Chapter 95: Response

A farmer sat uneasily in the corner, around forty years of age, with a shock of unruly hair and a dark, weathered face. Though tall, his posture was slightly stooped. His gray, coarse linen jacket was patched in several places, and carried a faint sour odor. Barol did not show any sign of distaste; as he observed the man before him, a quiet excitement flickered in his heart.

Barol had been in the territory of Victor for three months now. Eager to earn the lord’s trust, he had attempted to ferret out his fellow spies lurking within the camp. But his adversaries were no amateurs; after a month of tireless effort, Barol had found nothing. In the end, it was only with Victor’s direction that he finally managed to uncover several infiltrators.

Afterward, Victor assigned him to a secret camp to train a dozen young wolf cubs. Barol wasn’t pleased with this arrangement; he felt he had not demonstrated his true abilities during that test. He blamed his poor performance on restricted access to the hill camp and a lack of assistants, but he could not refuse the lord’s orders. In truth, as long as the work involved espionage, Barol cared little for the specifics. Decades as a spy had become his life’s purpose. Even training these fledgling agents seemed more meaningful than prowling like a hyena—at least the children could inherit his craft.

Just as he was devotedly instructing his young charges, Barol received a command: Lord Victor wanted him to vet new arrivals at the freemen’s camp. This was a chance for Barol to return to the front lines, and he was determined to seize the opportunity and perform admirably.

Barol smiled kindly at the man before him. “No need to be nervous, let’s just have a casual chat.”

Perhaps reassured by Barol’s friendly demeanor, the man relaxed, and indeed, their conversation became light and easy. During their talk, the man was delighted to discover that Barol, like himself, hailed from the Eastern Province. The shared bond of their homeland brought them closer. They reminisced about their native villages, their families, the horrors of war, the hardships of migration, and even exchanged gossip about Eastern Province nobles. The man, who introduced himself as Hans, even proudly corrected Barol on a few mistakes—such as mixing up the names of two baronesses.

Barol was now certain Hans was not a spy, yet he sensed something amiss.

“Why did you bring your wife and children to such a remote place to make a living?” Barol’s gaze suddenly sharpened, startling Hans. Stammering, Hans replied, “I heard the lord here needs people, and as long as you work for him for free, you can join the points system, and eventually become a vassal.”

Barol’s pupils narrowed slightly. He knew all about the points system—it was precisely this arrangement that united Victor’s people, inspiring them to work with fervor, enduring hardships willingly. Barol considered it a stroke of genius, and Victor, its architect, a master of human nature. Yet, how could freemen hundreds of miles away know about it in such detail?

With this question in mind, Barol thoroughly questioned the other new arrivals, and all evidence pointed to one thing: someone was spreading news of Victor’s points system among the freemen.

After interviewing the twenty-first freeman, Barol turned to the nearby guard. “I must see Lord Victor at once!”

Meanwhile, in the restricted area of the upper camp, Victor was immersed in profound joy.

He carefully caressed the mithril heavy crossbow in his hands. The weapon shone with a silvery luster and a ghostly blue gleam, its appearance exuding a unique beauty. At first glance, the bow, limbs, and string all seemed to be made of metal, but in truth, aside from the string, the components were crafted from green resin wood infused with mithril. This made the mithril crossbow far lighter than standard military crossbows, whose bows were forged from highly resilient hundred-fold steel.

Using a winch, Victor tried to draw the string into the groove. Even with all his strength, he managed only halfway. Yet Victor was not discouraged; he was delighted.

Military heavy crossbows were renowned for their power—capable, it was said, of threatening even a knight—all thanks to their strings. Typically, these strings were made from the sinews of swamp drakes’ tails. Victor had no such materials; the string on this mithril crossbow was made from dire bear tendons, reinforced with secret silver, making it far tougher than ordinary bowstrings, and that much more powerful.

“Busso, how many more of these mithril crossbows can we make with the remaining tendons?” Victor asked.

After a moment’s thought, Busso replied, “My lord, we could make three more, but we’re running out of mithril.”

Victor nodded in satisfaction. Mithril indeed had the power to work wonders. While military crossbows required the complex craftsmanship of hundred-fold steel to withstand the force, infusing green resin wood with mithril gave it elasticity and toughness far surpassing such steel, making it suitable for crossbow bows. When mithril was blended with regular cow sinew, it nearly matched drake tail tendons. However, Victor had tasked Busso with making bows capable of penetrating thirty points of fortitude, so Busso had chosen dire bear leg tendons for this particular crossbow.

Victor believed that, with favorable terrain and such a weapon in hand, he could slay any ogre within four hundred meters. The only drawback was the slow reloading speed; should a horde of ogres attack, one crossbow alone would not suffice. Thus, Victor needed as many mithril crossbows as possible. There were already three in the camp, but one could never have too many secret weapons.

In truth, Victor also had to guard against knights from the Chebman family. Knights, far more agile than hulking ogres, could easily outpace ordinary archers, even those armed with heavy crossbows, and they could use shields as well. But if a knight faced a supernatural marksman like Victor, the odds were grim.

If a knight ever attacked my camp, should I aim for the thigh first? Or the thigh? Victor mused, the humiliation of that arrow from the Chebman family still fresh in his mind.

A peal of bells interrupted Victor’s thoughts. As he stepped out of the restricted area, he saw Nelson, Lilia, and Barol, all with grave expressions.

Victor frowned. “What is it? Have you found a spy?”

Nelson and Lilia looked to Barol, who stepped forward and said in a low voice, “We haven’t found any spies, but I’ve uncovered a plot targeting you, my lord.”

Barol recounted his findings to Victor, concluding, “I questioned twenty-one freemen, and all of them said they came after hearing rumors about our points system. This indicates that someone is orchestrating this behind the scenes, though we don’t yet know who or their purpose.”

Lilia added, “Victor, more than a hundred freemen have ended up in our territory, and I’ve asked all of them—they came here because of the points system.”

Victor’s face darkened as he turned to Nelson. “Have more people arrived in the past two days?”

Nelson nodded. “Every day, a few come—sometimes just a handful, sometimes a dozen.”

Victor’s heart sank. One phrase came to mind: mass incident.

“We’re in serious trouble! Summon all the village heads to my office immediately!”

Soon, all of Victor’s middle leaders had gathered. They had already heard the gist of the situation, and their grim faces made the atmosphere heavy.

Victor rapped on the table. “You’ve all heard the news—someone is spreading rumors among the freemen that anyone who comes to our lands can join the points system. So they’re flocking here in droves. Does anyone have a plan?”

The village heads exchanged glances, and Morin was first to speak. “My lord, we must stop these people, or there will be conflict with our own villagers, with disastrous consequences.”

The village heads were all beneficiaries of the points system; the right to recommend new members was the source of their authority. Now, with outsiders vying for those places, it was up to the heads to defend their villagers’ interests.

“That’s right, we must stop them. We’ll set up checkpoints at the borders and keep them out.”

“My lord, we absolutely cannot let these freemen in. They’ll cut down our purple cane. We mustn’t let them enter the territory.”

Seeing the village heads so agitated, Victor could only force a bitter smile. They did not grasp the true gravity of the situation. On Earth, there had once been a country where gold was discovered near the Arctic. Countless impoverished souls sold everything they owned to journey north with their families, braving deadly hardship for a chance at fortune. Not even nature’s harshest cold could dampen their fervor. In this world, the points system is even more precious than gold for the freemen. The influx wouldn’t be just hundreds or thousands, but likely thousands upon thousands. How could they possibly be stopped?

Victor pondered a moment, then asked, “Morin, how did you manage to migrate across the entire kingdom in the past?”

Morin paused. “My lord, when we left our homeland, the kingdom organized our westward migration. The church maintained order along the way, and local lords offered support. Some of us were recruited by these lords, but most ended up in the Centaur Hills. The pioneer lords there took in some, while the rest found work in Blackfort. A small number formed freemen’s camps in the wild, since the Centaur Hills have fewer monsters—even fewer than our old lands.”

Victor’s brow furrowed. That was the crux of the issue—organized migration was manageable, as they could be persuaded to return to Blackfort, but chaotic, unregulated movement was almost impossible to control. He had no capacity to absorb so many freemen, and playing the saint would only lead to disaster and possible revolt. Who could say how many agitators had been planted among these people?

“We can’t stop them,” Victor said with a sigh. “Even if we block them, they’ll find another way in.”

Lilia asked anxiously, “Then what should we do? If these people wander freely through our territory, they’ll surely destroy our purple cane. Should we build a camp on the border to temporarily house them, then send them back to Blackfort?”

“We mustn’t be the ones to organize them—the more involved we are, the harder it’ll be to get rid of them,” Victor replied, shaking his head. “Here’s what we’ll do: each of you return to your villages and reassure our people. Organize the militia to guard the villages—no outsiders are to be allowed in. Go now!”

After the village heads left, Victor turned to Lilia. “Lilia, how much gold sol do we have left?”

“We have six hundred and seventy-seven,” Lilia replied without hesitation. Counting money was her favorite pastime.

“Arrange for a caravan to Blackfort to buy food—get as much as you can.”

“Barol, I want you to change your identity and infiltrate Blackfort to find out who is plotting against me. I’ll assign you two guards.”

“At once, my lord.” Barol’s eyes sparkled; this was the work he loved.

Victor then turned to Nelson. “Nelson, build several outposts at the border. Warn all incoming freemen that dire wolves are active here. Give ample provisions to those willing to return to Blackfort. For those who refuse, let them in.”

A cold glint flashed in Victor’s deep eyes; he planned to use the alchemical warhounds as dire wolves. This time, it wouldn’t be a bluff—it would be deadly.

Victor was not heartless. He had been lenient before, but it had only led to more deaths. Now, he was beginning to think more like a true lord. Sitting in that position, he was compelled to make the most rational decisions by the will of his vassals and people.

With thousands of freemen pouring in, Victor had no choice. His lands were vast, but food was scarce. If he let the freemen enter unchecked, famine would soon break out, and the hungry would raid his villages. The villagers and guards would rise to defend themselves, and blood would be spilled.

Victor’s plan was simple: he would draw three red lines. The first was the survival line—the outposts. Those who heeded the warning would be safe and even receive supplies for their return journey. The second was the life-or-death line—those who crossed it would be attacked by warhounds; some would die, others would turn back. If any pressed on regardless, they would encounter the third line: the death line. Beyond it, only death awaited.

This plan would cause deaths, but not a disaster, and since the freemen would fall to wild beasts, the Church could not punish Victor. He had warned them and even provided food for the way back.

If rumor brought the freemen here, then rumor would send most of them away—faced with both vassalage and survival, most would choose the latter.

Victor was confident that, faced with this chaotic influx, his ruthless plan would be effective. He would fight rumor with rumor.

“My lord, the emissary from Baron Eskley requests an audience. He has urgent news for you,” a guard reported to Victor.

——————————————

Baron Eskley stood atop his castle, his expression thunderous, watching as a long line of freemen, led by the Church’s holy warriors, marched toward Victor’s territory.

“Dear, are you worried that Baron Victor will turn these people away at his border?” his beautiful wife asked softly.

Eskley sighed. “Yes. If Baron Victor refuses them entry, they’ll cause us great trouble.”

His wife laughed lightly. “Then why haven’t we stopped them?”

Eskley’s eyes brightened as he smiled. “You’re right! With the Church behind them, neither we nor Baron Victor can stop them. And besides, they’re heading for Victor’s lands in the first place.”

“That’s what he gets for inventing the points system—it’s come back to haunt him, and I doubt he’ll get out of this easily.” The baroness shook her head. “Still, we should make our own preparations.”

“You mean, stock up on food for these freemen?”

“No, we must close all our villages.”

Eskley nodded. “More will surely arrive, and we can’t get involved. We’ll also seal the borders, forcing the freemen to skirt around our lands.”

Eskley glanced at the imposing holy warriors and couldn’t help cursing. “Has the Church lost its mind? Sending all these people to Victor! What are they supposed to eat? His lands were only just settled—there’s no food there at all!”