The Shepherds Are Dense

Chapter 140. Barton and Droste

Barton awoke, still reeling from the shock Alastair had left him.That wild, captivating madness lingered, unforgettable even after choosing his Path trait. Alastair’s three raised fingers burned vividly in his mind.

His brain trembled, his spine tightened.

Compared to Cloud’s secrets, which merely sparked discontent with the Authority Path, Alastair had shown him what a “Transcendent Soul” truly was.

Barton thought, deflated but clear-headed. Some things couldn’t be achieved just by wanting them—he’d learned that long ago.

But it was fine.

He climbed out of bed, flicked on the electric light, and glanced at the mirror.

A boy of thirteen or fourteen stared back, with peridot-green eyes and shoulder-length golden hair, cut bluntly.

His fine, soft hair clung to his scalp, making his head seem small.

He gazed at the mirror, clenching his fist.

Blue-purple lightning crackled from his palm, racing across his body. Unlike before, he felt no numbness, and his hair didn’t stand on end.

This was his second-tier Lightning Affinity—a “key Path trait” his father had emphasized.

Compared to Storm Vessel or Heroic Valor, it was the clear choice.

“This is Mr. Alastair’s gift to me…”

Barton murmured.

His father had said the first two advancement rituals rarely yielded strong traits. Choosing from the twelve decent ones he’d outlined was enough.

The jump from third to fourth tier was a watershed because better traits appeared in the third ritual.

Greed for stronger traits drove people to madness, pushing them to complete more Pillar God tasks, often lowering success rates.

In Avalon, later rituals saw more Crescent Ritual participants—teammates could hinder or betray you, so many preferred going solo.

Early rituals, filled with novices seeking blue Vessel or Affinity traits, guaranteed a fitting reward, reducing sabotage.

This was why Barton dared sneak into the ritual.

“…But were there really that many novices this time?” he muttered.

Or was the Crescent Ritual itself the issue?

Regardless, his Lightning Affinity came from another’s kindness. He felt unworthy.

In fair competition, Alastair would’ve eliminated him. His talk of “alliances” spared him, letting him survive.

That was Barton’s shame.

His initial alliance offer wasn’t sincere. He distrusted Antler’s invitations, assuming he’d approached others too.

Barton had met many like Antler—holiday visitors to his father, all smiles and gifts.

He’d once thought them kind, but his father taught him:

“I’m Avalon’s Grand Guardian, overseeing national inspections and wartime military command. They curry favor with me, and that’s why they’re nice to you.

Their surface kindness is worthless. Don’t judge by words or actions—judge by outcomes.”

Barton had asked.

“Exactly,” his father replied.

“Don’t trust alliances or promises. Every contract, the moment it’s made, can be broken…”

Witnessing Antler’s betrayal, Barton whispered, “I think I get it now…”

The Lightning Affinity was great, but the lessons from this ritual were priceless.

Then, he heard the butler’s voice—odd for three or four in the morning.

Alert, he pressed his ear to the door.

It was his mother!

Panicked, he scrambled to clean the ritual traces but realized he should turn off the light first.

As he did, his bedroom door opened.

The light snapped back on.

A woman with deep black hair and eyes, sharp features, and a slightly wide mouth stood frowning in the doorway.

“Still awake, Little Apple?”

She spotted the ritual circle and instantly understood. “You went to an advancement ritual?”

Seeing Barton, her eyes widened. “You succeeded?”

Barton shrank under her gaze but quickly rallied—*Why be scared? I succeeded!*

He puffed out his chest. “Yeah! I passed the Crescent Ritual, Mom! Pretty awesome, right?”

“Not bad,” she nodded approvingly.

But she added, “You need to sleep. You’re still growing, and rituals don’t provide enough rest.

Your room’s a mess. Sleep in your father’s room. I’ll have the servants clean tomorrow.”

Barton pouted. Not the reaction he’d imagined.

“Mom, I chose Lightning Affinity!” he emphasized.

“Good.”

Her abyss-like eyes fixed on him. “So I’ll overlook your skipping school—for now. We’ll talk after you wake.”

Barton shivered.

Trying to change the subject, he asked, “Mom, why haven’t you been home?”

“The assassin hasn’t been caught. The Griffin Brigade’s stepping up night patrols this month.”

She looked at him seriously. “Don’t go out at night. If you must, take Emily.”

Emily, Barton’s griffin, was far stronger than him despite her youth. Third-tier transcendents might not match her.

His Light Cavalry training was less about fighting with her and more about not holding her back.

“What about Dad?” Barton asked. “He hasn’t been home either.”

“The giant remnants are none of your concern.”

“But I saw giants in the ritual!”

“Doesn’t matter. Go to bed. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss your truancy. Your teacher wrote you’ve missed three days.”

“…I was preparing for the ritual,” Barton said, grinning sheepishly. “But I succeeded, right?”

“No need. Focus on school. Becoming a transcendent now is pointless—you can’t advance to Air Cavalry until Emily matures. Early Path exposure just builds reckless impulses. Since you’ve succeeded, I won’t scold you, but I won’t praise you either.”

“Okay, Mom,” Barton replied, deflated but polite.

He’d expected praise, not this.

He decided not to mention Cloud’s secrets—better keep some things to himself, or he’d get scolded more.

But …

That brought up the Noble Red Society.

Uneasy, he asked, “Is Mr. Sherlock really dead?”

“Hard to say.”

His mother shook her head, noncommittal. “If you want to know, next week we’re inviting Aiwass Moriarty to visit.

George has important news for him. If Aiwass is in the mood, ask him. He claims to be continuing Sherlock’s investigation, so he’d know.”

“What news?” Barton asked.

“Last week, Professor Moriarty died unexpectedly, without a will. Inspector General Edward can’t inherit due to his Inspectorate role. That leaves Aiwass or even Yulia. If Aiwass joins the Church after graduation, he can’t inherit either. Compared to frail Yulia, Aiwass is the only one who can hold the family together.

George says some might exploit Aiwass’s youth and inexperience, setting traps. For the professor’s sake, we must protect his adopted children. They’re the kingdom’s pillars, not for petty schemers to touch.”

“Oh,” Barton replied absently.

He was tired of hearing about Aiwass—the perfect “other people’s kid,” smart, decisive, mature, kind, just, brave, and Sherlock Holmes’s friend.

He’d once envied Aiwass but grew used to it. Aiwass’s brilliance didn’t affect him.

Barton’s thoughts drifted to him.

Meanwhile, someone else was fixated on “Alastair.”

An elderly man clumsily climbed out of bed, his large belly obscuring his feet. His limbs, once muscular, were now flabby. His round head made him resemble a fat seal.

“Diomedes,” he called.

Three seconds later, a stern-faced elf butler with faint wrinkles appeared silently at the door.

“Mr. Droste, you called?”

“Yes, my friend. Write two letters, send them before dawn.”

Minister Droste handed over his seal. “One to Boca, asking if a newcomer named ‘Alastair’ joined the Lloyd Society, likely a demon-possessed with a shadow demon contract. Get his info and contact details.

The other to Grey County’s governor, seeking a young man named Alastair. He studied in the countryside, attended high school in Grey County after junior high. His parents were believers; his father died, leaving a modest inheritance. He may or may not have graduated, then left to climb mountains across Avalon. That should be distinct enough. If found, get his mother’s contact info.”

“Understood, Mr. Droste,” the elf butler replied, taking the seal. “Any deadline?”

“Half a month,” Droste said calmly. “I want clear answers. No ‘we tried but found nothing’ or ‘no such Alastair.’ His name or details might differ, but I expect results.”

“I’ll note it in the letters, Mr. Droste,” the butler replied.

(Chapter End)