“Is this where the great Saint Ernest serves Kjeragandr?
I heard you’re hiring—I want to sign up!”
“Uh, sorry.
Prime Minister Ernest does work here, that’s correct, but our hiring quota is already full.
Please keep an eye on the notice board outside.
Any new openings will be posted there promptly.”
After finally sending off the last overly enthusiastic Kjerag resident, Lara rubbed her cheeks, stiff from forced smiles, and let out a long sigh before turning and walking into Ernest’s office.
Ernest, who was seated and in conversation with the renowned Cliff, looked up at her and gave a helpless smile.
“All done?”
Lara nodded.
Her face almost reflexively formed another polite smile.
“Mm.
One hundred and three today.”
Cliff clicked his tongue in amusement.
“One hundred and three people.
If my Blacksteel could get that many applicants lining up on their own, I wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”
Ernest glanced at him and corrected calmly, “That’s one hundred and three today.”
A week had passed since the Sacred Stone Trial, yet the impact of the miracle that occurred on the holy mountain had not faded in the slightest.
If anything, as Ernest’s deeds spread throughout Kjerag, the chain reaction only grew stronger.
Because of Kjeragandr’s sanctity, no one dared question Her judgment.
And the two figures who had clashed on the Sacred Stone Plaza had their victory decided the moment the miracle appeared.
Enya Silverash, the Kjerag Saintess who supported Ernest and interpreted the divine will as innocence, proved her authority.
By standing against the Grand Elder, she earned immense prestige among the people.
As for the Grand Elder, his fate was all but sealed.
Standing upon the holy mountain, he had dared to distort Kjeragandr’s will and attempt to condemn Ernest, the one who had invoked a divine miracle.
For that, he faced overwhelming condemnation from all of Kjerag.
People likened him to the tyrant from the myths of the Sacred Stone.
His incitement of the masses against Ernest, and his accusations against Enya, were seen as an affront to both Kjerag and Kjeragandr.
His end was inevitable.
On the very next day after the trial, the Grand Elder committed suicide in shame before the Stone of Kjeragandr within the Monastery.
His body was not given the sacred sky burial he had wished for.
Instead, it was hastily buried somewhere within the Monastery’s domain.
His name and portrait were erased from records and halls, blacked out and removed, as though everything tied to him had to be severed as completely as possible.
A bitter irony.
To be honest, while the Grand Elder’s death was satisfying, it was also somewhat unexpected.
If he had known about Ernest’s peculiar connection with Kjeragandr, he might not have been so aggressive or so certain during the trial.
Still, the death of Kjerag’s leading conservative figure, and in such a disgraceful and irreversible manner, was undeniably good news for Ernest.
With that, Ernest attended the Grand Elder’s hasty funeral in his capacity as Prime Minister of Kjerag, wearing a suitably solemn expression.
Officially, it was to mourn the passing of a prominent religious figure.
Unofficially, it was to confirm the man was truly dead.
And, if possible, to offer one final remark: your death has contributed more than your entire life ever did.
Efficient.
Ruthless.
Beyond the Grand Elder’s demise, the Sacred Stone Trial also granted Ernest a powerful new form of political capital.
He could now openly claim his new title: “Holy Son of Kjerag.”
And it was no empty title.
In hundreds of years of history, no one else had ever caused Kjeragandr to perform a miracle for a single individual.
As an aside, Ernest himself had tried to rename the title to something like “Patriarch” or “Saint,” but had failed every time.
“Thanks to that new title,” Ernest said with a hint of pride, “this little office of mine is practically turning into a second Monastery.
A kingdom of God on terra.”
“One hundred and three is just today’s number.
Yesterday was even worse—over two hundred people.
Lara nearly lost her voice explaining to them that we don’t perform rituals, chant scriptures, or offer blessings for wealth and children.”
He sighed.
“Honestly, I’m still trying to figure out how to make money off all this myself.”
Cliff raised an eyebrow, briefly glancing at Lara beside him.
The tall Ursus girl hadn’t taken her eyes off Ernest.
A faint blush colored her fair cheeks.
Noticing Cliff’s gaze, she turned her head slightly and gave a shy smile.
Oblivious to her small movements, Ernest looked at Cliff with clear anticipation.
“So, Mr.
Cliff—interested in making an investment here?”
Ernest didn’t care much for the dignity of a prime minister.
Blacksteel International was a giant with its own supermassive landship, the undisputed leader of the global mercenary industry, and swimming in money.
As for him, this humble prime minister asking for funding was no different from cracking jokes in a group chat and begging a rich guy to drop fifty for a Thursday special.
Money first.
Pride can wait.
Cliff seemed slightly taken aback by Ernest’s bluntness.
The old man, whose face was usually stern and unyielding, couldn’t help but let out a genuine smile.
He shook his head lightly.
“What exactly would I invest in here?
Though I did spot a few promising candidates among your people.
Shame they already belong to someone else.”
“Now that’s a bit harsh, Mr.
Cliff,” Ernest replied with a feigned look of displeasure.
But he understood.
Just as Magnus Bank could never truly own Kjerag’s land, Blacksteel International, with its deep ties to the Columbian military, could never set up a base here either.
That would be a direct provocation to other nations.
As for the “promising candidates” Cliff mentioned, Ernest thought it over and figured he meant the people around Karlan Trade.
His brother had no shortage of capable individuals.
That much, Ernest was well aware of.
Who knows?
Maybe one day he could poach a few for himself.
“Still, even if I can’t invest, Prime Minister Ernest, I can offer you a small piece of advice.”
Ernest straightened up immediately, all attention.
Cliff spoke with measured emphasis.
“Whether it’s squeezing land or taking mercenary jobs like mine, risking your life on the edge of a blade, you’re still only making small money.”
“Do you know what’s most profitable in Columbia?”
Ernest hesitated, then ventured, “Uh… robbing a bank?”
Cliff froze for a moment, then burst into laughter, shaking his head.
“Careful, don’t let Luther hear you say that.”
He paused, then grew serious.
“Research.
The tech companies in Trimount are where the real money is.
One successful project, even something seemingly useless, can bring in tens of billions once patented.”
Ernest nodded in understanding, but couldn’t help replying dryly, “You’re not wrong, but you know Kjerag’s situation.
Research?
We’d have better luck digging up ancient ruins.”
“Hey, I didn’t say you had to do the research,” Cliff said.
“Those companies are the giants.
They eat the meat, sure, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have the soup.”
“Kjerag is rich in talent and unique in environment.
Endless snowfields, the highest peak on the continent.
Extremes are exactly what researchers love.
If you can convince the locals to open up these regions, getting a share of the profits wouldn’t be difficult.”
Cliff handed over his personal card.
“If you’re interested, give me a call.
I can make the introductions.”