The thin and short boy appeared very humble, his tone hurried, but Conrad kept feeling that this boy wasn’t actually as anxious as he seemed, and it was as if he was secretly observing him.

Perhaps it was just an illusion—what kind of schemes could such a little guy possibly have?

Conrad was rather tall, and at this moment he looked down at Rowland, speaking calmly: “Although the gods are merciful, divine magic is extremely precious. Only sufficiently devout believers can enjoy divine magic.”

This was basically asking for money. For a priest at the church to cast even a basic divine spell for healing, at least twenty silver coins had to be paid. That was why Rowland was scraping money together.

Rowland keenly noticed the impatience in Conrad’s eyes. Clearly, Conrad didn’t think Rowland could afford the fee. This guy’s behavior was strikingly similar to what Rowland had experienced in the game before.

“How terrifying,” Rowland sighed inwardly. The more similar things were, the more likely it was that other parts of history would repeat themselves.

From the boy’s memories, Rowland knew that this year was the Holy Era 1158, and the orc invasion would begin in 1159—that is, next year.

Rowland felt his own frail body. His height was okay, but he was just too thin, like a bamboo pole. This was the complete opposite of the legendary warrior in the game, who was as strong and sturdy as a tower.

In the game, although he, as a professional player, had entered a bit late and missed the early advantage, his gaming talent was truly impressive. Right before arriving here, he had already reached the realm of a legendary warrior and become a top-tier player. But now, all of that was gone—his proud physical attributes, legendary weapons, all sorts of combat skills, and even the alchemy he had trained to the master level—none of it remained.

And without strength, how could he possibly survive the orc onslaught?

“Let’s just hope history doesn’t repeat itself,” Rowland sighed inwardly, though he didn’t have much confidence, because this world was just too similar to the game—even the details matched.

Rowland was lost in thought, but Conrad took it as a sign that he had no money.

He looked the boy up and down, taking in the obviously oversized, patched, and shabby clothes. The impatience in his eyes turned to disgust. He hated people who dressed in rags, because at most they’d have a few copper coins in their pockets, and more often just fleas. Every time these paupers came to the church, it was always to beg for his charity.

In fact, he knew this boy as well—the adopted son of the drunkard Amos, Rowland. With Amos’s character, there was no way he’d have any money.

“Rowland, divine magic is a gift from the gods, extremely precious and limited in number. I’ve already used up my divine magic for today… Well, the merciful god must have been moved by your sincerity. As it happens, I have one spell left for today. I’ll go with you.” Conrad’s tone suddenly changed, and with practiced ease, he took the silver coins the boy handed over and put them back into his money pouch.

Since the other party had paid, and they were neighbors, he was willing to go with him.

A look of joy appeared on Rowland’s face, though Conrad still felt the happiness seemed a bit fake, as if it was put on. But he didn’t think much of it—an adopted son of a drunkard wasn’t worth his brainpower.

Next, Rowland immediately led the way, with Conrad following behind.

The two left the church, passed through the busy docks, entered the slums where dockworkers gathered, and finally arrived at the homeless shelter in the farthest corner.

The priest followed all the way, his brows tightly furrowed, one hand covering his nose to keep the stench from getting in. He grumbled, “Rowland, why are you living in the shelter now?”

When Amos was young, he had been a guard in Wandom, and life had been pretty good. Even after becoming a drunkard and falling into ruin, he should still have a small wooden hut, even if it was very shabby.

“I sold the hut,” Rowland replied.

“Oh.” The priest responded with some surprise, then realized the boy must have sold the hut to raise money for Amos’s treatment. Suddenly, the silver coins in his pouch felt a bit hot to the touch. But no matter how hot, they were still silver coins—he’d rather burn his hand than let these little darlings leave his pocket.

Rowland entered the shelter first. The priest hesitated for a moment, but still followed him in. He had already taken the money, so he might as well consider this a good deed.

As soon as he entered the shelter, Rowland froze, doing his best not to let the joy in his heart show on his face.

He saw, in a corner of the room, his adoptive father Amos slumped by the bed, his body twisted and stiff. His eyes were wide open, and a cheap wine bottle had rolled to the floor beside his dangling hand. The ground was covered in spilled liquor.

The old man had already died on his own, saving him a sum of money and freeing him from worrying about loan sharks.

“Amos was a complete madman. He drank like crazy, and no one could stop him,” sighed an old man living in the shelter.

The priest, suppressing his disgust, stepped forward and placed his fingers on Amos’s neck to check. Then he said to the silent boy beside him, “We were a step too late. He’s already gone.”

Rowland nodded, letting out a long sigh. His heart was calm, and the original owner’s lingering obsession did not appear. It seemed he had completely faded away.

It was all over. He was free.