Release that Witch Chapter 5 Reasons

“Second Law of Thermodynamics: Heat can never pass from a colder to a warmer body without some other changes, or it is impossible to convert heat from a single source into useful work without causing other effects, in an irreversible or spontaneous change from one equilibrium state to another the entropy always increases.”

Roland meticulously transcribed this principle onto parchment, using the script of this world. At a quick look, it appeared like squirming earthworms. He truly couldn't grasp how the inhabitants mastered so many intricate and diverse characters.

If asked which physical law among countless ones would leave most folks utterly despondent, Roland would pick the second law of thermodynamics. It proclaims to all that the world's heat inevitably flows from hot to cold, transforming order into disorder while entropy rises. In the end, all things fade into void, leaving the universe in eerie silence.

Yet this realm had shattered the curse of ever-rising entropy. Magic sprang from thin air here—far surpassing any dreamed-up perpetual motion device! As for evil forces? Roland sneered inwardly, realizing the locals grasped neither the power's essence nor its cosmic potential to reshape reality itself.

Still, he had to begin somewhere: transforming this humble border town.

Humming softly, Roland shredded the inscribed sheet and tossed it into the flames, watching it crumble to ash—a thrill of liberation surging through him like bursting free from chains.

The assistant minister eyed the fourth prince's baffling behavior sideways, but luckily, the former 4th Prince's eccentricities were well-known. Ultimately, Barov shrugged it off as fleeting oddity, noting the prince's evident delight.

“The execution is done; the ‘witch’ was hanged at noon,” Barov informed Roland.

“Excellent. Did anyone witness it?” Roland inquired while scribbling, adding, “Doesn't matter—all convicts don hoods.”

To dodge trouble from the Holy Church or Witch Cooperation Association, Roland instructed the dungeon warden to substitute a similar-built woman for Anna on the scaffold. Besides the Knight Commander and Assistant Minister, every dungeon attendant received hush money: 20 gold royals each—an incredible fortune.

Barov suggested silencing all witnesses permanently, warning they'd never stay quiet otherwise, but Roland refused. He knew the secret would leak eventually, yet that suited his plans perfectly—not yet, but soon. Conflict with the church loomed inevitable; those fools squandered talent through blind hatred! Meanwhile, word would spread to other witches: a border town offered sanctuary, even privileges—what might they decide?

Across any era, talent reigned supreme.

“All good then,” Roland declared. “Now, about this year's tariffs, taxes, and expenses—you gave a brief overview before. I want the full details. Plus, for city workshops producing iron tools, fabrics, pottery, and the like, include their output figures and scales.”

“Preparing those ledgers will take three days, but...” Barov nodded at first, then hesitated, seeming unsure how to proceed.

“What's wrong?” Roland prompted. He sensed the critical test of his competence had arrived. Yesterday's actions had drawn the assistant minister's skepticism due to past doubts—a rogue stayed rogue—but poor morals didn't equal stupidity. Sheltering a witch, to Barov, equaled defying the entire realm.

“Your Highness, I don't get it...” Barov faltered, choosing words carefully. “Before, your antics were mostly harmless, but now... risking everything for one witch? The Church decreed their extermination, backed by your father, King Wimbledon III.”

Roland pondered briefly before countering, “Do you think this border town offers a decent life?”

“Er, well...” Barov puzzled over the question's relevance, then admitted bluntly after a pause, “No.”

“It's dismal. Against Valencia, the City of Golden Harvests, or Clearwater Port, what odds do I stand for the throne versus my brothers?”

“...” The assistant minister parted his lips yet offered no reply.

“Practically nonexistent. Thus, I must forge a different route,” Roland pressed on, observing stoically as Barov stumbled step by step into the snare he had set. “A path that would truly astonish even my father.”

He avoided declaring that witches weren't born evil, knowing it wouldn't sway much. Barov had served as Assistant Minister of Finance for two decades, earning a reputation as a shrewd politician. For such figures, personal benefits often outweighed notions of right and wrong. Emotional appeals didn't suit him either; reflecting on the former prince's deeds, Roland realized he hardly qualified as a paragon of virtue. Instead, he tapped into the timeless clash between church and crown, since the Holy Church's growing might remained a perpetual irritant to Wimbledon III.

The Church proclaimed the world obeyed God's will, with the pope as His sole mouthpiece. Should folks discover his words rang false, riddled with deceit, the Holy Church's supremacy would crumble severely.

Saying, “the witch isn't evil, so I wish to protect her,” would fail to convince the assistant minister, yet swapping it to “she's no evil witch, and I can wield this against the church,” would readily win Barov over to that view.

“No matter how my siblings' domains thrived, it was inevitable they'd fall under church control. They've trampled the divine right of kings already—if only the pope counts as true sovereign, then who truly governs this realm, them or us?” Roland timed his pause perfectly before continuing, “Even my father would pin his hopes on me: a ruler unbound by the Holy Church, wielding every royal prerogative. His preference would be obvious.”

Transforming “enemy of the whole world” to “mere foe of the Church” proved far more palatable to most, especially Barov, loyal to the royal house.

“Likewise, should he grasp their remarkable powers, how they could loosen the Holy Church's hold, those execution decrees become mere scraps of paper. Success isn't assured, but neither is it out of reach. Am I worth gambling on?” Roland fixed his gaze on the assistant minister, delivering these words in quick succession. “Don't waver now, Barov. Twenty years as assistant minister, yes? Should I ascend as Wimbledon IV, that 'assistant' vanishes, or better yet... perhaps the Hand of the King awaits, eh?”

......

Watching Barov's retreating figure, Roland exhaled in relief. Clearly, the man dismissed his assurances as empty talk—this was expected, since even Roland doubted this bold, hastily devised scheme could succeed. But that hardly mattered; what counted was convincing Barov he believed it fully. A pampered noble youth might hatch such a basic plot, particularly as the Fourth Prince despised church arrogance. This also cleared the way to draw in more witches.

His true intentions? Barov couldn't comprehend them even if revealed.

Roland called for the maid. “Fetch Miss Anna and inform her to visit me.”

Roland anticipated the next matter with great pleasure.

TN: if you’re interested into the Second Law of Thermodynamics