Chapter 43: Militia Leader Renault

The first snow had just cleared. Gentle sunlight filtered through the sparse woods, casting its glow upon the ground still dusted with patches of ice and snow, causing wisps of cold mist to rise between the trees.

Over forty robust men moved through the chilly haze, iron axes and steel saws in hand. Their thick, tightly sewn snow hare boots squelched in the muddy earth, sending up splashes of slush.

Morin, well past his fiftieth year and with hair now more white than black, breathed warm air into his palms and vigorously rubbed his half-frozen fingers. The air during thawing snow was always damp and bone-chilling.

Yet the group leader, appointed by Lord Victor, felt nothing but joy and anticipation in his heart. He knew that the cold, damp season of Water was drawing to a close, and the season of Earth—when all things revived—was quietly approaching. Already, tender buds were emerging from branches still adorned with ice and snow.

Today, Morin and his team were tasked with clearing part of this small woodland, for Lord Victor intended to lay out a village on an open plot adjacent to the forest. Around the village, a clear space of three arrow shots' distance had to be maintained.

“Let's start chopping from here! Put your backs into it today, lads—finish early and I'll use my work points to treat everyone to hotpot!” Morin gauged the distance and called out to the group.

“Alright!”

“Chief, keep your word! I want venison hotpot!”

“Venison? Aren't you afraid you'll overdo it, you beast? This time, when Captain Nelson leads the team to Blackfort, you're not included.”

Laughter broke out.

The promise of hotpot—one of the lord's own culinary inventions, delicious and warming—instantly lifted everyone’s spirits. Only those who spent work points at the canteen could taste it.

Victor had established the canteen out of necessity. Just a few days before, Lilia reported the territory’s affairs to him, and to his astonishment, he learned that over the past month, the camp had distributed more than a hundred thousand work points.

Victor had promised that one work point could be exchanged for one copper sol, which meant he owed his subjects over a hundred thousand copper sols. By the currency standards of the Lant Empire, thirty-six copper sols equaled one silver sol, thirty-six silver sols equaled one gold sol, and a hundred thousand coppers equaled nearly a hundred gold sols.

A hundred gold sols was by no means beyond Victor’s reach, but the problem was that this was only for a single month—and if this rate continued, he would be in serious trouble.

After carefully reviewing the records with Lilia’s help, Victor had to admit he had overestimated his own management skills and underestimated his people's fervor for work points.

The camp's achievements were undeniable. In just over fifty days, they had erected a two-tiered, eight-meter-high iron oak palisade, built eight watchtowers, barracks, warehouses, a mill, reservoir, blacksmith, canteen, wine cellar, and Victor’s office and workshop. The enthusiastic subjects had also cleared nearly two thousand acres of land, raised almost two hundred earth lizards, harvested over a hundred lizard eggs daily, and, motivated by Victor’s team’s rewards, begun breeding wild boar, yellow sheep, short-tailed deer, and even captured three swiftbirds. All these accomplishments rested upon the production team’s work point system.

In the human world, subjects traditionally labored for their lord without pay—laziness or slacking would be met with the whip. Victor scoffed at such crude methods, and his work point system had proven highly efficient. The difficulty was that he had failed to match the awarding of points to his actual ability to pay, leading to this awkward predicament.

As a lord, Victor was not immediately pressed to redeem work points for his people. What he lacked most was gold sols, now that he had begun producing alchemic humans.

Of the fifty thousand gold sols he had received from the York family, only about twenty-nine thousand remained. He planned to produce fifteen alchemic auxiliary soldiers, fifteen alchemic militia, and ten alchemic ravens, which would consume twenty-six thousand gold sols. He would then be left with less than three thousand—a pittance for a lord.

Making money had thus become his most urgent desire, but first he had to resolve the credibility problem brought on by the work points.

He could delay redeeming work points for copper sols, but not for too long, for when he was on Earth, nothing irked him more than being owed wages.

So, the canteen was opened in the camp.

Previously, subjects had three meals a day provided freely by the camp kitchen, and feeding several hundred people was no small matter. Fortunately, Victor’s lands were vast and rich in resources; with gathering and hunting, they were largely self-sufficient. Yet the kitchen’s fare was monotonous—only stews and roasts.

The canteen, however, offered a variety of dishes: stir-fried, steamed, grilled, braised, and even sweet purple cane wine. These, however, required work points for purchase.

Victor’s aim was to use this to reclaim work points.

At first, the subjects would rather stand outside the canteen, mouths watering, gnawing on the free kitchen fare, than spend their work points within. After Victor inquired, he realized they cared little for exchanging points for copper sols; what truly mattered to them was redeeming work points for land.

Victor had to reassure them once more: a thousand work points would earn an acre of land, and points could still be used afterwards. Only then did they begin to frequent the canteen.

The experience exceeded their expectations—not only could they enjoy delicious food, but also a sense of privilege. Newly joined freefolk, without work points, could not partake.

Once dining became a symbol of status and identity, the canteen’s business flourished.

This success made Victor realize that whether or not work points could be exchanged for copper sols was no longer important; his credit problem had been resolved.

What Victor did not anticipate, however, was that his canteen would, in decades to come, become the most prestigious venue for consumption and socializing in the human world. But that is another story.

Morin watched his men working with enthusiasm, his own heart burning with excitement.

He spat into his palms, gripped his heavy iron axe, and set about chopping at a squat tree.

Years of hard labor and a life of hardship had left his body somewhat stooped, yet he felt filled with strength.

It would not be long before Morin became the first village chief under Lord Victor.

Victor’s territory was vast—about twelve thousand square kilometers. Controlling such a domain required more than a single camp; the establishment of villages and roads was an inevitable choice.

With the influx of some freefolk, Victor’s hill camp now housed nearly five hundred people. While the camp could accommodate them, Victor, anticipating warmer weather, believed more freefolk would migrate here. To attract more subjects, he decided to found the first village.

The primary reason, however, was to counter the ambitions of the Chebman family. By posing as freefolk, they had already gained practical control of the eastern lands. Victor feared they would establish more freefolk outposts around the camp, trapping him and robbing him of real control over his domain.

To prevent this, Victor had to establish villages and outposts in strategic locations before they could.

He chose Morin as the first village chief. The other group leaders, though envious, had no objections, for Morin was the camp’s best carpenter. Every wooden structure in the hill camp was his design and handiwork, including the elegant houses on the upper grounds.

Everyone believed it was Morin's skill that won him the lord’s favor, but Morin himself knew it was his steadfast honesty that made him valued.

At first, six men were appointed as group leaders. Now, two had lost their positions for using their authority to bully subordinates, only to be reported by their vice-leaders. Who had denounced them, no one but the lord could say—the vice-leader role was rotated among ordinary villagers.

Now, no group leader dared to openly mistreat others; who knew if their subordinate might one day report to the lord when their turn came as vice-leader?

Some cunning fellows tried to use their vice-leader status to falsely accuse their leaders and seize their positions, but Victor quickly saw through their schemes. After a sound lashing and expulsion from the work point system, such severe punishment kept would-be schemers in line.

No one knew how Victor could discern truth from lies, but all agreed their lord was wise and brooked no deceit.

In reality, Victor never trusted the vice-leader reports outright. Instead, he recorded all complaints and compared them over time, acting only on corroborated accounts.

With a powerful swing, Morin finally felled the tree as thick as a bowl. He straightened, wiped the sweat from his brow, and surveyed the progress of his group.

Their numbers had grown from just over twenty to forty, with new freefolk assigned to them. Yet these new members were far less industrious than the old hands—they earned no work points. To motivate them, Victor allowed each group leader to recommend one outstanding new member a month to join the work point system. So far, none had made a recommendation, Morin included.

What a joke—these lowly, lazy freefolk expecting to be equals? Perhaps in their next life.

Victor had no better solution for this; such was human nature.

Yet a few freefolk did work diligently and without complaint. Morin’s group included such a man.

He was a giant—tall, broad, and rippling with muscle, seemingly inexhaustible. Where a normal villager needed a dozen strokes to fell a tree, this man required only two. Judging by his easy manner, everyone believed he could split a tree with a single blow.

He had only recently joined Morin’s group, but his strength and work rate had drawn everyone’s attention—he did the work of five men. For this, the others shunned him. Even Morin, consciously or not, assigned him the heaviest, dirtiest jobs, which he completed without a word of complaint.

Mocked and ridiculed by the others, the big man simply grinned foolishly, never arguing or even speaking much; if someone tried to chat with him, he could barely muster a sentence. In time, everyone realized: the big fellow was a simpleton.

This realization put everyone at ease. Their attitude toward him changed completely, for the hardworking giant made life easier for them all.

With a crack, another squat tree fell—the seventh he had brought down.

Morin nodded in approval. He had observed the big man for days; though dim-witted, he was diligent and reliable, above all obedient—never failing to complete the tasks assigned.

Morin decided to watch him a while longer. If he continued this way, in a month’s time, he would recommend him to Lord Victor for entry into the work point system. Ideally, he might even bring him into his own village one day.

“Take a break, big man,” Morin called after the giant had felled his eleventh tree.

The big man’s only flaw was his single-mindedness—if Morin didn’t tell him to rest, he would keep working until the job was done.

“Chief, that one’s got strength to spare! If you really care, let him eat his fill for once!” an old hand joked sourly.

Morin winced—the big man had another problem: an enormous appetite. He ate as much as three men. When Morin was named acting village chief and treated his group to hotpot at the canteen, he spent over five hundred work points—more than a hundred of which vanished into the big man’s belly. At the end, the giant even drank the whole pot of broth, still unsatisfied.

“With his performance, I’ll see him eat his fill today—I refuse to believe his appetite can’t be sated!” Morin said through gritted teeth.

He was about to be a village chief—how could he be stingy like an ordinary villager?

It still pained him, but he wanted to project the aura of a chief. Besides, he had accumulated the highest number of work points in camp—over ten thousand—mostly as rewards from Victor for his designs and buildings.

“Ha! Let’s see how much the big man can put away today!”

“I bet he’ll eat three hundred work points’ worth by himself!”

As everyone bantered loudly, the big man suddenly hefted his heavy axe, sprang upright, and shouted, “Watch out!”

No sooner had he spoken than a hulking beast burst from the thicket, charging straight at the unsuspecting group.

It was a wild boar, weighing over eight hundred pounds. Its bloodshot eyes, the tusks protruding from its long snout, and the arrows embedded in its hindquarters and haunches made it clear: this was a wounded, maddened boar.

Without hesitation, the frenzied beast roared and charged at the nearest villager.

A boar, when enraged, is a terrifying sight. Its strength and weight could snap a thick tree; its tusks could pierce a man’s body; its hide was so tough that an ordinary person could not kill it in one blow. The best defense was to avoid it in advance.

But this encounter was too sudden. The villager, though scrambling desperately to escape, had no time.

As panic scattered the group in all directions, the big man moved.

In a heartbeat, he crossed more than ten meters and brought the flat of his axe down hard upon the boar’s arched neck. There was a dull, thunderous thud—the boar’s unstoppable charge halted in an instant, its massive body crushed to the ground by the blow, dead before it could even cry out.

The giant’s attack, like a mountain collapsing, left everyone stunned.

After a long moment, the villager who had been inches from the boar’s tusks was first to react, yelping and scrambling backward, terrified by his brush with death.

“Well done, big man!” Morin, still shaken, patted the giant’s shoulder.

“I’ll be sure to tell Lord Victor of your deeds. Though you’ve only been with us a short while, I’ll petition to have you formally join my group. By the way, what was your name again?” Morin, deeply impressed, realized with some embarrassment that he had forgotten the big man’s name.

“Chief, my name is Reynold,” the giant replied in his deep, muffled voice.