Lance felt no pressure tearing off their glamorous facade.

More importantly, even you, Junia, can't beat me, so I'm not afraid of you getting anxious.

"I can't tell... I really can't tell!"

Hearing this, Junia seemed startled, as if the torch in her hand was a demonic temptation, the rising flames reflecting a scene of hell, frightening her enough to drop it.

The torch's flames, deprived of strength, quickly extinguished, with the surrounding darkness encroaching at a visible pace.

But before the torch fully hit the ground and went out, it was caught mid-air by a large hand, and the suddenly intensified flames dispelled the darkness once more.

Through the firelight, Junia saw Lance holding the torch, his steadfast and resolute face dispelling her fear.

With him here, things won't descend into chaos.

Lance swung the torch, lighting the candle so that the room's light source was no longer restricted, and only then did he slowly speak.

"The technology mastered by the Church could originally benefit the people, but it has turned into a cage imprisoning humanity, solely for the monopoly of private interests, pitiful and absurd.

They hold the torch but are unwilling to even light the way for humanity, focusing only on filling the church with candles, which is useless to humanity and hence useless to me."

Lance didn't linger long with Junia, just testing this item and hinting at the heavy shackles binding her.

If he didn't free her, Lance would find it difficult to break through the Church's source of power. The Church has maintained a monopoly for so many years unbroken, there must be a reason.

After coming out, Lance hesitated slightly but still headed towards the sanatorium.

The matter regarding Bastia had been pressing for so long; Lawrence had relented, and those refugees had been accommodated, so now it was time to meet that fat man—no, it should be the Flame Warlock.

However, compared to Bastia's trivial matters, he was more interested in this Transcendent identity and his abilities.

The allure of Supernatural Power to humans is like a candle flame to moths, unable to help but fly towards it despite knowing it's dangerous...

The sanatorium crafted by the ancestors was airtight, perhaps ineffective for disease treatment, but more than adequate as a prison.

Many were imprisoned inside, and no one, not even the Transcendents, could escape this lightless sanatorium.

Because most Transcendents' inspiration is limited, their abilities manifest more in their equipment.

Without their equipment, Transcendents become no different from ordinary people, like a snow leopard losing its purity.

Even Amanda and Tamara, whose inspiration far surpassed ordinary people, had been inside. Though they dared not escape more due to being overawed by Lance, it was enough to demonstrate the facility's effect.

The door lock was opened, and Lance entered with a candlestick, the candlelight revealing a fat man lying like a dead pig on the bed.

Being fat does not equate to being able to endure hunger; on the contrary, a large body depletes faster, being more accustomed to satiety, and thus hunger is felt more intensely.

Having been starved for three days, he was already unconscious; if it weren't for the rise and fall of his chest and abdomen, one could mistake him for a corpse.

"Time to eat~"

Lance shouted, and the guy immediately woke up.

But having no strength left, he toppled off the bed as he turned, yet couldn't stop reaching out for help.

"Quick... help me..."

Seeing the fat man, delirious at his feet, Lance chuckled, shook his head, and threw him a piece of black bread.

Usually, the fat man wouldn't even glance at it, but now he looked like a hungry wolf seeing flesh, his eyes glowing green.

From nowhere, his powerless body conjured strength to grab the black bread and munch away.

The main staple for ordinary Hamlet's People wasn't the fragrant white bread, but at least it was regular bread, with occasional meat every day or two—mostly fish, but you could buy other kinds if willing to spend.

But don't forget about the numerous convicts in Hamlet; their food couldn't be too good. Their food was controlled, and the developed areas were farthest away, so long-lasting black bread was the best option.

Lance was indeed merciful; though made of coarse grains, at least there were no sawdust or bark, and it wasn't hard enough to withstand chopping and hacking—still edible raw.

Soon, the black bread was devoured by the fat man, but eating such a hard, dry bread wasn't choking a concern?

Lance dangled a bottle of water in front of him.

The fat man didn't hesitate much, snatching the bottle to gulp down the water.

After eating and drinking, he sat on the ground, his expression turning quite bizarre.

There was no hatred left, or perhaps it was hidden deeper, only hunger and thirst were apparent—obviously, what he'd just had wasn't enough.

Lance looked at his thinner face with a smile, "Been busy with official duties these days, sorry to have kept you waiting."

Saying this, the fat man almost wanted to smash the water bottle into his face, but fear made him bury his hatred, remaining silent.

"I even prepared a lavish dinner, so poor me can only eat roast chicken, grilled fish, and white bread."

This meager food had aroused his hunger, and hearing these words, he couldn't bear it anymore, quickly speaking up.

"What do you want?"

"You haven't forgotten why the Earl sent you, have you?" Lance teased, smiling, "Did he mention discussing ransom aside from slaughtering refugees, planting spies, and collecting intelligence?"

"I know nothing about slaughter or spies. I'm only in charge of negotiating ransom," the fat man distanced himself once the matter was exposed.

"No matter, then let's discuss the ransom." Lance was always indifferent.

"Thirty gold coins per person," the fat man probed.

"It seems you're still too full~" Lance sneered, wasting no breath, turning to leave.

"Hey, wait! Aren't you gonna bargain?" Seeing him leave directly, the fat man grew anxious, damn it, not giving a chance at haggling.

"Count Bastia must have told you the bottom line, tell me," Lance demanded coldly, "Don't joke with me; it's not that I can't play, but you can't afford to."

"A hundred each, with Baron Lawrence and Mr. Alvin able to raise a bit more," the fat man agreed, as the money wasn't his concern—discussion could resume upon return.

Lance pondered for a moment before waving his hand, "I don't want money for the forty-five Knights, three thousand per Noble."

"Ah! No money for the Knights?" The fat man was shocked, hunger diminished a bit.

He was ready for Lance to demand exorbitantly, but didn't expect an outright release?

This he'd never heard of throughout his years as a merchant.

Could it be he feared Count Bastia's army attacking?

"I haven't even finished, what are you yelling for?" Lance glanced at the fat man and continued.

"But you killed three hundred of my men, ten gold coins each, that's three thousand, plus countless wounded needing an additional thousand, totaling ten thousand in ransom."

There wasn't much room for negotiation on this.

Lance intended to raise the ransom significantly, forcing Count Bastia to attack him, thus helping to clear the villages and towns controlled by the Ascension Sect.

At that time, his counterattack would be justified, with initiative in Lance's hand, determining where and to what extent the fight would progress, not Bastia.

But now the Eagle Flock's Laura defected inexplicably and brought Margaret, gaining leverage over Lawrence.

The situation changed; Lawrence's defection meant Lance could extend his hand into Bastia, necessitating a reputation-conscious approach, avoiding harming the roots for a single round of extortion.

For these Knights would surely spread the word upon returning; if handled well, Lance could leave a good reputation, facilitating future control over Bastia.

Here he'd release those Knights directly, then spread the word of his efforts to treat them, highlighting their invasion and the massacre of three hundred in Hamlet, causing countless deaths and injuries.

Sometimes, the dead are more useful than the living; if they're dead, isn't it his word against none? As for the Earl, even knowing they were heretics, so what? It's all to muddy the waters.

Whoever controls propaganda and public opinion on these two battlefields holds the advantage; he couldn't allow the Earl to dominate.