Chapter Eighty-Seven: Archbishop Alonsos

Arriving at his quarters surprised Patrick somewhat, for the place where he now stood was, strictly speaking, still within the royal palace, merely detached from the surrounding buildings. Next door stood the Holy Cathedral of Lordaeron, yet the entire cathedral had not a single guard. After taking his leave of Patrick, Alonsus returned alone to the cathedral.

Through his spiritual perception, Patrick sensed that there were only a few people inside the entire cathedral, and not even a proper gate. Anyone could come and go as they pleased. There were no valuables within the church; everything depended on the people’s donations, and the archbishop gave all those offerings away to the poor.

Truly worthy of the archbishop revered by every human kingdom. Such noble conduct deserved to be emulated by all.

Then again, the Kingdom of Terenas was indeed generous, placing him directly in the royal city. With so many elves accompanying him, did the human king not fear something might happen?

In truth, Terenas merely wished to exploit the elves’ visit to accumulate political capital among the human kingdoms and create a favorable political climate for Arthas. As for Quel’Thalas, it looked down utterly upon the outside world; if not for the sake of dealing with Patrick, they would probably have sent over some mage just to go through the motions and be done with it.

“Perhaps the human king has something to ask of me,” Patrick thought.

That evening, an extravagant banquet was arranged by Lordaeron’s royal family and the great nobles, a grand affair in every respect. By human standards, it should have been the finest of the finest. Patrick changed into formal attire, and the accompanying elves, too, let go of the tension they had worn all day and could finally savor something of this foreign land.

“Thank you for attending, Lord Patrick. His Majesty has prepared the most sumptuous feast for our elven guests,” said the archbishop Alonsus, as courteous as ever.

“No need to be so formal. At the banquet, I am merely an arcane mage.”

“You are too modest, my lord.” Alonsus was slightly taken aback by Patrick’s easy manner, though he knew such polite words were never to be taken literally; they were only a sign of friendliness and approachability.

A banquet of the highest human rank was indeed luxurious. Even the elves from Silvermoon were happy to enjoy human cuisine for a change. The elves who had come along were all searching for dishes they liked; even Higgins El and Roen Flow Song were granted freedom to move about. Patrick left only his chief retainer, Etonis, and the old steward Melaris at his side, while the others went off to enjoy the customs of this human land.

Unlike elven life, the humans present were full of vigor and drive. Even the guards around the palace seemed brimming with spirit and purpose, something one could never feel in the decadent Silvermoon City. Only among the human kingdoms did such energy exist.

Humans were considered a short-lived race in Azeroth. An ordinary lifespan of sixty or seventy years was nothing to an elf, and the overall social welfare of human kingdoms was not as good as that of the elves. Yet this very fact had forged humanity’s relentless striving spirit: diligent in study, diligent in labor. Human society was, after all, the fastest developing in all Azeroth.

In his former life, Patrick had been human too. Now he wore an elven skin.

“Archbishop Alonsus, I have a question and would ask for your answer,” Patrick said, feeling the astonishing power contained within this future founder of the paladin order.

“Please, go ahead.”

“Why does the Holy Light within you feel so different? Such pure energy is enough to draw my gaze.” Patrick could sense the vastness of the Holy Light within Alonsus. Unlike the priests of Quel’Thalas, Alonsus’s Holy Light was exceedingly pure, yet not at all aggressive. It did not reject other forms of power.

This left Patrick deeply puzzled. The purer the Holy Light, the more orderly and immaculate it became, subtly shaping the user’s soul and flesh, drawing them gradually toward an almost rule-like state of being. It was precisely this kind of structured power that produced clear opposition against undead, fel energies, and shadow—those chaotic forms of power.

And yet the energy within Alonsus, though immeasurable, felt in Patrick’s perception like a gentle stream, nourishing everything around it without forcibly changing anything.

“Would you like to hear a story?” Few elves were interested in the Holy Light. The high elves were generally immersed in the sea of arcane magic, so Patrick’s curiosity about the Holy Light puzzled Alonsus. Still, he was willing to explain it to the elf before him.

Patrick nodded, and Alonsus began to recall those old days.

“When I was young, I was a child living in the Cathedral of Stratholme. I never understood why I lived in a church, but from the earliest days I can remember, that was where I stayed, and the one who raised me was the cathedral’s bishop.

“When I was little, the bishop often said that the Holy Light would bless every good and devout soul. I understood it only in part, but as the bishop’s adopted son, I spent my days in the church quietly serving all kinds of people. Later, as I grew older, I sensed the call of the Holy Light and became a priest, healing the people within the church. But not long after, the bishop passed away, and I inherited his office, still healing the people and praying for them in the cathedral.

“At that time, I kept asking myself: what exactly is this golden light flickering in my hands?”

Alonsus gathered a sphere of golden energy, gentle and delicate, impossible not to want to approach. The old archbishop’s Holy Light surged in his hands, and all the humans around them marveled at it. Some even began to pray silently, and the royal guards nearby also showed a trace of excitement.

“Later I understood that the Holy Light is the embodiment of three virtues: steadfastness, respect, and compassion. It does not feel disgust for those in rags, nor does it harbor resentment toward the poor and the suffering. Respect for others, unwavering devotion, compassion for the afflicted—these, for the sake of the pure justice in one’s heart, form the unique Holy Light that dwells in me.”

“What a magnificent ideal. Your nobility fills me with admiration.” Patrick truly admired Alonsus Faol. In both his past and present lives, anyone possessed of such noble character was worthy of respect.

Such pure and non-overbearing Holy Light arose from an intensely devout faith, manifested in a soul without blemish. The soul’s immaculate conviction fused perfectly with the archbishop’s three virtues, forming the uniquely Alonsus-like aura of the Holy Light.

After their conversation ended, His Majesty Terenas arrived, accompanied by a little girl only a few years old, and offered his thanks to all the nobles and ambassadors present.

Once the formal speech was finished, King Terenas stepped down from the main dais. His daughter nestled beside him as they came before Patrick.

“I wonder whether the food of Lordaeron suits Ambassador Patrick’s taste,” the old king said, a man who paid great attention to etiquette.

Out of courtesy, Patrick returned the gesture. “Thank you for your concern, Your Majesty. The food suits me very well.”

“There is one dish here that Quel’Thalas cannot taste,” the old king said, leading Patrick to the banquet’s place of honor, obviously reserved for the royal family. Without the king’s permission, no one dared so much as touch the food there.

Yet on the honored table there were several dishes that caught Patrick’s eye: shrimp dumplings.

Yes, shrimp dumplings. A famous delicacy from his previous life, unchanged in appearance, with the same bamboo steamer beside them, standing in sharp contrast to all the other plates and drawing Patrick’s gaze irresistibly.

“Hahaha, amazing, isn’t it? This dish was made by a chef named Chen Feng. I hear he was shipwrecked at sea and rescued by fishermen. He’s a chubby panda man. He spends his days in Southshore either drinking and sleeping or studying cuisine, but his cooking is truly excellent, so the garrison commander recommended him to the palace as the royal chef.”

Seeing Patrick’s stunned expression, the old king was quite pleased, assuming Patrick had never tasted such fine food before.

And Patrick, looking at the shrimp dumplings now, felt tears almost spring to his eyes. How could he not recognize this food, so famous in his previous life? The moment he saw the dumplings, Patrick thought he must be dreaming, that this transmigration and everything with it was nothing but illusion. But the cruel reality answered him the very next second.

To see a thing awakens tender fear; who can know the sorrow of departure?

Unaware, the dream is already waning, and what one would say dies upon the lips.