Conquering OtherWorld Starts With a Game - Chapter 171.2: Borrowing Your Thick Skin

Inside the town hall, Yang Qiu, who had temporarily disabled the projection and was presiding in his true form, sipped tea calmly.

Well… If he ever reached the stage where he could legitimize religious factions, he certainly wouldn’t decline.

The Chinese indigenous belief of Taoism blossomed from the collective wisdom of the Hundred Schools of Thought; its teachings spreading primarily among the cultured elite from its very inception.

Buddhism, a foreign import, underwent a thousand years of domestication, never quite reaching the zenith of a theocracy, and often found itself at the mercy of the ruling powers of the times.

This led to a somewhat superficial understanding of religious sects among modern Chinese, fostering the belief that any sect, with state backing, could make its way into society.

Yet, Earth’s own annals stood as a testament to the contrary, showcasing how, apart from the unique anomaly of Chinese civilization, countless nations had been ground under the heel of religious might…

A world devoid of divine beings and supernatural phenomena where all technological marvels are the fruits of human ingenuity—such is the nature of Earth.

But in a realm where divine beings walked among men and the extraordinary was commonplace, religious factions wielded their power with even fewer restraints.

Why, regardless of a city’s economic despair, did its churches always rise as the most magnificent edifices within its walls?

The answer lay in the tripartite division of tax revenues among religious factions, royalty, and nobility, with the common folk receiving scant benefits in return. A city mustered thousands of professional soldiers to fend off bandit raids and employed hundreds of clerks and officials to ensure its smooth operation, while religious members needed to only erect grand cathedrals and maintain a handful of night watchmen to claim their share.

However, such musings were moot in the face of immediate concerns for Yang Qiu.

For Yang Qiu, the prospect of marshaling an army of three thousand players to storm the battlefield was far from practical. He harbored no illusions about the chaos that could ensue if he allowed this calamitous horde free rein, likely resulting in a series of “surprises” of their own making.

A more prudent approach was to issue preliminary missions, rallying a contingent of seasoned players with sufficient combat prowess and discipline to establish a base camp (and teleportation point) at the designated battleground, paving the way for the larger player force to follow.

Once the native tools, Wagner and Kenn, had concluded their exposition and directed the players to converge at Weisshem, Yang Qiu promptly escorted them through the subterranean teleportation array to their destination—Wagner was to lead the undead legion, while Kenn to marshal his mercenaries.

“We owe you one again, Ascetic Lowell.”

Inside the Weisshem town hall’s main hall, Yang Qiu sincerely gave his thanks to the dressed-up Lowell.

Lowell, in a rented cosplay costume, responded coolly, “No need to thank me. I’m only doing this for Rex’s sake.”

Although both sides had agreed to a “battle of honor,” the willingness of the Radiant Sun Church in accepting the challenge was a sign of their confidence in attaining victory.

Should they prove sore losers and decide to employ dirty tactics at the last moment, Rex himself wouldn’t be able to withstand that.

“Sigh… Why did I ever agree to partake in your mad scheme?” Lowell sighed, giving Yang Qiu a deep look as he stood up from the sofa and adjusted his excessively decorated (entirely machine-embroidered) gold and black cloak. “I won’t take the initiative to strike; you understand what I mean, right?”

Yang Qiu smiled confidently. “Revered Inspector, do you doubt that the Taranthan undead will obtain victory?”

Lowell’s expression turned complicated…

Based on what was learned from the captured Commander Benn Hamn Walton, this contingent of the Radiant Sun Church consisted of three hundred knights and six hundred squires.

These three hundred knights weren’t mere professional soldiers of the city defense force; they were bona fide knights of the faith, recognized by the Radiant Sun Church’s Inquisition. Each possessed their own fiefs and had strength on par with, if not exceeding, Wagner’s level.

Frankly, this force was more than capable of besieging any moderately sized city.

Such a powerful force was pitted against the Taranthan undead, who were only marginally stronger than robust peasants… yet Lowell didn’t dare say the undead would definitely be defeated.

The reason was simple. These undying and vigorous undead were undoubtedly among the frustrating of adversaries. With fewer than three hundred of their number, they managed to capture nearly three hundred individuals from the Sokri merchant caravan in a single night, mercenaries and thugs included. Wagner, who had accompanied them then, hadn’t even needed to intervene and Lowell knew this all too well.

“Even if we defeat this order, what then?” Inspector Lowell could only sigh softly, turning toward the door.

“Indeed, it might not do much, but at the very least, it could earn us the ‘friendship’ we require… Those who see themselves as powerful only wish to associate with the strong, and Weisshem is in need of ‘friends.'”

“There’s nothing more ironic than hearing such words from you.” Inspector Lowell couldn’t help turning back.

“I find it ironic, too, but this is the logic the world recognizes,” Yang Qiu replied with a smile.

Lowell felt he was courting a rebuff.

Yang was just like that. He despised the conventional social norms, yet understood these unwritten rules like the back of his hand.

Watching Lowell depart, Yang Qiu sat back down and took his teacup, gently blowing on it.

“Even though he’s an old intellectual, he’s still one of the church’s intellectuals,” Yang Qiu muttered to himself. “Even if the Radiant Sun Church has always been at odds with the Church of Prosperity, this fellow would still feel a sense of kinship…”

Yang Qiu intended to elevate the reputation of the Taranthan undead by stomping on the Radiant Sun Church’s contingent, securing peace along with time and space for development—this intent naturally couldn’t be unnoticed by an old fellow like Lowell, who was of similar age to Yang Qiu.

Offending the Radiant Sun Church wasn’t something Yang Qiu feared; the relationship was irreconcilable from the start.

As for why he didn’t seek to trouble the Church of Lady Gold Coin or the Bartalis family first? The reason is just as simple—the saying goes, “The monk can run, but the temple won’t run with him.” Locals, with their homes here… would be likelier to surrender… or rather, assimilate than foreigners.

As he drained his teacup, a cold glint flickered in Yang Qiu’s eyes.

“It wasn’t the plan to resort to such a method… But strong medicine has to be administered when necessary.”

Having made his decision, Yang Qiu set down his cup and rose to leave.

The battleground for the showdown between Lord Charlie Rex of Weisshem and the Radiant Church’s knightly order was set in a wasteland about 10 kilometers west of Indahl.

There were two reasons for the choice of a battlefield so close to Indahl. First, the Radiant Sun Church’s knightly order was an external force, and the Weisshem’s side wasn’t worried about them receiving support from the city—unless the Radiant Sun Church was to humbly seek aid from the Church of Lady Gold Coin.

However… if the Church of Lady Gold Coin were willing to lend forces and voluntarily stepped into this quagmire, then the players would undoubtedly be the most delighted…

The second reason was straightforwardly brutal. It was to give the people of Indahl City an ample opportunity to witness the might of Weisshem’s clenched fist.

As the undead summoned for the vanguard rushed to the designated battleground overnight, Hal and his fellow brothers, who had infiltrated Indahl two days earlier, met in a tavern on Saint Joseph Street.

“It’s just been two days, and I’m already missing the little orc girl Lyka’s cooking… I really don’t want to stay in this cursed place any longer.” Tuttle Joe tossed the half-eaten, coarse flatbread back onto his plate, visibly distressed.

“Yang, that bastard, said we could return as soon as we confirmed there were enough spectators heading to the western wasteland to watch the battle,” Hal grumbled. “Seriously, does that guy not fear we’ll take the chance to flee?”

Finley remained silent, merely tasting a small sip of the slightly sour malt beer before quietly setting down the glass.

Flee? As if! I only see you two dying to return…