Translator: CinderTL
Inside the Governor's Mansion of the Northern Three Territories, Stanford leaned back in his wide oak office chair, the blue smoke rising from his brass pipe swirling in the sunlight.
He squinted through the glass window, gazing into the distance—several Orc laborers were being taught by humans how to plow the land with steel plows, the heavy breathing of the oxen faintly audible.
He exhaled a puff of smoke, watching it slowly dissipate in the air. Before the arrival of the Alden people, the forest Orcs of the Northern Three Territories were still at the stage of slash-and-burn agriculture. Now, dozens of large farms had been established across the vast black soil plains.
Stanford's fingers gently traced the planning blueprint on his desk.
The swamp drainage project in the Black Water Valley was marked in red for its first phase. The open-pit iron mine at the edge of the Lucky Forest was labeled "to be developed." The neatly arranged black squares on the Peaceful Great Plains represented the thousands of acres of fertile land soon to be cultivated.
A crisp crack of a whip outside interrupted his thoughts. A convoy of four-wheeled wagons loaded with timber was heading toward the newly built processing factory, driven by an Orc.
Stanford nodded in satisfaction. As long as the Orcs were given sufficient rewards, they worked with great diligence.
He picked up his pen and wrote in his notebook: "Next step: establish literacy classes for Orcs, set up basic skills training..."
The tobacco in his pipe gradually burned out.
Stanford stood up and walked over to the large map on the wall, using a red pencil to draw an even bigger circle around the Northern Three Territories. From the coast to the inland, as human influence deepened, this circle had expanded significantly compared to last year, almost covering the entire Northern Three Territories.
A faint smile curled at the corners of his lips, as if he could already see caravans laden with grain and ore continuously traveling along the newly built hard roads to the ports, where they would be loaded onto ships bound for the Northwest Bay.
"Next harvest season..." Stanford murmured softly, the shadow of his pipe casting a slender line on the map, like a ruler measuring the land being transformed.
Just as Stanford put down the red pencil, there was a rapid knock on the office door. The aide-de-camp hurried in and whispered, "Governor, the urgent messenger from Alden Town has arrived."
Stanford frowned and immediately extinguished his pipe. "Bring him in."
The messenger, covered in dust, entered the office, his boots still caked with the black soil unique to the Northern Three Territories. He took out a sealed letter bearing the Grayman family crest from his chest and presented it with both hands. "Governor, the Marquis's urgent order."
Stanford swiftly opened the envelope, and the concise yet forceful handwriting on the letter leaped into view. His expression grew increasingly grave as he read.
When he reached the word "war," his hand trembled slightly, and a faint crease formed at the edge of the letter.
He looked up abruptly, a trace of disbelief flashing in his eyes. "So soon? How long has it been since the last treaty was signed?"
The sunlight outside suddenly seemed glaring, and Stanford was momentarily lost in thought, recalling the recent intelligence—frequent disturbances among the Orc tribes on the plains. But he hadn't expected the situation to deteriorate so rapidly.
"That old fox, Abal!" he muttered, the letter rustling in his hand. "He was never going to stay quiet for long."
The aide-de-camp cleared his throat uneasily, snapping Stanford out of his reverie. He took a deep breath, the lingering taste of tobacco still in his mouth, but the leisurely flavor from earlier was now gone.
He gently placed the letter on the map, covering the territory of the grassland Orcs. "I will order all border outposts," Stanford said with a steady and firm voice to the envoy from Alden Town, "to immediately enter a state of war readiness."
"Your task is to contain, not to engage in decisive battle," the envoy added. "The Marquis specifically emphasized that the achievements in the northern three regions must be prioritized. Fully assess the balance of power between the enemy and ourselves before taking action. Do not take unnecessary risks. Remember, once the chaos erupts south of the Rocky Mountains, it will be difficult to spare any forces to support you."
"Please reassure Grayman," Stanford nodded, his hand lightly brushing over the northern three regions on the map, where countless small flags marked farms, mines, and forests—all his hard work.
"The northern three regions will become his most stable rear," Stanford's voice carried determination. "And if the opportunity arises, we will also let Abal know that his backyard is not as peaceful as he thinks."
After seeing the envoy off, Stanford immediately summoned Gromta, the naturalized Orc chieftain who had once helped him eliminate the most powerful Blood Ox Tribe in the northern three regions.
When Gromta entered the office, he still carried the scent of pine from the forest.
"Sit," Stanford pushed a cup of mead toward him. "Tell me your thoughts on Abal."
Gromta's rough fingers rubbed the glass cup, the amber liquid reflecting his complex expression.
"He's a hungry wolf..." his deep voice seemed to emanate from the depths of his chest. "Before you came, every winter, entire tribes would flock to the Chieftain's Tent on the grasslands."
Sunlight filtered through the glass window, casting dappled shadows on Gromta's face. He tilted his head back and drained the mead, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Abal would give them weapons, food, and promises of glory."
The glass cup clinked against the table as he set it down. "My cousin took the entire Gray Wolf Tribe to the Golden Tent, and now..." He drew a line across his throat with his finger, making a cutting gesture. "...he's dead."
Stanford thoughtfully twirled his pipe in his hand.
He tapped lightly on the table, his gaze fixed on Gromta. "If war breaks out and Abal summons the forest Orcs, what would you choose?"
Gromta grinned, revealing uneven tusks. "Sir, I have no interest in changing bosses."
His thick fingers brushed over his new linen uniform and then pointed to the tall stone houses outside the window. "Abal can give warriors glory, but he can't give us this. The Chieftain's Tent may be powerful, but it's helpless against disasters sent by the heavens. You, on the other hand, can solve many of our problems."
"To be honest," the Orc chieftain lowered his voice, a hint of shrewdness in his tone, "with the Governor's Office, my people have warm houses in winter, children can eat their fill, and we hunt with steel-tipped arrows." He shrugged. "Abal's glory? That stuff doesn't fill your stomach."
A glint of satisfaction flashed in Gromta's eyes. "Besides, I have no desire to follow a mad wolf to chew sand on the grasslands."
Stanford nodded slightly, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Good, I appreciate your pragmatism."
He stood up, walked around the desk to Gromta, and handed over an exquisite brass pipe, identical to his own.
"I will trust you, old friend," Stanford's voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable weight.
"But please, make sure to keep a close eye on your people." His fingers lightly flicked the pipe, producing a crisp metallic sound. "At the slightest sign of trouble, notify the Governor's Office immediately."
(End of the Chapter)
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