At that moment, the boy—no more than ten years old—was still loudly telling everyone, "Do you know how kind Lord Earl is? The taxes in his domain are way lower than in other nobles' lands. Kids under seven don't even need to pay the head tax, and those like me pay half! If the serfs need firewood, as long as they don't chop down trees, they don't have to pay the firewood tax either. Oh, and the Countess even gives out piglets for free! No tax at all! You raise them, and you keep half the meat! It's a pity we got there late—this year's piglets were already given out, otherwise, maybe I could've applied for one too!"
Of course, that last part was a lie. Right now, only the Sardinson region was distributing piglets, and even then, only to people who had prior pig-raising experience. Slot hadn't implemented that benefit yet. After all, the registration had taken place last year, and most of the freedmen had only recently returned, so they'd missed it. The serfs in the fishing village didn't know how to raise pigs anyway. As a newly returned serf and a child at that, he naturally didn't qualify. But that didn't stop him from exaggerating a little—everything else he said was true! Anyone could go to Sardinson and ask around to verify it.
If it were him saying this, maybe people wouldn't believe it. But all the returnees were saying more or less the same thing. Some even retorted at those who accused them of being Sardinson's paid recruiters, saying, "We're just here to pick up our families! Whether anyone else wants to come is none of our business."
"It's best if none of you go," someone added. "When I came back, I heard the village chief talking about this year's farming. Since no one in the village knows how to farm, they're struggling to find laborers. Dad, and Mom, you're both expert farmers—they'd welcome you with open arms! Besides, Lord Earl said that if you clear land in his territory, the first year is tax-free, and the next two years are taxed at a reduced rate. Slot has been abandoned for years, so all the land being farmed this year counts as newly cleared land—completely tax-free! If we go back too late, there might not be any land left!"
That announcement caused the biggest stir of the day.
For farmers, nothing is more tempting than tax-free land.
Even the most skeptical among them began to waver.
Regardless of what others thought, these new serfs who had returned to persuade their families to move to Slot had, after all, voluntarily sacrificed themselves in exchange for their loved ones' survival. When they left, they had never expected to see their families again, nor did they imagine that reality would turn out so differently. Now that misfortune had turned into a blessing, of course, they wanted to bring their families along to enjoy a better life.
Though they made up only a small portion of the hundred serfs, the fact that they had initially sacrificed themselves for their families meant that their words carried enormous weight. Their families trusted them completely. So when they heard how good life was in Slot, they didn't hesitate—they started packing immediately.
Most of the refugees had nothing of value. They didn't even live in proper huts—their shelters were makeshift lean-tos built from weeds and wooden planks, crooked and drafty. When the weather turned cold, people froze to death in those shacks. If they could help it, they wouldn't spend another day living there.
With their families convinced, these refugees packed up what little they had and headed toward the Sardinson recruitment camp. They needed to register, then join their relatives and move to Slot. They had no desire to stay here a moment longer.
And following behind every family headed there was a crowd of onlookers—some were just curious to see whether these people would go with the Sardinson recruiters, but most wanted to verify if the returnees' claims were true.
Up until now, recruitment efforts by the Sardinson team had gone nowhere. Their terms weren't as attractive as those offered by the slave traders, and rumors—often malicious—were spreading behind their backs. Almost no one came to register.
At first, they tried persuading the refugees. But no one believed them. Talking was pointless. Those desperate enough to sell their children only cared about money and kept demanding higher prices than the Sardinson team offered. When refused, they'd threaten to sell to someone else. Naturally, Sardinson's people refused to budge. Over time, they grew disheartened and stopped trying altogether.
Their pay wasn't low—they were offering the standard price for serfs, not slaves. How could the two be compared? And their compensation wasn't just money—there were long-term benefits slave traders couldn't possibly match. People would normally be begging to become serfs under Lord Earl. These people dared to negotiate? Ridiculous!
If not for Lord Earl's orders, they would've packed up and left a long time ago. Who would want to suffer in the cold out here?
This time, bringing the new serfs to help recruit was their final attempt. Everyone knew that if this didn't work, they wouldn't offer another chance.
So when a large crowd arrived at the Sardinson camp, they saw the staff idly packing up, clearly preparing to leave.
When the group arrived, the Sardinson people barely glanced at them. One of them turned to the lead returnees and said calmly, "You're back?"
Without waiting for a response, he pointed at the lone person still seated behind the recruitment desk and added, "If you want to come with us, go register over there. We don't have much time left."
"You're leaving?" one of the returnees asked nervously. Even those who had only come to scout the situation suddenly felt a sense of urgency.
The man nodded. "Orders from Lord Earl. He said the King would soon send troops to drive the refugees out of there. Since no one's registering, there's no point in us staying. Spring is almost here, and everyone's busy. Who has time to waste?"
The last part was a clear complaint. They'd been spinning their wheels here with no results and might get scolded when they returned. Just thinking about that made them resent the refugees all the more, and the look they gave them was laced with dissatisfaction.
They were leaving? And the army from the Pradi Empire was coming to expel the refugees?
That piece of news struck like a bomb. Life here was already miserable—many were on the verge of death. Now they were hearing soldiers were coming to drive them out? In an instant, even the onlookers turned pale, haunted by visions of being driven away, rounded up, or even killed.
The pressure was overwhelming. Some of the more fragile refugees burst into tears.
The new serfs had no time to care about anything else. They quickly urged their families to register, all the while fawning over the man who had shared the news, asking how long he'd be staying.
He replied, carrying his belongings, "We're not sure yet—probably just another two or three days. You'd best get ready now. If you're not packed when we leave, we're not waiting."
He said this mainly to warn the new serfs' family members. But in fact, those registering had already brought everything with them. Once registered, they became Sardinson's serfs, and arrangements for food and shelter would be made immediately—sometimes they were even picked up by carriage. No one lingered long.
"We'll be ready," the new serfs assured him eagerly.
Some even went to speak briefly with their already-registered family members, telling them to stay put while they went back to persuade friends and relatives.
Time was short. If others still hesitated, they might miss their chance.
Even if people didn't want to leave, the new serfs felt it was their duty to at least warn them about the approaching Pradi soldiers.
Meanwhile, many others rushed back to consult their families. Some, however, stayed behind to anxiously ask the Sardinson recruiters whether the King's deployment of troops was true.
The man being questioned sneered. "Why would I lie? His Majesty and the other nobles have long disliked you squatters on the border. If it weren't for Lord Earl wanting to recruit laborers and the King granting him this favor, you'd have been rounded up long ago. You think you're in a position to make demands?"
It was clear he'd had enough of these refugees. In truth, most of the Sardinson staff felt the same.
Faced with such scorn, the refugees' faces turned pale, then flushed with shame. If it had been anyone else, they might have retaliated already—but seeing the strong, well-armed man in front of them, none dared speak a word.
Meanwhile, those already lining up to register couldn't help but ask the registrar if the stories they'd heard about Sardinson were true.
"Head tax? Yes. Children under seven don't pay. Those under fifteen only pay half," the registrar confirmed.
"Why? What do you mean, why? Lord Earl doesn't care about that bit of money. He sets the taxes however he wants."
"No land tax? Don't be ridiculous—we collect land taxes," the registrar said flatly, causing a moment of doubt to ripple through the crowd. "Only newly cleared land is tax-free in the first year. All other land is taxed. Even for newly cleared land, the second year is taxed at twenty percent, the third year at thirty, and so on—by the fifth year, it's the same as regular farmland."
So it was true—there was a tax exemption! They hadn't lied!
Immediately, someone excitedly asked, "We heard that people like us will be sent to Slot and that this year all the land in Slot is being taxed like it's newly cleared—is that true?"
"If you're assigned to Slot, then yes, it should be true," the registrar said, not even lifting his head as he filled out forms. "Slot hasn't had a lord in years, and most of the land has gone to waste. When our lord took over, a few free people moved back, and Lord Earl did declare that all land in Slot would be tax-exempt this year."
"Is there a lot of land there? Will we be able to rent tax-free farmland?"
"Tons. Slot's entire county has only two or three thousand people now. The few remaining serfs mostly live off fishing—they barely farm. The land's all lying fallow. That's why Lord Earl needs people to work it. Otherwise, do you think foreigners like you would ever get a chance to become his serfs?"
Annoyed by the repeated questioning, the registrar soon stopped answering altogether. But even without his words, those who had already registered were gathered nearby, excitedly discussing what they'd heard.
Before long, they were talking about what crops they planned to grow in Slot.
Once they registered as serfs, they received their body price—a sum of money paid for their labor. Though not large, every family member received their share and pooled together, it was enough to get by for quite a while if they were careful. Many planned to use part of it to buy seeds and start farming as soon as they arrived. If food ran short in the meantime, they'd forage for wild vegetables or fruit. So long as they worked hard, they believed they wouldn't starve.
One of the new serfs who had chosen to stay and wait with his family explained, "You don't even have to go through all that. There are plenty of jobs in Slot. If you're selected, meals are included. Those with strength can work at the docks or join the construction teams. If you're not strong, you can learn to weave fishing nets or help dry the catch. Even kids can do it. They don't mind your age—if you're obedient and work hard, they'll take you. There's no pay, but you get two bowls of stewed beans or oat porridge every day. You won't go hungry."
These new serfs were speaking from experience. Their ages varied—some were as young as six or seven. Many had been sold by desperate families because they couldn't afford to feed them. They'd survived by helping with fish drying or other odd jobs.
As unbelievable as these stories sound, they calmed the anxious refugees and gave them a faint sense of hope for the future.
Whatever their motivations—whether drawn by the promise of a better life in Slot or terrified by the threat of Pradi soldiers—after that day, more and more fearful refugees began streaming toward the Sardinson camp.
Many had once been willing to sell their relatives into slavery for coin. But when it came to selling themselves, they refused. Being a slave was far worse than being a serf. If Sardinson and Slot truly offered good treatment, becoming a serf might be better than living as a free pauper.
At the very least, it was better than sitting around waiting to be rounded up by soldiers.
So they all headed to the Sardinson camp.
Only to find out that—they were being rejected!
How could that be?!!
"Why won't you take me? I'm strong—I can do any kind of work! You even took in old folks and kids. Why not me?" a rejected man shouted angrily.
Others looked over in confusion. He didn't seem to be lying—he was relatively sturdy, probably in his late twenties or early thirties. Though thin, he was healthier than many skeletal refugees. By all accounts, the type that recruiters would want.
And yet he was turned away. Why?
People around them began whispering, ears perked for the answer.
One of the Sardinson staff waved impatiently. "We're recruiting, yes—young, old, male, female, all fine. But one thing's non-negotiable—we don't take people with bad character!"
Bad character?!
Now everyone was really curious. The man being rejected looked deeply uncomfortable.
Before he could argue, the Sardinson recruiter cut him off: "We know about you. You tried to sell your parents, wife, and children into slavery—just to save your skin. If that slaver hadn't refused to take the elderly and the young, and your family hadn't overheard your plan and come to us first to register, they'd probably be dead by now. Do you think we forgot that? Don't underestimate us—we know exactly what kind of people you refugees are. And someone like you? A grown man who sits around all day doing nothing while his family slaves away to feed him—then tries to sell them? We don't want trash like you!"
Did they think the Sardinson team had done nothing all this time? On the contrary—they'd spent days quietly gathering information. Every case of someone selling their own family—they knew all of it and had already decided not to accept anyone like that, should they show up.
—Though until now, no one like that had bothered to register.
As soon as the recruiter said this, someone in the crowd recognized the man.
"I know him! He was a scoundrel—his family had money once, and he never lifted a finger. Just drank and played around all day. Then when our area was occupied by noble knights, his family's wealth was taken and they fled here. But he didn't change—he even started stealing! His parents spoiled him rotten, and he repaid them by trying to sell them into slavery. Unbelievable!"
"That's not all," someone else added. "I heard some of the people who've gone missing lately might be connected to him. Who knows if they were sold off or something worse? Look at him—he's better fed than the rest of us. But we've never seen him work. Where's he getting food? I bet he's been robbing or trafficking others for coin."
Slave traders never asked questions. Even if they knew someone had been kidnapped or tricked, they didn't care—so long as they could profit. Even if the family came looking later, they wouldn't return the person. Contracts were signed, sealed, and thumb-printed. If you wanted someone back, you had to buy them. Even if the case was taken before a noble, they weren't afraid—especially since these refugees were foreigners. No one would speak up for them.
So when people started disappearing, no one dug too deep. Everyone just tried to protect their own and kept their heads down.
But that didn't mean these acts weren't resented.
As more people spoke up, the families of missing loved ones came forward, eyes red, staring daggers at the man like they wanted to tear him apart. He was terrified. Everything the recruiter said was true. He'd tried to sell his family, and after being found out, his father had led the rest to register as serfs instead. Even then, they'd left him half the money from their sale—hoping he could survive.
But he hadn't appreciated it. He'd taken the money, grumbling that it wasn't enough, and had even cursed them for accepting the deal. Enraged, his parents severed ties with him, taking his wife and son to Slot. This time, they didn't send word to bring him.
When the money ran out, he joined other lowlifes and began targeting isolated refugees—capturing and selling them in secret.
They were careful, always working in teams, never caught red-handed. If accused, they denied everything. Brazen and shameless.
He'd hoped to register with Sardinson to escape the returning army and live off his family in Slot. He had no remorse at all.
But now, exposed in front of everyone and surrounded by furious victims, even he couldn't stay bold. He panicked, shrank back, and fled in shame.
After that, more people were rejected from the recruitment line—men, women, old and young. All had one thing in common: they seemed better off than others, but their neighbors knew they didn't work, and no one knew where their food came from.
After what happened, the refugees looked at such people with increasing suspicion. Whispers turned into open accusations, and past misdeeds were dragged into the open, leaving the guilty ashamed and fleeing under the weight of public condemnation.