does he have the ability? This kind of battle doesn’t even have a good foundation, he’s just playing tricks brazenly."

"What if he doesn’t admit it in the end?"

"Humph! Doesn’t admit? First ask if my flail agrees." A Black Hat Army member swings his flail.

Another new recruit to the Black Hat Army says admiringly, "Our Great Pope Country is invincible."

"It’s got to be our own Pope from Thousand River Valley."

Strolling on the woodland path, the villagers chat with laughter, frogs hop back and forth on the trail.

They can see the smoke, which means dinner is about to start.

For many nomads and Public Register Farmers, smoke is quite a foreign term.

Because for them, firewood is an extra expense.

Many times, they take grains to the mill to exchange for bread, so they don’t need to spend extra money on firewood.

On the lord’s land, even a newly grown bush branch has an owner.

In their Pope Country, they can eat hot food every day and feel full, and every day’s labor is rewarded.

Lazy people are punished, diligent people are rewarded, and when things are unfair, Master Danji will handle it impartially without favoritism.

When they return to their small huts, they can sing hymns together, drink hot soup, cheerfully chat, and tell jokes.

General, Marshal, Elder, Bishop, those distant terms are so close that they can see them when they look up.

If someone had told them a month ago, they would never have believed they’d live such a life.

So they firmly believe in those Holy Seat jokes and Saint’s Grandson stories because the Saint’s Grandson really lets them eat well and dress nicely.

"Eighty acres of good land, and gentle and kind in-laws..."

"Children can grow up smoothly, and upon adulthood, they can build houses..."

"Grow your own food, the more work, the more harvest..."

Sitting on the hillside, Frick hummed along.

"You’re slacking off, Frick!" Frick’s hand holding the wine glass trembled, almost spilling the drink.

Madlan sat down helplessly next to Frick, "You can’t always slack off, even if you’re my uncle, it won’t do."

"You brat, which eye saw me slacking? I finished my work before resting here, don’t look down on me like that." Frick straightened his back and cursed.

Madlan glanced at him sideways, "Humorous."

Frick didn’t respond to Madlan’s sarcasm; he just sat on the muddy grass, looking into the distance.

The sunset gleamed on Frick’s shoulder, while the evening breeze gently swayed the grass leaves.

Frick hunched over, like a statue carved from black stone.

"Kid, have you thought about what you’ll do later?"

"I’ll first properly do this Cardinal role, Frick, you’re not afraid of the Church, are you?"

Frick didn’t speak; he continued holding up his drink.

"Do you think Miseria is truly merciful?"

"Why suddenly talk about this? Are you daring for death?"

Turning his head slightly, Frick chuckled softly, "If Miseria were truly merciful, why did you end up a fugitive? Only I know how well you bake bread."

"When things settle down, once Dean Juanuo clears my name, I’ll open a bakery, Frick. I’ve got enough goodwill to let you be my apprentice."

"Get lost, get lost." Frick cursed irritably.

He looked up again, as some kind of migratory birds screeched across the sky; he closed his eyes, hearing only the croaking frogs and the rustling wind through the woods.

"Frick, what’s wrong with you?"

"At first, we just wanted to survive." Frick swayed his drink, "That dog Durdafer wouldn’t release grains, so we stormed his monastery, what crime do we have?"

The earthy smell of vegetation filled his nostrils.

"Later, Durdafer died, but deservedly so. He starved many to death, and we didn’t kill him, what crime do we have?"

Frick hadn’t drunk yet, but his neck was already turning red.

"They didn’t care, and dispatched soldiers to suppress us. We just resisted slightly, and they wanted to kill me. Can’t I just block them a little?"

"Frick, what are you talking about? This is just a special walking race..." Madlan hastily came forward, supporting Frick’s back.

Yet Frick remained indifferent, still shouting into the empty valley ahead:

"What are we like, you say imprison me, or, or exile me, I’ve no complaints, I surrender, but they still want my head, they still come, they still come...

I just want to survive, why is it so hard? What crime do we have, what crime!"

Frick’s voice echoed far into the valley.

"What crime do we have?" The muddy froth floated atop the ale in his cedar cup, Frick took a sip, lowered his head.

The echo among the valleys provided his answer.

"What crime?"