Shortly thereafter, Alistair and his retinue of knights arrived outside the walls of Frostcrest. Here, he would complete his third villainous task.
Before him lay a wide moat fed by a distant waterfall. In the distance, green mountains, lush forests, and sprawling pastures framed the mighty city, dotted with small, clustered villages. It was, without a doubt, a beautiful vista. But this beauty was a veneer, masking a landscape scarred by suffering.
Along the way, Alistair saw only figures in ragged clothes, their faces sallow and gaunt. Farmers in straw hats toiled in the fields. A woman in a headscarf carried a basket filled with wild berries, likely on her way to sell them in Frostcrest. Occasionally, they would pass a hunter carrying game on his back. These men looked slightly healthier, but their bodies were covered in scars—a testament to the fact that hunting in the wilds was a gamble with one's life.
The vast majority of Frostfell's population were these people: low-status peasants and serfs. According to the laws of the kingdom, everything within a fief belonged to its lord. Peasants were required to work at least four days a week for their lord without pay and had to surrender a portion of their harvest as taxes, all in gratitude for the lord's protection. The grain they had left was never enough.
The serfs, of lower status still, had it even worse. They had no land and no personal property. They were simply a source of unpaid labor, and eating enough to survive was their greatest aspiration.
Alistair seethed. System, these people are already on the brink of starvation from the last lord's exploitation. And you want me to trample their fields? Does your conscience not ache?
As a man who had received a good education, stealing candy from children had been bad enough. Now he was being forced to bully these exploited farmers. This was a direct assault on his conscience.
[Ding! The Host is encouraged to continue shattering his moral compass. Better a short,sharp pain than a long, dull ache.]
"I…" Alistair was utterly speechless. What fresh hell is this?
There is no way I'm going to follow this damnable quest and torment these poor people. If he truly did that, what meaning would his life have? He would be nothing but a pathetic puppet dancing on the System's strings.
Know thyself, know thy enemy. Alistair realized he needed more information.
System, can you tell me the specific criteria for a villainous act?
He didn't know if it would answer, but if it did, he might be able to analyze its rules.
[The standard for a successful villainous act is that it must inflict psychological trauma upon another being.]
Psychological trauma? Alistair stroked his chin, lost in thought. His actions in the city had certainly caused serious trauma to a group of children. And with the chubby kid, his offer to return two candies for the one he took would not have caused trauma, which was why the System had deemed it an invalid act.
He felt he was onto something.
So, the 'stick and carrot' approach is viable… But the stick must land first. I have to cause the trauma, and the victim can't know the carrot is coming as compensation.
Alistair's eyes lit up. He decided to test his theory immediately. Glancing around, he spotted a patch of farmland not far away.
Old Tobin was hard at work in his field. The scorching noon sun baked his dark skin, sweat rolling down his cheeks. Suddenly, a tall shadow fell over him, and a massive black hoof stomped down on the wheat shoots he had so painstakingly planted.
"Which son of a—huh?" Old Tobin looked up, ready to curse the bastard who was trampling his crops. The sight that met his eyes nearly scared the soul from his body.
A noble knight, his armor emblazoned with the Goldenlion crest, sat astride a magnificent Drakeblood Steed. Behind him was a squadron of other knights, clearly his escort. Old Tobin swallowed hard, the curse dying in his throat. His legs gave out, and he fell to his knees in the dirt.
"Mercy, noble lord! Mercy!..." Trembling, Old Tobin pressed his forehead to the ground, his mind a complete blank. He could do nothing but repeat the plea for his life.
A bitter taste filled Alistair's mouth as he looked down at the terrified old farmer groveling before him. He was the one trampling the man's field, yet it was this white-haired old man who was on his knees, begging for his life.
This System is truly shameless, Alistair cursed inwardly. He and his knights had already trampled a path two yards wide through the field, but the System still hadn't registered the quest as complete.
Left with no other choice, and with a heavy heart, Alistair ordered his knights to ride a circle through the crops.
Catching a glimpse of this, Old Tobin began to shake uncontrollably, not daring to utter a single word. He chanted miserably in his mind, telling himself over and over that to survive an offense to a noble was a blessing in itself. These were the wheat shoots he had planted with his own two hands. Without them, he wouldn't be able to pay his taxes in the fall. The end result would be the loss of his land and his entire family being degraded to serfs.
…
[Ding! Daily Quest Three has been completed. Claim reward now? Y/N?]
"No!"
It seemed his tyrannical act had inflicted severe psychological trauma on the old farmer. Now it was time to see if he could offer compensation. It was a delicate operation. The compensation had to cover the old man's losses without being so overt that it seemed intentional. He only needed to fool the System right now.
Considering that the old man would surely try to salvage his wheat shoots the moment they left, Alistair had an idea. As they rode away from the field, he feigned a clumsy moment, "accidentally" dropping a dozen silver coins.
Alistair held his breath, but even after they were a good distance away, no alert sounded from the System.
It seems my theory was correct. A faint smile touched his lips, and a wave of relief washed over him. The System really was an idiot. Rigid, literal, and incapable of seeing beyond its own programming. This meant he could master it, use it, and make himself stronger.
Thorne, riding beside him, had witnessed the entire scene. Perhaps others might think the coins were dropped by accident, but Thorne knew better. Alistair was an Earth Knight himself; his perception was astonishingly acute. The coins had to have been dropped on purpose.
Though Thorne couldn't fathom his lord's objective, he was certain that, just like with the children's candy, there was a profound purpose to it that he could not easily grasp. His Lordship becomes more inscrutable by the day! Thorne thought, gazing at Alistair's back with renewed reverence.
…
Back in the field, Old Tobin was heartbrokenly tending to his trampled wheat shoots, his cloudy eyes welling with bitter tears. Suddenly, a glint of sunlight reflecting off something round and shiny caught his eye.
A silver coin!
Old Tobin rubbed his eyes and looked again. It was indeed a silver coin. With a gasp of surprise, he picked it up, clasping his hands together to thank the God of the Harvest.
But then, near where he'd found the first coin, he found another. And another.
By the time he had finished tending to his field, thirteen shining silver coins lay in the pocket of his tattered tunic. It was enough to keep his family fed for a year, with enough left over to pay his taxes. He no longer had to fear being reduced to a serf.
The sudden windfall left Old Tobin dumbfounded. He couldn't help but think of the noble knight who had come to trample his field. Could it have been that lord?
He immediately shook his head, dismissing the naive thought. The high-and-mighty nobility didn't care whether humble farmers like him lived or died.
Old Tobin preferred to believe this was the result of his devout, daily prayers to the God of the Harvest, who had seen his suffering and saved him.