Chapter 32: The Strength of the Farmer

“Come on, lads, put your backs into it! Chop harder! Yesterday, Group Six felled twenty iron oaks—are we going to let those brutes outdo us?” A rough, booming voice echoed through the woods, startling the field mice into silence deep within their burrows; as for the birds, they had long since scattered.

More than twenty sturdy men worked in pairs, bare-chested, revealing cords of muscle as they swung gleaming axes, driving the sharp blades into the stone-hard trunks of massive trees. The air was still cold as ever, but the men paid it no mind; sweat flew, steam rose, and the clear rallying cries mingled with the pounding of iron axes, all proclaiming human diligence and strength.

“Good! Now, pull with all your might!”

At the sound of groaning wood, the burly middle-aged leader signaled his men to haul on the thick rope already looped around the top of the tree. The towering trunk, teetering on the brink, crashed to the ground under their combined strength, the heavy log—over ten meters long—striking earth and sending up a cloud of dust.

“All right, men, take a break! Come get some hot soup. Hans, you rascal, put on your sheepskin coat—if you catch a chill, you won’t be earning any work points later.” The leader’s booming call carried through the clearing.

“Boss, can you tell us again what these work points are for? I still don’t get it.” A young man, bare to the waist, shrugged on his sheepskin and grinned as he addressed the leader.

“What boss? How many times do I have to tell you—call me ‘foreman’!” The man drained his bowl of soup—boiled with salt and wild root—and glared at his persistently mistaken subordinate.

“Work points mean contribution. The lord said that once the domain is running smoothly, he’ll pay us according to our points—one point equals one copper sol. Earn over a thousand points and you’ll be granted an acre of land. Not rented—granted, as your own, to pass on! Understand? Yesterday, Group Four earned at least twenty points each—do the math. So if you want more, work hard.”

The middle-aged man, Dean, was the village foreman appointed by Victor. To encourage his men, he explained the lord’s new work point system yet again.

In fact, this was the seventh time Dean had explained it, but these honest peasants loved hearing it repeated; each time their eyes shone with hope and enthusiasm.

“Our lord is great in every way, except making us work six days and rest one—can’t stand it, missing out on a dozen points for nothing.”

Tomorrow was their rest day, and one farmer muttered his complaint, echoed by the others.

When Victor decreed that each group would rest one day after six days’ labor, the six foremen asked: “What do we do on rest days?” Victor’s answer: “Sleep, stroll, fish, hunt, forage—but no work. If you do work, you get no points. And everyone must bathe!”

The foremen left, bewildered. They didn’t understand, but it hardly mattered—the lord’s orders were to be followed, whether understood or not.

Edwin had once described the relationship between lord and villagers as protector and protected, a notion deeply rooted in this world. In the Kingdom of Gambis, for example, the law dictated that all wealth of the land—fields, forests, flora and fauna, minerals, water, and even the people—belonged to the lord and his vassals.

Yes, the people were considered wealth. Villagers could keep only twenty percent of their harvest as food; they owed compulsory labor to the lord, and in war, they had to help defend the castle.

Yet the lord also owed them protection and sustenance: sending armed men if monsters, beasts, bandits, or even sorcerers threatened them, and providing aid if disaster struck.

These obligations were vaunted by nobles as marks of their virtue. But compared to the law that viewed people as property, Victor found such virtue laughable.

What virtue is there in merely protecting one’s own assets?

In Victor’s eyes, the villagers were little more than serfs, exploited by the nobility.

Most villagers, however, accepted this arrangement, for there was a chance to rise and become a vassal.

But becoming a vassal was no easy feat. It required three generations of loyal service to the lord’s family before land would be granted. Such land could be inherited, but not sold; half the produce belonged to the lord, the remainder was sufficient for the family to grow—and their sons became the lord’s soldiers.

Vassals were the backbone of the lord’s domain: guards, sheriffs, tax collectors, village heads, town mayors—the middle stratum of society.

When Victor announced that work points could be exchanged for inheritable land, the villagers could scarcely believe their ears. Only when they saw Nelson’s sister, Lilia, diligently recording points each day did they begin to trust it was true.

Thus, their daily labor became infused with boundless enthusiasm, for they understood that they could become the new domain’s vassals.

Victor did not do this out of some messianic urge or moral idealism, but because he had an insight unknown to native nobles. All in this world recognized the power of knights, and so did Victor. But Victor also believed in the tremendous collective strength of common people—a force capable of building castles in the mountains, cities on the plains, creating civilization in the wilds, overcoming any foe, and working miracles.

Victor would not ignore this power. His aim was to awaken it.

In his former life, it was his homeland that best harnessed such power to work wonders. So, now destitute, he simply adopted the production brigade system of work points used in his homeland’s early days.

For slackers, the usual noble response was a whipping, and if that failed, expulsion—to become a free peasant.

Victor believed in punishment, but reward was even more effective in inspiring effort. Alas, he had no riches with which to reward diligence—so he recorded work points instead, promising future rewards when wealth was amassed.

As a result, the work point system was welcomed by all. In just seven days, a sturdy palisade eight meters tall had been built around the camp—a pace that even Master Edwin found astonishing.

Victor’s popularity soared, enabling him to control his people smoothly and eliminating any risk of being sidelined.

While the farmers discussed their lord’s wise measures with fervor, a disturbance came from the other side of the woods. Dean signaled his men to ready their axes, then called out loudly, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Gruff.” A muffled voice answered, and soon Gruff emerged from the trees in chainmail, accompanied by four armed guards.

“Ah, Captain Gruff—you gave us quite a fright,” Dean said with a sheepish grin, lowering his axe.

Since this was a frontier domain, Nelson had assigned guards to protect the working groups. Today, Gruff led the patrol.

“Just caught three suspicious freefolk sneaking about in the forest. They’re carrying information, so I’m taking them to the camp to report,” Gruff said coldly.

Only then did Dean and the others notice that Gruff’s men were escorting a man and two women, hands bound, their clothes in tatters, faces sallow, arms and faces scratched—clear signs of having pushed through brambles.

Dean, however, cared little for their plight; he was more concerned about being left without guards.

“Captain Gruff, if you take your men back to camp, what about us?” he asked anxiously.

“What’s to fear? We’ve cleared all the beasts and monsters within fifty miles. Besides, there are still sentries out front. Just keep working—I’ll be back soon.”

Gruff shot Dean a look of disdain and marched the prisoners back to camp.

“All right, everyone, back to it! We’ve already felled seventeen iron oaks—today we must beat Group Six!” Dean shouted to his team.

“Right, boss!”

“For the last time—call me ‘foreman’!”

Victor was in the training yard, watching Nicole practice her swordplay.

Clad in leather armor, Nicole wielded a silver-bright longsword as she drilled thrusts against a target made from iron oak. Her shapely legs pressed into the earth, her body shot forward like an arrow, her waist twisting to gather all her strength into a single, direct thrust—the air splitting with a sharp rip, the sturdy target pierced clean through.

Her movements were simple and focused, her expression intent. Coupled with her athletic, lithe form, she exuded a beauty of spirited vigor that delighted the eye.

Physique: 16. Spirit: 11. Perception: 12. Vitality: 16.

These were the numbers Victor observed on Nicole with her battle aura active. Without it, her stats were Physique: 11, Spirit: 10, Perception: 9, Vitality: 12.

Through days of observation of farmers, mercenaries, and trainee knights, Victor had gained a rough sense of the range of alchemical organisms’ abilities. The alchemical auxiliary soldiers matched elite human troops; the alchemical militia equaled trainee knights.

Yet these were merely the quartermasters of the Narellian Empire. How powerful, then, would the Empire’s true alchemical warriors be? And what of the enemies they faced?

Victor shook his head, dismissing such thoughts of events eons past. Better to enjoy the sight of a beautiful woman training.

Nicole practiced her martial skills daily, never stopping until her aura was exhausted. The packed earth of the training yard was covered with her delicate footprints. Witnessing her relentless effort, Victor felt a deep sympathy.

In terms of beauty and allure, Nicole could not rival the seductive Countess Sylvia or the stunning Marquess Sophia. Yet Victor was drawn to Nicole, perhaps because his humble past made him feel a special kinship with this sensitive, self-doubting girl, so determined to change her fate.

With noble blood but humble birth, had Nicole awakened her bloodline in a common noble house, she would have been valued and granted status. But she hailed from the illustrious House of York.

For such an ancient house, a mere trainee knight was nothing remarkable. If she could not become a knight, she would be used as a tool for currying favor.

Unwilling to be so controlled, Nicole strove to become a knight.

After another completed thrust, Victor approached with a smile, offering a silk kerchief. “Nicole, take a break and drink some water. You’ve already worn out four iron oak targets today.”

Nicole took the kerchief, murmuring a soft “Thank you,” her flushed face growing even more radiant.

Her background had given her a longing for the elegance of noble life, and the young, handsome, well-mannered Baron Victor perfectly matched her romantic ideals, making her taste longing for the first time.

But that savage werewolf attack had shattered her pride and her romantic dreams. She realized that, unless she became a knight, an unbridgeable chasm would remain between her and the man she loved. So she trained ever harder.

Victor, however, worried about her state, accompanying her whenever possible—offering tea, water, and constant care.

His attentiveness slowly melted the ice in Nicole’s heart, touching her deepest softness and planting a seed within her. For that reason, she was all the more determined to become a knight.

Gazing into Nicole’s bright, resolute, yet shy eyes, Victor could not help but murmur, “Nicole, you’re truly beautiful.”

His heartfelt praise brought a blush to her luminous face, her shy yet joyful expression leaving Victor utterly captivated.

Just as Victor meant to take things further, untimely footsteps approached. Nicole instantly leapt back like a startled doe.

“My lord, we’ve encountered a situation that requires your attention in the barracks,” Nelson hurried over to report.

“I understand,” Victor replied curtly, heading for the barracks.

Seeing his lord’s sour expression, Nelson glanced doubtfully at the trainee knight’s back.

Could Nicole have upset the lord just now? Nelson scratched his head, then hurried after Victor.