Harvey couldn't bear to watch any longer.
The previous mages were nearly driven to fury by this very request.
Detect Evil was a spell exclusive to holy practitioners, designed to reveal hidden malevolence among humans—such as followers of dark gods or criminals.
However, while it could detect evil, it couldn't differentiate its nature. At times, even a fleeting wicked thought could trigger it.
Who among us can claim to have never harbored a dark thought?
Among the top ten most infuriating behaviors of paladins, indiscriminate use of Detect Evil ranks first.
Announcing the spell beforehand may seem courteous, but in reality, it's akin to placing someone on a moral tribunal.
Agree, and risk being branded for a stray wicked thought; refuse, and you're seen as guilty by default.
The last few mages were enraged, taking it as an insult—one nearly resorted to violence. If not for Harvey's intervention, it could have turned deadly.
One would think that after several such incidents, this single-minded paladin would learn restraint. Yet, here he was, making the same insolent demand.
Ambrosius remained silent, though he found the request absurd.
It's no wonder people dislike paladins, especially those from the Lyon Empire, who were zealots in all but name.
Harvey feared Ambrosius might lose his temper, but his reaction was unexpectedly calm.
The moment the paladin appeared, Ambrosius anticipated this. Even though his polymorph spell was flawless, paladins have a keen sense for the undead. Suspicion, if not outright detection, was inevitable.
When the request came, Ambrosius paused briefly before addressing the paladin, "As a paladin, you must understand how offensive such a demand can be."
The paladin responded smoothly, "Detect Evil is harmless—it merely reveals evil thoughts. If your heart is pure, it will only affirm your integrity."
Without hesitation, Ambrosius replied, "Most people have no need to prove their integrity. Their survival doesn't hinge on morality. For you noble knights, however, integrity is a commodity—a badge of honor. But to others, it's a burden. Do you acknowledge this?"
The paladin nodded, "To unbelievers and heretics, perhaps. So, are you refusing?"
Refusing was the norm; few willingly accepted. Yet it didn't mean the paladin would lower his standards.
Ambrosius countered, "It's not refusal, but a fair discussion. If this test is solely for your faith, while I bear the risk, shouldn't there be compensation?"
The paladin fell silent, while Harvey was dumbfounded.
He had never seen anyone charge for a Detect Evil before. How cleverly reasonable!
Though the paladin's expression remained stoic, his fingers trembled slightly, as if contemplating something amiss but finding no argument.
Ambrosius added casually, "Unwilling? So much for your faith."
That crossed the line. A nearby war priest instinctively reached for his mace, ready to unleash divine wrath.
"Am I wrong? Faith requires sacrifice. You, of all people, know the paladin's oath. Yet, you refuse to pay, imposing the risk on others. What would your Dawn Lord think? Wouldn't His judgmental fire descend upon you instead?"
The tavern erupted in cheers.
"Well said!"
"Exactly! Sacrificing yourself is faith. Sacrificing others? That's heresy!"
"These paladins have been insufferable for too long!"
"Lyon's lapdogs, all talk and no substance!"
The tavern, filled with non-human patrons, resonated with Ambrosius's words. Some even offered him drinks.
Amidst the uproar, the paladin restrained the enraged war priest and asked, "How much do you want?"
Ambrosius smiled faintly, "That depends—what's the value of your faith?"
The paladin remained composed. "Faith cannot be measured by gold. But you're right—moral scrutiny demands a price. So, what is your morality worth?"
Harvey, watching from the side, couldn't help but admire the paladin's wit—turning the question back on Ambrosius.
How much is morality worth?
Faced with the query, Ambrosius smiled, "You ask me to price my morality. I could name a sum beyond your means, but that would be crude. I lack the purity of a holy practitioner; a random figure would be a lie, benefiting neither of us.
"So, rest assured, my price will be fair."
Intrigued, the paladin replied, "I've never heard of morality having a price. Master Altman, I'm genuinely curious."
Ambrosius, confident, explained, "According to Alchemy City's laws, any fraudulent transaction requires the deceitful party to compensate tenfold. In Alchemy City, the moral standard is tenfold restitution. Given that your commission for this venture is 500 gold, it seems fitting to apply the same standard.
"If you wish to test my morality, then 5,000 gold should suffice. Does this seem fair?"
5,000 gold—a significant sum for most, but not for a paladin of the Lyon Empire, a noble with real power. It might sting, but it was manageable.
More importantly, Ambrosius's reasoning appeared sound. With the tavern crowd watching, any further dispute might drag their god into disrepute—a risk no paladin could take.
"Fine. 5,000 gold it is."
The paladin produced a small leather pouch, spilling a cascade of coins onto the table.
A magical pouch capable of storing vast treasures—worth over ten thousand gold alone. Truly the wealth of nobility.
Unhurried, Ambrosius meticulously counted the coins, exuding calm confidence. Even Harvey began to wonder—was Master Altman truly without a trace of evil in his soul? Could his conscience be that pure?