Serious People, Who is Learning Magic at Marvel?

Azazar squeezed through the crowd—he didn't know who first came up with the description, but he had to admit that the person who first used the tide to describe the crowd must be a genius.

It is too vivid. He squeezed into the tide, like a beige reef. The tide made it very difficult for him to walk, and in this case, walking even became a painful torture. His robes dragged to the ground, and he even had to walk with them on a leash in order not to be trampled on.

And besides these, he had other problems to contend with. For example, now, the pastor stretched out his hand with difficulty and pushed away the two men standing in front of him.

They were arguing with each other over the food that had just been distributed. They both want more, and the two have their eyes on each other. They paid no heed to the priest's shoving, but continued to swear at each other after he left.

Azazar is not in the mood to care so much now, he just wants to rush forward as soon as possible. Time is running out, he must hurry up.

He walked with difficulty on the deck full of refugees, where every corner was occupied by displaced people. Some were lucky enough to still have families, while others groaned in pain and were still oozing blood from their bandages.

Such an environment is certainly not good for them, but this is already the limit of what this ship can provide.

To be precise, this is already the limit of the ship after receiving the sixth wave of refugees. Rather than belittling such an environment, Asazar would rather be amazed and try to figure out what the captain of the ship is thinking. However, until now, he has not been able to meet him.

He didn't even know if the ship had a captain—the command could have been anyone, a naval officer or the head of the Astra Militarum, or a few lords of arms, maybe the Astartes... .

Who can tell? The pastor had carefully observed the ship in a vacuum before being picked up on board. Its appearance was shockingly old, as if it hadn't received any maintenance since it was built.

It's unbelievable that even the stingiest captain knows how to maintain their ship.

With a sigh, the priest pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Now is not the time to think about them, he needs to meet up with that nobleman quickly and discuss countermeasures. They made promises to each other to protect the others...

Although this oath may seem a bit redundant now, an oath is an oath, and it will not disappear because of your hesitation.

The stench got into his nostrils, so he had to cover his mouth and nose - the environment is naturally not good in a place full of refugees. Water has become a very precious thing, and washing the body has naturally become a luxury.

However, compared to the filth and filth of the environment, what made the pastor even more unbearable was the atmosphere of despair.

He couldn't see any hope in the crowd, and everyone's faces were numb. Whether they are men or women, old people or children...

Soldiers have been reorganized, other 'regular' people have left here, only refugees are still here.

Some would stare at him as he passed, at the State Church emblem on his coat. There's something special about their eyes, like flinching, or some mix of anticipation. This look made Asazar very upset.

For no reason, he remembered that real fantasy dream again.

The pastor moved his right hand in silence. The pastor's robe was wide enough for him to cover up some things, and there were even inner pockets for them to put things in. He stroked the inner pocket with his right hand, and something metallic and angular touched his fingers. Through the fabric, it returns a warm touch.

Whoever came up with the design was given a promotion and then beaten as a traitor in a religious feud.

Anyway, that's how it is. Azazar doesn't know his name, but enjoys the benefits he brings. It's like he doesn't know the name of that god, but he also enjoys her protection and gifts.

The pastor smiled wryly, and wanted to move on, but was blocked.

A man who could not be regarded as tall stepped out of the crowd and stood in front of him. He was bald, wearing a tattered jacket, and the sleeve of his left hand was missing, revealing a large tattoo on his inner arm.

He looked haggard, but even so the menace of the way of life in his features could not be concealed. Azazar didn't even have to think to know who this man was—the gangster.

"...what's your business?" Asazar asked cautiously.

The man didn't speak for the first time, but just looked him up and down, and then he showed a friendly smile - the yellow-brown crooked teeth made his smile look disgusting, but the kind of cautiousness contained in it made him feel sick. Asazar realized something.

"You are a venerable clergyman, aren't you?" he said as respectfully as he could.

This person is very jerky when doing this, he doesn't even know how to bend over. A good posture can achieve better results in this kind of dialogue. Thinking of this, Asazar can't help feeling a little curious.

He nodded: "Yes."

The man breathed a sigh of relief as if relieved: "That's good, that's good...Can I ask you a favor?"

Out of curiosity, Asazar agreed to his request. And the deeper reason is naturally because of the tattoo on the man's arm, the gangster is no different from a duck to water in an environment full of refugees.

Moreover, there are no guards here. He didn't think of the conflict, and although he was confident of settling the gangster, there was a vague voice in the pastor's heart asking him to agree.

A few seconds later, Asazar nodded.

After getting permission, the man immediately led him to the other side of the crowd. Beside a tent made of rags and some metal sticks, stood several other people with the same fierce complexion, both male and female, with large tattoos on their left hands.

The gang...from the hive?

The pastor didn't say anything more, he could get the answer he wanted without opening his mouth, after all, the man who brought him here had already turned his head. He holds his hands primly, their knobbly, rough surfaces, which are evident for beating others or holding weapons.

Yes, it couldn't be more obvious. Hive gangsters had to oppress others if they wanted to survive, and beating was a pretty good way.

"...In that tent, lay a child, Reverend."

The man blinked while talking, the frequency was very fast, obviously because of excessive nervousness. He opened his mouth and his throat rolled for a moment before continuing.

"She was rescued by us on the run... Her parents are dead and she's been running a high fever. We can't get medicine, Reverend, so we want you to give her a deathbed or something. about..."

A burst of absurdity rose in Athazar's mind—he heard a vicious hive gang ask him to make a final confession for a child who had no relationship with them.

What's wrong with this world?

"...I can do it." Azazar replied in a low voice. "But I have a question, sir, why are you doing something that is superfluous to you?"

The men murmured, as if they were a little uneasy about the pastor's question. He waved his hand, and replied half-heartedly: "There is no reason, sir... There is no reason."

Azazar stared at him for a while, and finally chose to bend down and enter the tent. At this moment, a strong pain surged through his whole body like an electric shock.

The pastor opened his mouth wide in silence, he inhaled deeply and exhaled heavily the unpleasant air in the tent. After repeating this cycle three times, he finally got out of the pain.

He held the prismatic object in the inner pocket of his right sleeve in doubt, and after a few seconds, he bent down and came to the simple bed. The tent was so small that he even found it difficult to breathe.

He looked over the bed—a pale girl who was breathing rapidly came into his sight. Her brow was covered with sweat, and her brows were wrinkled together in pain.

high fever......

Azazar silently pressed the back of his left hand to her forehead, the warmth let him know that the gangster who invited him over was not lying. The pastor pursed his lips, held the child's right hand, and called softly.

After half a minute, she reluctantly opened her eyes. Azazar's own face was reflected in the maroon hole, but it was not clear. Her eyes are unfocused and seem to be out of focus.

"who is it?"

The child asked softly, his voice was weak, but he was not panicked, as if he already understood his situation. Azazar shook his left hand slightly so she could feel him.

He said, "I'm a priest, boy."

"Priest?"

"Yes, Shepherd of the Emperor, I come for you, child."

"The Emperor saved me, Monsieur Priest."

The child said in a low voice, her voice was very hoarse, and every time she spoke half a sentence, she would take a while to stop and breathe hard, which even became a kind of torture. Whenever she took a deep breath, Azazar could hear a sound similar to that of a broken bellows being pulled, and exhaling would cause a sharp neighing.

He clenched his left hand so that the little hand could be completely wrapped.

"...Yes, she saved you. The Emperor protects us all."

"So, does she also bless my father and mother?" the child gasped.

Azazar was silent for a while again, and after a while, he said, "What do your parents do?"

"They're factory workers, Mr. Reverend, I miss them..." the child whispered, as if in a whisper. "I haven't seen them for a long time...the tall ones...and the fire..."

Her voice began to get lower and lower, and this young body, which was exhausted and afflicted by illness, could not even communicate for a long time. Azazar held her hand, not even knowing how this deathbed confession was supposed to go.

Do you want to pray for her?

But I don't believe in gods.

The scene in the great hall flashed before the pastor's eyes again, the religious embossment, the floor tiles engraved with the name of the victim... and her eyes.

There was a subtle golden light flashing through his eyes, Asazar lowered his head and began to pray, but it was not for himself. He saw a **** with his own eyes, so maybe she can protect this young soul?

In the dark, he seemed to hear a reply.

-----------------

"Why hasn't he come yet?"

Ernesto thought anxiously, he was the nobleman among the previous 2,231 people. Although the agreement with the pastor was difficult to complete, he had to try.

Although the Ernesto family is a family that has fallen so low that it can only enjoy ruling power in the borderlands, but even so, they are also nobles.

At this moment, Ernesto Tallinn—as the last member of the Ernesto family, he must maintain this last glory.

What's more, now is a unique opportunity.

Three hours ago, he received news that the actual owner of the ship wanted to meet with them, the 'miracle sufferers' one by one, and many surviving scholars or military officers had returned from the meeting, their faces All with the same kind of wandering.

This made him guess a bit. I'm afraid the man who wants to meet them is a great man. And this is obviously an opportunity to fight for the more than 2,000 people to not be reduced to slaves or miners afterwards.

Although he doesn't know how to discuss this matter...but...

The young and haggard nobleman sighed and paced the room anxiously. After his identity with the pastor was verified, they got a common small room.

The space is cramped, but that's a special treat in this case.

The anxious pacing continued for a while, and at this moment, there was finally a knocking sound outside the door. He immediately went to open it, and the priest who appeared behind the door nodded at him with a serious face. For some reason Ernesto read in his seriousness a hidden deep sadness.

He didn't ask.

"You're here at last, Reverend Asazar! Are they all right?"

He was referring to those 2,200 people—for whom Azazar left~www.novelmt.com~The pastor wanted them all to receive food, so he chose to visit.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Ernesto. I've been on the road for a while." Azazar nodded apologetically, walked into the room, and gestured. "How's it going? Are we here?"

"Soon, soon."

The young nobleman waved his hand, and his attention was obviously focused on another aspect: "The interview time is usually within an hour, but how should we communicate with that adult?"

There was a palpable tension on his face.

"We don't know who he is, we don't know his character, we don't even know his political leanings — how do we fulfill our oath?"

Facing his question, Asazar froze for a moment, and stroked the things in his inner pocket with his right hand.

"...I also have no answer, Mr. Ernesto. We'll have to try, I'm afraid."

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