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Chapter 11 - Baseness, the Aristocrat's Passport

This world overflowed with bloodshed and treachery. Being too good a person was a quick path to an early grave, especially for a noble. Field had exhausted his patience and benevolence for dealing with the world's scoundrels.

Better to let iron and blood do the talking! Baseness *was* the aristocrat's passport.

It turned out that attacking fellow humans was far simpler than fighting corrupted corpses. At least humans weren't terrifying to look at.

One human slave let out a guttural roar and pounced, pinning the soldier with the severed arm. He drove his sickle deep into the man's neck and yanked savagely, tearing the head clean off. The soldier's look of frozen terror remained etched on his face.

"Well done. It's yours," Field said, a cruel curve forming on his lips as he pulled a silver coin from his pocket and tossed it to the slave. "I permit slaves to own property! More work, more reward!"

The eyes of the surrounding slaves turned bloodshot. A single silver coin was no small sum; it could buy a hundred loaves of black bread, sustaining their lives for a hundred days! Instantly, avarice ignited a savage bloodlust within them.

Bolstered by Ashina's colossal wolf leading the charge, the slaves felt no fear. Gripping their weapons, they surged forward together.

"Truly, an effortless slaughter."

Against a Chosen One, a small group of fully armored infantry was a joke. Soldiers encased in heavy plate were flattened by a single swipe of the wolf's paw, their bodies crushed pancake-flat. Blood oozed from the ruined forms, pooling into rivulets.

Ignoring desperate pleas and whimpers, the traitorous garrison was swiftly dispatched. Field tiptoed, careful to avoid the scattered limbs and gore littering the ground, and cautiously entered the bunker.

"This... this is the armory!"

Field could no longer contain his elation upon seeing the fortress's weapon stores.

His eyes fell upon stacks of armor piled like small hills, exuding the pungent scent of protective tung oil. They were neatly bundled and secured. Adjacent racks held rows of standardized halberds, steel swords, and iron-bound shields. Crossbows hung on the walls, while barrels containing arrows of various types filled the corners.

Enough to arm five hundred men to the teeth, achieving a full one hundred percent armor saturation.

No single baron could afford such an arsenal. This was equipment shipped from across the Empire. Every year, the major lords were required to contribute a portion of their resources and gold to support the border defenses, holding back the corrupted monsters and orcish incursions.

"Just for a forward outpost like Kashan Fortress? And it holds this much?" Field marveled. "How rich must the giant fortresses further back be? I dare not imagine."

"Are we... rich now?" Ashina asked, lovingly running her fingers along the grip of a cavalry bow she had taken down.

"A small fortune, perhaps. But this is merely the beginning," Field replied, though internally he was ecstatic. He gestured grandly. "Well? Don't just stand there! Arm yourselves!"

"Yes, Milord!" Hearing they could don the expensive armor, the men scrambled forward, untying bundles and pulling sets of lamellar armor over their heads. For the first time, these slaves felt the weight and power of proper armor – heavy, yet brimming with security.

The only flaw was their emaciated frames; the armor hung loosely, making them wobble unsteadily.

"Heh. Serves you right, Richard," Field muttered with grim satisfaction, rubbing his hands together. He called over the first slave who had acted. "What's your name?"

"Milord, I'm Lynx," the slave replied nervously.

In an era where knowledge was monopolized, names among the lower classes were often crude and simple. Of course, they had little choice; adopting a name too grand risked offending a noble, and the executioner's axe or a noble's warhorse were no jokes to trifle with.

"I have a task for you. Let's rehearse it twice first," Field said conspiratorially, pulling Lynx close and gesturing emphatically as he explained.

Since they'd already stolen Baron Bull's weapons and armor, Field saw no reason not to go further. After sending Lynx off with twenty men, Field turned his attention back to the treasure trove before him.

"Take it all. Absolutely everything. Leaving any behind would be agony," Field muttered, pacing a few steps. "Ashina, send Kao to fetch everyone. We'll lower this equipment down the wall on ropes. We'll retrieve it once we're past the pass. It belongs to Nightfall Territory now." But it wasn't enough! Weapons and armor alone couldn't satisfy Field. The journey to Nightfall Territory was a high-stakes gamble; he needed to go all in.

Kashan Fortress received supplies from nobles across the realm, but the villages under its jurisdiction paid their taxes in full. Six large villages, blessed with fertile land, were responsible for supplying the fortress. Every year, they dutifully sent cattle, sheep, wheat, and taxes to the Baron's castle.

* * *

Rolling hills stretched out, dotted with the ruins of old structures. A column of well-equipped soldiers, bearing the banner of Baron Bull, trudged through patches of dead vines, weeds, and crumbling walls.

Bullhorn Village was known locally for its two tall watchtowers. Though only thirteen feet high including their peaked roofs, they were the village's pride. These seemingly crude structures, manned by hunters, allowed the militia to fend off bandit raids from behind the outer wooden palisade.

Just last night, they had shot down three corrupted corpses that had apparently slipped inside the walls. Gods! Even the fortress interior harbored monsters? The elders shuddered, recalling the terrifying times of the orcish wars.

Three or four villagers in rough-spun tunics sat near the village gate, clutching pitchforks and sipping vegetable broth. They swapped crude jokes about how long the widow from East Hamlet might last against a greenskin orc, punctuating their talk with harsh laughter.

"Soldiers from the Lord!" a villager recognized the banner, though the soldiers' purpose was unclear. Confusion reigned.

Soon, Lynx and his contingent of slave-turned-soldiers came into view.

"Open up! Now!" Lynx barked, his voice rough. The soldiers beside him slammed the butts of their halberds onto the ground, the sound of their lamellar armor clinking sharply. Lynx puffed out his chest, mimicking a nobleman's haughty demeanor. "You want us drinking the north wind out here? Move your worthless hides!"

The villagers snapped to attention, scrambling to usher the soldiers inside, practically bending double in deference.

"Milord, is it about the corrupted? Our village fought them off! Thanks be to the Gods! And, of course, to our gracious Baron!" The Village Headman approached, his face creased in an ingratiating smile that resembled a shriveled chrysanthemum. "We shall offer a young maiden, ensuring the Baron's... satisfaction." He paused, blinking at Lynx. "But... pardon, Captain. I don't believe we've met?"

Lynx's heart pounded, but he remembered Field's instructions: when in doubt, curse. "Screw yer bloody mother, ye snake's lackey! Who asked for yer blatherin'?" Lynx snarled, his hand flying to his sword hilt. "I'm here for the taxes! Not for family reunions, got it? I don't give a rat's arse if ye know me or not!"

Spittle flew onto the Headman's face. The sudden threat of the drawn blade sent him stumbling backwards, almost falling. "Of course, Milord! My mistake! My deepest apologies!"

"Agricultural levy! Population poll! Hearth tax! Faith tithe! Land charge! Exemption fee! Breath duty!" Lynx rattled off, waving his free hand dismissively. "And whatever other bleedin' taxes yer used to payin' to the Bull's lands! Ye know the drill!"

The taxes of the Middle Ages were endlessly inventive. There was always a levy perfectly suited to squeeze the peasantry.

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