Chapter 861: An Old Tree Blossoms Again

The incense blended by the High Priests varied, but they all shared one core trait: they made people feel the call of the gods.

It was an uncanny sensation. When believers sat together with their eyes closed, listening to the High Priest chant in a rhythmical but unintelligible tongue, and as the world around them began to shift, they truly believed the gods existed.

If the gods don’t exist, then how is it that just a moment ago you were sitting in a temple, and now you’re standing in the sky, thousands of meters above the ground?

A god, so immense that it seemed to blanket the heavens, lay across the cosmos. People could only see part of its body, never its entirety.

Of course, not everyone’s visions were the same. Some fell into endless hells filled with horrifying beasts and malevolent spirits, facing unbeatable foes—only the gods could save them.

Others found themselves pulled into surreal worlds of joy and peace, free of sorrow, immersed in bliss they could not bear to leave.

The incense was crucial. It was because the earliest High Priests discovered its unique properties that Nagaryll’s society gradually came to believe in them.

Whether a tribal chief or a later provincial governor, whether a lowly commoner or a noble elite—once they were in a sealed room and felt the gods’ call, something uncontrollable would happen.

Even the powerful couldn’t resist that call, and so they truly believed that gods existed.

Rika used the same method in the Federation. He was meant to inherit the position of High Priest, but now he was in a different place.

Using the hallucinogenic properties of ghost-face mushrooms in the incense, he showed people radiant, divine visions—making them believers.

Well, most Federals weren’t that easily fooled. They knew it was likely a hallucinogen. Ghost-face mushrooms were a restricted substance in the Federation, and very hard to acquire.

Their black-market price was extremely high. To maintain his current scale of preaching, Rika spent most of his money on buying ghost-face mushrooms for incense.

Many of his followers weren’t true believers. They were just there for free access to the drugs.

Now, he was running low on money. Preaching here was expensive—whether it was street missions or televised sermons, every action meant spending a lot.

He looked expectantly at his so-called father. He never believed himself to be the old man’s real son—they didn’t even look alike.

But he didn’t care. In that kind of environment, having a High Priest as a father was far better than having some unknown cleric.

Now that his father was in the Federation, Rika needed to know how much money he brought.

There was wisdom behind the cloudiness of the old priest’s eyes. He moved slowly, feeling around his body until he pulled out a small pouch.

It was made of soft sheepskin, well sealed—unlike cowhide, which cracks or hardens over time.

He shook it gently, and a few roughly polished gemstones fell out.

These stones were common in temples, often used to decorate statues, giving them color like a kind of spiritual fuel.

Were they valuable? Maybe not much.

But worthless? That would be an insult to the gems themselves.

Seeing them, Rika’s hopeful expression turned to disappointment. “This is it?”

He took the pouch, emptied the contents into his palm—just a handful of gemstones.

After a year in the Federation, he’d become familiar with antique shops across the city. A quick estimate told him these were worth maybe a few hundred thousand sols at most.

It looked like a lot, but in reality, that amount wouldn’t last long—not for his kind of missionary work. It couldn’t even cover much time.

“No more?” he asked, putting the gems back into the pouch and tucking it into his coat.

The old priest shook his head. “They didn’t allow me to bring more. Those things belong to them.”

He didn’t clarify who they were, but both father and son understood perfectly.

Who else but the Federals?

Thinking of all the gemstones and gold back at the temple, and how little was brought here, Rika’s face soured.

“Just stay at home and rest. I’ll handle everything. Things will get better…” Without another word, he turned and left.

As Rika walked away, a subtle shift appeared in the old priest’s gaze.

On his third day in the Federation, the old priest called Lynch.

Around 9 a.m., Lynch arrived by car to pick him up.

When he saw Lynch, the old priest let out a breath of relief. “You wouldn’t believe it—but just now, I felt like you were my real family.”

Lynch chuckled. “That’s a surprise. Something happen?”

He opened the door, letting the old man into the car.

Rika had already gone out. His daily routine, in the eyes of the old priest and the Federal Security Bureau, was little more than constant debauchery.

Using his status as a preacher and the so-called son of a god—and his wealth—he slept around with different women.

Sometimes the scenes were ugly. People got hurt. But no one cared.

As long as the incense was burning, what did it matter if someone got injured in the pursuit of ultimate pleasure?

He wasn’t even supposed to go out in the morning—it wasn’t a good time, since most of their kind were still sleeping. The real activity began in the afternoon.

But once he heard Lynch was coming, Rika made up an excuse and left early.

He was terrified of Lynch. The man had broken his bones right in front of him once—and even threatened to kill him.

Rika knew Lynch meant it. That’s why just hearing Lynch’s name made him anxious, made him want to flee.

It gave the old priest more time.

As the car rolled on, Lynch glanced over and asked with interest, “Looks like you and Rika aren’t getting along.”

It was obvious—otherwise, this meeting wouldn’t be happening.

The old priest didn’t say much—he just smiled and brushed it off. “I heard the Federation has very advanced medical care.”

That wasn’t up for debate. Cutting-edge technology is built with money—especially in medicine.

Every medical breakthrough requires teams of researchers pushing beyond technological limits and conducting large-scale testing on animals, and even humans.

The costs involved are staggering. Poorer individuals simply can’t afford to participate in developing or researching medical science.

After Lynch gave him a clear answer, the old priest asked another question, “Can they tell me whether I still have the ability to father children?”

Lynch nodded again. “That’s easy.”

The old priest grabbed Lynch’s hand, looked at him seriously, and said, “Take me.”

Over half an hour later, the two arrived at a private medical facility—not a hospital.

This place catered only to the wealthy. Many of the Federation’s politicians, celebrities, and tycoons were clients. Lynch was one of them.

You could criticize the medical industry’s ethics, but that wouldn’t stop you from enjoying its advanced technologies.

With the help of a young and attractive nurse, the old priest calmly completed the necessary sample collection.

His life had been devoted to the gods—body and soul. He’d once danced naked in front of tens of thousands of believers without shame. This was nothing.

Soon, a doctor in his thirties walked in. “Sir, according to our report, you still have the ability to father children. Your body is healthier than it looks.”

The doctor himself was surprised. This man looked like he could collapse at any moment, yet still retained fertility.

His aged appearance was misleading—he was old, but not that old.

“So I can still be a father?” the old priest asked again. The doctor confirmed it several times.

He turned to Lynch. “How much do I owe for this?”

Lynch shook hands with the doctor and led him outside. “I’ve already paid. Now, let’s talk about what you want.”

Standing outside the clinic, under a clear blue sky, the old priest sighed. “I want a child that’s truly mine…”

That afternoon, several agencies in Eminence received a special request: a sixty-year-old man wanted a child. He was looking for a grown woman to conceive naturally and give birth.

Once the child was born, the woman would be allowed to live with him and the child as the mother, and would receive a one-time payment of 200,000 sols.

Originally, the old priest thought a million would be more appropriate. But Lynch explained to him that the Federation sol wasn’t like the old Valier currency—it actually had value. Even tens of thousands would be enough.

Offering 200,000 was a way to filter for better candidates—women with genes he’d be satisfied with.

Soon, many women applied.

What’s a few nights with a sixty-year-old?

Nothing at all. What mattered was the money—and the inheritance rights the child would receive.

Currently in Eminence, high-end escorts earned around 1,200 sols per night. Out of that, 100–200 went to their agents, 200–400 to the agency, and the women took home 600–800.

Sleeping with different men every day for a year might make them 200,000—facing all kinds of clients, some old, some twisted. So why not this?

Because the money’s dirty?

Of course not.