Chapter 68: First Display of Power, Then Show of Kindness

Three kilometers beneath the Hill Camp, there was a large encampment—this was the temporary settlement Victor had ordered built for the freefolk who came to seek refuge under his protection.

The settlement covered a respectable area, nearly a square kilometer in size, and within it were designated living quarters, a plaza, and a reservoir. However, the facilities were rather rudimentary. The residential section to the right consisted of low, cramped shanties packed tightly together. The camp’s fence was a makeshift palisade of clay and red pine branches—so fragile that even an ordinary farmer with a tool could dig through it with ease, serving more to mark boundaries than provide real security.

To the left, the plaza’s ground was level and clean, with rows of tables and benches in one corner where the freefolk took their meals.

Paul was eating breakfast in the dining area—a root vegetable known as ground yam. He carefully peeled back the charred skin of the roasted tuber, revealing steaming white flesh that gave off a tempting aroma. With a broad grin, he bit in eagerly.

Paul was very fond of ground yam’s sweet flavor, and most importantly, it filled his belly. For a boy his age, hunger was a constant companion.

In truth, Paul had found such ground yams before, but the mountain folk told him only wild boars could eat them, and that humans would suffer diarrhea or even poisoning if they did.

So, when the settlement first offered ground yam as food, the people resisted. It was only when the esteemed village headman set the example by eating it that others dared to try.

Later, the camp administrators explained that raw ground yam was indeed poisonous—whether eaten raw or cooked, it would upset the stomach. But once dried for three days, the toxins vanished, and when roasted, the taste was particularly sweet and fragrant.

Paul found life at this camp quite agreeable; here, he often got to eat wild boar meat, whereas at the old freefolk camp, the meat always went first to the chiefs and their cronies.

“Paul, don’t stuff yourself. There’s work to do later.”

It was Wood, Paul’s father, a simple and honest farmer.

“Okay,” Paul replied, though he did not put down the yam.

Wood shook his head but smiled faintly. He, too, was content with their new life—full bellies, no more beatings. The two worked with special diligence for the camp. The village headman had even promised to recommend them as Lord Victor’s subjects, which meant they could move into the Hill Camp itself.

“I hope nothing changes,” Wood thought anxiously. Yesterday’s unrest left him uneasy. Normally, by this hour, the headmen would have sent for workers, but today, all was still.

Dong. Dong. Dong. Three deep, resonant chimes echoed across the plaza.

Wood and Paul looked up in surprise. Unlike yesterday’s urgent alarm, these were summons for assembly—a distinction every former subject recognized.

“All to the plaza! The lord wishes to speak!”

Fully armed guards strode through the camp, proclaiming the summons.

Victor, surrounded by his guards, stood atop the plaza’s dais, gazing coldly at the sea of faces below. Today, he had come to deal death.

“My lord, all present and accounted for,” Linda, the sheriff, clad in leather and sword at her hip, reported softly.

Victor nodded, stepped forward, and raised his voice to address the freefolk.

“Villagers! I am Victor Wimbledon, Baron of the Kingdom of Gambis, lord and master of these lands.”

At the sound of the lord’s voice, the freefolk below fell silent, awe and fear etched across their faces.

“Though most of you are freefolk, as your lord I have provided shelter, food, protection, and order,” Victor continued. “Yet yesterday, a handful among you dared commit murder within this camp, causing chaos and leaving a dozen dead or wounded.”

“Such acts endanger you all, and defy my will—a challenge I will not tolerate. By the laws of Gambis, murderers shall hang. Bring forth the killers!”

At Victor’s command, several guards dragged forward three bound men. Despite being pulled along, the men struggled, not out of refusal to walk, but from a fierce unwillingness to be manhandled. Soon, they stood before Victor—tightly bound, mouths gagged with knotted rope, their bodies battered and bloodied, faces bruised, evidence of a severe beating. Yet their eyes remained wild and defiant, sweeping over the crowd without a trace of fear, only an untamed arrogance typical of mountain folk.

Physique: 10. Spirit: 8. Perception: 9. Life: 10. These were the data Victor gleaned from their leader.

Such attributes surprised Victor—they matched the standards of elite soldiers. The other two mountain men were similar. Sensing an opportunity, Victor ordered, “Untie their gags.”

Relieved to regain the right to speak, the three mountain men showed a flicker of hope.

“You killed without cause. I sentence you to hang. Have you anything to say?” Victor demanded coldly.

“My lord, we did not kill without cause. Those men stole my woman, so we killed them!” the leader shouted.

“He lies, my lord,” Linda quietly explained. “The woman he claims was another freefolk’s wife, taken by force. After joining our camp, she returned to her husband. Dissatisfied, this man beat the couple repeatedly, until our people flogged him into submission. Now, in the chaos, he stabbed the husband to death and killed another who tried to stop him.”

Once again, over a woman, Victor thought grimly. The imbalance between men and women among his people had reached eight to two. Rivalries flared not only among the new arrivals, but even his earliest followers, prompting Victor to have Nelson recruit more women.

“So a woman you stole is yours? Even if she were, why not seek justice from the sheriff? Why resort to murder?”

Victor’s gaze was icy. These three would die, but he needed to understand the distinction between mountain folk and other freefolk, and to examine his settlement’s governance.

“My lord, once a woman comes to me, she is mine—I give her the best food, the finest furs. Why should a weakling contest me? It’s our way—whoever is strongest chooses first.”

“Here, the sheriff ignores us mountain folk, lets the women choose again. They favor the headmen; how can we compete? Only in desperation did we kill!”

The leader’s outcry found some echo among the mountain men. Only now did Victor notice how clearly the freefolk had divided into two camps. On the left, fewer in number but robust and wild, stood the mountain folk.

“Nonsense! You savages laze at work, snatch meat at meals, and bully others! Why should we respect you?” a headman shouted back.

“Headman, we may not match you in farming, but we are hunters. Every time beasts attack, who drives them off? We are strong, so we eat more—yet the camp’s food is for all.”

“Lies! The wild wolves are gone; only wild boars remain, and the militia chase those off. When have you ever driven beasts away?”

Victor understood: these mountain men had once been chiefs among the freefolk, and now, after joining his camp, sought to retain their old privileges. The farmer-born freefolk resented their bullying, fueling conflict and exclusion.

“My lord, we followed your call, brought our men, hoping at least to be made headmen, but instead must toil like commoners. We are hunters, not farmers. They exclude us, and it was that man who insulted me first.”

“My lord, we are stronger than the farmers—let us be soldiers, not peasants. I beg you for justice!”

The mountain leader’s plea stirred his fellows; all clamored as if grievously wronged—though in truth, it was a bid for more benefits.

The farmers, meanwhile, stood quietly—not only out of timidity, but because they knew to show deference before the lord, lest they be expelled.

“Enough!” Victor thundered. The crowd fell instantly silent.

“Killing means death. But since you claim unfair treatment, I’ll give you a chance. I’ll have a guard fight you bare-handed. If you can kill him, you’ll be spared. Reynard, step forward!”

A glint of ruthlessness flashed in Victor’s eyes as he whispered to Reynard, “Leave none alive.”

These mountain men had joined the Hill Camp out of fear of Nelson’s iron-fisted rule, but remained wild and defiant, insisting on their own ways—sealing their fate.

Their ropes were untied. The mountain leader, seeing Reynard wasn’t Nelson, cautiously asked, “My lord, if we kill him, you’ll spare us?”

“You boast of your strength—prove it! Kill him, and you’ll become family soldiers, and receive vassal status,” Victor replied.

“Good!” The mountain leader’s eyes gleamed fiercely.

“All together!” he roared, and the three leapt at Reynard, certain that three against one would prevail.

Reynard sprang forward, fist flashing. A thunderous blow sent the leader flying, ribs shattered, black blood spilling—dead before he hit the ground.

It happened so fast, the other two didn’t realize their comrade was dead, but hurled themselves at Reynard, their massive fists raining down like hammers—enough to fell an ox.

But Reynard was no ox. With a physique of seventeen, his strength and endurance were superhuman, and now, empowered by the secret Bull Stance, he was unstoppable.

Ignoring the blows, he moved once, and the sickening crack of breaking bones filled the air. The two men flew several meters, chests caved in, blood streaming from every orifice—dead on the spot.

In a single instant, the fight was over.

The overwhelming display did not surprise Victor, but for the watching freefolk, it was a shocking spectacle—especially for the mountain men, who now fell utterly silent.

“Bury them,” Victor ordered coolly.

Guards dragged the bodies away, while Victor addressed the stunned crowd.

“You are freefolk, but as long as you dwell on my lands, you will obey my will. This is the right granted to lords by the Glorious Codex. Any who refuse must leave.”

“Today, I executed three criminals. If any among you are dissatisfied, you are free to leave the camp now. But know this: if you go, never expect to become my subjects.”

“Make your choice!”

At his command, the camp gates swung open. The mountain folk looked at one another. Soon, a few stepped out of the crowd, then more and more—before long, the majority had left.

Only a small number remained, mostly the old and infirm; the able-bodied had nearly all gone.

“Very well. Those who remain should count themselves fortunate. Just days ago, my guards found traces of dire wolves. They have now been driven to the camp’s outskirts.”

Victor’s warning caused a stir; now the freefolk understood why the guards had been absent yesterday—they were hunting the wolves.

“Do not fear for your safety. So long as you stay, the guards will protect you. I have ordered all village construction halted, and the camp’s fortifications strengthened. As for those who left, may fortune smile upon them.”

The camp quieted. Reynard’s prowess had convinced them he must be a knight. With a knight to guard them, the wolves would never dare approach.

“To the mountain folk who stayed, I promise, as your lord, fair treatment. If you are bullied or excluded, report it to the sheriff. Work diligently, and you will earn the status of my subjects.”

“Now, I shall name twenty outstanding freefolk to be granted full subject status. They may move into the Hill Camp and take refuge under my house. They are…”

When Victor read out Wood and Paul’s names, the father and son embraced in tears. Life as freefolk had been a nightmare, and now, at last, that nightmare was over.