The North had always revered its ancestral spirits.

No one knew exactly when this indigenous faith began.

In the distant past, when the Northerners were barbarian druids, they worshiped both nature and their ancestors.

It might have been an evolution of the ancient reverence for natural sorcerers from the Golden Age.

Even when the Northerners broke away from the druids, rejecting their corrupted faith in the White Serpent, they never abandoned their ancestral worship.

This faith in ancestral spirits quietly anchored the hearts of Northerners, like an old tree weathering the ages.

Through the fervor of the Sacred Era, the self-destruction of the Dark Ages, the horrors of the Barbarian Age, and even into today’s Silver Age, this indigenous faith endured.

However, Northern faith never manifested divine power.

From the clergy of the Papacy in the Sacred Era’s United Kingdom to the priests of the Empire’s now-heretical Church, all wielded divine powers.

Civilizations across the southern and eastern continents established their own sects, each claiming their share of divine energy.

Even the orc shamans and druid priests who worshiped the White Serpent could channel divine power.

This suggested that divine power was a form of magic, an expression of belief and faith as mana.

Yet, for some reason, the faith of the Northern ancestral spirits never produced such power.

Despite this, Northerners stubbornly clung to their traditions, praying to their ancestors for good harvests and luck.

They whispered prayers to their ancestors before battle or hunting.

They received no divine blessings, no miracles, no tangible rewards—but they prayed nonetheless.

Because of this, the Empire long derided Northerners as a people forsaken by their gods.

Even orcs and barbarians looked down on them.

But the defiant North continued to revere its ancestors, unyielding.

"Their faith lacks focus, that’s all."

I had a theory as to why the Northern faith failed to manifest divine power.

"It’s too scattered. They don’t have unified doctrines or even a central figure of worship."

The Northerners’ faith was deep, but its direction was fragmented.

Each household worshiped its own ancestral spirits, dispersing the depth and focus of their belief.

Unlike the Empire’s Church or the Papacy, which had unified doctrines, or even the orcs and barbarians, who centered their faith on the singular idol of the White Serpent, the North had no such unifying structure.

But that aimless faith was finally converging.

"Let us pray together, to the ancestral spirits of Renslet!"

"Renslet! Rune Renslet!"

As I traveled through the Northern villages in a yellow-painted Arad Company carriage, I saw villagers gathering everywhere to pray.

"I can’t believe it. A fertilizer leading to the birth of a religion—what a butterfly effect."

Originally, I’d just wanted to make the most of the magical fertilizer I’d developed, maybe use it as a PR tool.

But then the name "Mary," the affectionate nickname of the late Grand Duchess, entered the picture, and the scale of the project grew far beyond my expectations.

Even I, who had orchestrated this campaign, couldn’t help but think, "This is terrifying."

"It’s fortunate that High Castle is on board with this. They wouldn’t have any reason to reject the birth of such a religion."

Officials from High Castle were already compiling the scattered myths, legends, and superstitions of the North into doctrines for the fledgling Renslet Church.

If things continued smoothly, the North could potentially produce its own divine power-wielding clergy within a decade.

"That spot looks good. Tell the village chief to gather the people," I said.

After touring one of the few villages in the North capable of wheat farming, I had the carriage stopped.

"Let’s distribute the fertilizer here."

"Yes, sir," Eothe, the knight disguised as an Arad Company employee, responded.

Four carriages had come to this village.

Three carried fertilizer, while the fourth transported supplies and knights from High Castle disguised as staff for my protection.

"The famed Golden Carriage of Arad finally gets to shine," said Eothe, as he unloaded bags of fertilizer.

"It’s just a carriage painted yellow," I replied with a chuckle.

Now that I held the title of Count and was the head of the Empire-approved Arad Company, Eothe and I addressed each other more formally.

"Sir, you should speak informally to me for appearances."

"Ah, right. My mistake. I’m still getting used to being a formal noble."

As the company head and Eothe’s "employer," I was supposed to speak down to him.

"What about the original Golden Carriage? Will you make more?" he asked.

"It’s too costly to maintain. I could run 20 regular carriages for the price of one of those. It was only used because of the Abyss’s unique conditions."

After setting up the fertilizer distribution, I climbed onto a makeshift platform of stacked crates.

I held up a megaphone-shaped magical device enchanted with a sound amplification spell and began my speech.

"[Praise the ancestral spirits of Renslet.]"

My voice, amplified by the device, carried to the farthest corners of the gathered crowd as if I were speaking right beside them.

"!!"

The villagers, unused to such technology, gasped in shock. Some even stumbled back in surprise.

I delivered my prepared speech like a preacher or herald.

"[Our noble and compassionate Grand Duchess, Arina Rune Renslet, has heard our prayers. And your prayers, joined with hers, have brought about this miracle!]"

Similar speeches were likely being delivered by officials and Enforcers in villages across the North.

"[Do you remember the late Grand Duchess Maryrina, affectionately called Mary? She, too, has answered our prayers!]"

The mention of the late Grand Duchess stirred emotions among the villagers.

"Mary? Does he mean Grand Duchess Maryrina?"

"Ah… the late Grand Duchess…"

"She was truly the mother of the North."

Maryrina’s name carried weight. While the late Grand Duke Baikal ruled with charisma and reverence, Maryrina had ruled with love and compassion.

"[Indeed, this blessing before you is the fruit of our prayers and a miracle bestowed by the ancestral spirits of Renslet!]"

Though they hadn’t yet witnessed the "miracle," the villagers wept and shouted in reverence.

"Renslet! Rune Renslet!"

Tears streaming down their faces, they chanted the name like fervent devotees.

Similar scenes played out not just in this village but across the North, marking the beginning of something far greater—a unified faith.

***

The deeper a person sinks into despair, the more they cling to superstition and religion.

This is true for both the educated and the uneducated.

Fear, after all, is a matter of instinct, not intellect.

The farmer, driven by desperation, joined his fellow villagers in daily morning prayers at the village square.

His pregnant wife and his children, who were just starting to understand the world, also joined in.

With the rye fields completely dead, there was nothing else they could do.

Prayer was their only recourse.

How long did they pray like this?

One day, yellow-painted carriages from High Castle arrived in the village.

A High Castle official stepped out and announced in a confident voice that the prayers of the Grand Duchess and the villagers had been answered, bringing forth a miraculous powder to revive the land.

The powder was called Mary’s Blessing, named after the affectionate nickname of the late Grand Duchess, the mother of the current ruler.

"Isn’t this just fertilizer?"

The farmer’s first thought upon hearing about Mary’s Blessing made him tilt his head in doubt.

But he quickly clamped his mouth shut and cast such irreverent thoughts far away.

“What am I thinking…? Renslet! Rune Renslet!”

As if to atone, he loudly chanted Renslet Rune Renslet to strengthen his faith.

The farmer and his family struggled to carry the large bags of powder distributed for free from the so-called Golden Carriage (though it was clearly yellow, everyone called it golden, so he did too).

The sacks bore an image of what looked like a golden carriage, and beneath it, neat lettering was embroidered.

When he asked someone literate what it said, he learned it read, Arad Company.

"Arad Company… as in the Arad of Arad Salt?"

Though he was uneducated, the farmer could not be unaware of the name Arad.

Arad Salt had brought joy to the dining tables of impoverished farmers like him.

Still, his thoughts about the name didn’t go further than that.

What mattered most was resuming his halted farming as soon as possible.

“This… this is Mary’s Blessing?”

Back home, the farmer opened the sack to find dark brown powder inside.

“They even gave us wheat seeds! Thank you, noble and compassionate Grand Duchess!”

Inside the sack was also a pouch of wheat seeds.

“This smells wonderful, doesn’t it?” said his wife.

“Yes. It really doesn’t seem like just fertilizer.”

Mary’s Blessing emitted a warm, earthy aroma. Only then did the farmer feel confident that this was not merely fertilizer but truly a blessing from Renslet.

What fertilizer in the world could smell so good?

“Let’s start plowing the field right away.”

“Yes, dear.”

“You stay home and rest. You’ve barely eaten properly these days.”

“But…”

“She’s right, Mom. We’ll help Dad!”

The farmer left his heavily pregnant wife at home and took his children to the field.

Together, they began plowing the dead land.

The children, with their tiny hands, helped as best they could. Though slow and clumsy, their efforts were better than nothing.

"How long has it been since I’ve farmed like this?"

Despite the physical exhaustion, the farmer felt joy and peace.

After plowing the field, he sowed the wheat seeds and sprinkled Mary’s Blessing over them.

Then, he covered the seeds with soil and used water fetched by his children to water the field.

The High Castle official had mentioned earlier that their experiments showed this method yielded the best results.

"Will it really grow? The planting season has long passed…"

Despite his joy, a shadow of doubt lingered in the farmer’s mind.

Mary’s Blessing was supposed to accelerate growth and significantly increase yields.

But he had yet to see it with his own eyes.

It was faith born not from conviction but desperation—a final attempt when no other options remained.

After sowing the seeds, watering the field, and waiting, one day passed, then two, then a week.

“What in the world…”

The farmer’s family stood speechless, overwhelmed with awe and emotion as they stared at the field.

“Wow…”

“Honey, we’re saved!”

“Renslet! Rune Renslet!”

The field had not only sprouted in an instant but had grown to knee-height, blanketing the land in vibrant green.

The farmer, and by extension, the North, were greeted by this miraculous sight.

In just one week, the farmer had to accept the truth.

Mary’s Blessing was indeed a sacred miracle.