I Picked Up the Fallen Earth

Chapter 1. Damned Middle Ages (1)

Tap, tap tap!

Splash!

The sky had been furrowing since morning, and the raindrops were getting bigger.

Small ditches had formed on the road, carrying all sorts of debris around. If one wasn’t on horseback, they would have had to walk over that rotten water.

Mid-June.

It’s the season when the stench is so bad that it’s hard to keep one’s senses. And when it rains, that smell vibrates through the entire domain.

Jeron frowned instinctively at this dreadful sight as he rode his horse.

“Damn Middle Ages.”

He brushed his rain-soaked hair back with a sweep of his hand.

On the path stretching to the city walls, the domain’s poorly clothed subjects were prostrate, bowing their heads.

Torn and patched, washed and worn.

Men, women, children, and elderly alike were all praying as Jeron passed by.

It was a scene he had seen hundreds of times, yet each time, Jeron thought to himself,

“This is utterly irrational.”

Such a useless thought could only occur to someone born an aristocrat.

In this place, even uttering the word ‘noble’ incorrectly could mean losing one’s head in this barbaric society.

What if Jeron had not been born a noble?

Instead of looking down from a horse, he would have been the one stuck in the filthy, mucky ground, bowing his head.

Was that happiness enough, then?

“Young lord.”

“What.”

The wet hair of knight Garcia shimmered.

He had earned his knighthood at a young age and was considered the most handsome man in the domain.

It was said that there were no young women left in the domain, and the sight of his slightly protruding underwear was somewhat irritating.

“Milord, it’s been three days since we’ve lost contact with the lord. I cannot fathom what might have happened. There has never been such an instance, and if by chance something has occurred…”

Thunk! Squelch!

Garcia was knocked over by Jeron’s kick.

Rolling in the mud on a rainy day, the smell would probably linger for days.

That ought to reduce the number of damsels gripping their skirts in tears around him.

“You, you should always be careful with your words. Haven’t I told you that? There’s a saying in the far east that words can become seeds. If a knight like you starts babbling, it stirs the soldiers, and I’ve told you how many times? Even in front of the subjects, shall I continue this way?”

“My apologies. But I’m truly worried. There has never been such a case, has there?”

“Until today, that is. If there’s still no word by today, we’ll send a scouting party.”

“Yes, young lord!”

“And you, if I hear one more tale of your misadventures, I will cut them off.”

“Ahem, my principle is that all women have the right to happiness.”

“Won’t you leave?”

“Yes!”

Embarrassed, Garcia hustled about in the rain, shouting at the top of his lungs as if to atone for his sins.

“It’s the young lord’s procession! Everyone, kneel down!”

As they neared the destination, the city walls, the dirt and mud began to mix, turning the ground into a muddy mess.

Yet, it seemed more urgent for everyone to kneel to the nobility rather than worry about such matters, as they all quickly dropped their work and prostrated themselves.

When Jeron was a child, he once asked his father, Baron Ark Farrow,

“Father, must it be this way? This inefficiency is unparalleled. Every time we pass, the subjects kneel and bow their heads, which seems unsanitary.”

“You do come up with strange notions. Sanitation? More than that, it’s a proper etiquette for the subjects to kneel to the nobility. It’s not only regulated by the laws of the nobility but the moment discipline breaks down, so does governance.”

“Is it because it makes governance easier, this emphasis on keeping the people ignorant?”

“You do have a keen insight! It’s not just our kingdom, but all states employ this policy. Why would the lower classes need to be clever, right?”

It was then that Jeron realized.

Maintaining a domain with a population of 30,000 with less than a thousand soldiers was nonsensical.

If the subjects were intelligent, it would lead to troublesome situations and make maintaining the domain with a small force difficult.

To increase the number of troops, one would have to incur a considerable amount of maintenance costs including salaries and equipment, hence a policy of pacification was essential to maintain the territory with a minimal force.

Jeron swallowed the rising curse within him and called for the construction supervisor.

“Sir Jenald!”

“At your service! I am honored to meet you, young lord!”

Knight Jenald, with his lips tightly sealed, ran over and without hesitation, knelt on one knee on the ground where sewage and debris flowed.

This was, in its own way, a show of loyalty. Seeing him in such a state moving in and out of the lord’s castle, Jeron wished they could dispense with the unnecessary formalities, but then, there would surely be whispers about breaching noble conduct, so he remained silent.

“Why is the construction progress lagging? Look at the overflow of debris.”

“Forgive us! The rain has been relentless, causing many difficulties for the construction.”

“We need to hurry. The construction must be completed before my father returns in a few days. You haven’t forgotten last year’s incident, have you?”

“How could we, milord?”

Sir Jenald’s eyes were darkened with exhaustion. Being nearly bald, the worry wasn’t unfounded that if it rained all his hair might fall out, looking like a wet rat.

But the command of a noble was more imperative than the worry of immediate hair loss. This Knight Jenald, with a reddened face, began to urge the overseers more vigorously.

“You fools! The young lord has given a special command. Move it, can’t you!”

“Yes, milord!”

As the overseers were pressed, they, in turn, pressed the territorial citizens who mercilessly whipped the laboring slaves. It was effective.

With relentless haranguing, productivity increased. It was an unavoidable situation. With Barbarians crossing over the walls frequently and undead legions occasionally marching south, it was imperative to finish the construction before the month ended.

If turmoil arose in the Farrow barony, which had been knighted into a barony by the king, the neighboring lords would hardly lend any assistance.

This was the harsh reality of the medieval period. If one didn’t secure their own survival, the entire territory would ultimately collapse.

Jeron walked around various parts of the wall. Living in this uncivilized society for 18 years, he knew the significant role these seemingly weak walls played.

About 20 meters from the gate, soil erosion had created roughly a 6-meter wide gap.

“If Barbarians or the undead were to march south, this could pose a significant problem. Sir Jenald, isn’t this gap too big? If it’s impossible to mend due to the rain, we should have at least fortified it with a stockade.”

“I deeply regret the oversight, milord. It hasn’t been easy to pull carpenters away from the gate repair work…”

“This is what the slaves captured by my father were for. Spending a lot of money will surely drive the treasurer mad… You understand what I mean.”

“We will find a way to fix it!”

Even for Jeron, in his position as a young lord, it wasn’t comfortable reprimanding a loyal knight who had served the territory for three generations.

But what else could he do? If there were no teeth, one must chew with their gums. Among a population of 30,000, 3,000 were slaves. These slaves were prisoners of war, and handling them harshly was not a problem.

Indeed, it was necessary. Light work would leave them with too much energy, potentially dreaming of rebellion.

It wasn’t that society was uncivilized; people were not oblivious. The territorial citizens harshly drove the slaves in place of Jeron and Sir Jenald, speeding up the construction.

Jeron was finally satisfied. After inspecting the entire wall, the rain stopped. The sun began to shine brightly.

“What a perfect weather for killing.”

The central square of the territory was always used for executing death sentences.

Regardless of how much it rained, the blood under the guillotine wouldn’t wash away; the rain had ceased, giving off a stark smell of blood.

The territorial citizens, each bringing their bread, found their spots.To secure a better spot, battles for position ensue.

There was a baseless belief among the common folk that eating bread soaked in a criminal’s blood could absolve one of their sins and enhance their health, which led to crowded squares whenever an execution was to be carried out.

In the Middle Ages, there were customs that corresponded to such beliefs, and any attempt to change these recklessly could have significant repercussions.

Fearing issues with governance, such practices were often left unchanged, even if they were unpalatable.

With a light gesture from Jeron, Sir Garcia, reeking of filth from tumbling in a dungheap, bellowed in a stern voice, “Bring forth the criminal!”

“At once!”

Though slightly better off than the common estate folk, soldiers in tattered armors, washed several times over, dragged a blood-soaked man along.

As the soldiers brought the criminal forward, the commoners split to either side.

For the criminal, the path was akin to a thorny road.

Being hit by rolling waste was the norm, and some even had their heads split open by stones.

By the time the criminal was brought to the guillotine, he was practically half-dead.

Even if released, he would have to live as a cripple, making death perhaps a merciful end at this point.

“Sir Garcia, what are the charges against this man?”

“Yes, milord! This deplorable soul has been found guilty of theft, robbery, assaulting women, and murder. Furthermore, he has insulted the nobility, undermining the very foundations of our society, which constitutes a severe crime.”

“Is that so?”

“We have all his confessions.”

Jeron, of course, did not trust the outcome of the interrogation.

It was a society that readily piled up various crimes and sentenced to death anyone who merely insulted nobility.

The very idea of human rights was nonexistent.

Turning a person into a cripple under the guise of interrogation was an everyday occurrence.

Regardless,

Rumors aside, Jeron had learned through his investigations that the man indeed assaulted and raped women.

The victims had committed suicide.

Upon hearing the news, the guards arrested the criminal, attributing all manner of crimes to him.

Personally, Jeron felt this was handled well.

It was the Middle Ages, after all, where one could be executed for rape.

Sir Garcia subtly advised Jeron, “Uh… Milord? The commoners are eagerly anticipating. Do you see them with bread in hand?”

“I have eyes, too.”

“Executing him cleanly will unsettle the people.”

“…”

Though it sounded absurd, it was true.

Everyone was brimming with anticipation to soak their bread in the criminal’s blood; failing to meet this expectation could lead to discontent for a while.

“Shall we dismember him then?”

“If it pleases you, milord, drawing and quartering is also an option. However, decapitation might be more appropriate. A clean slice through the neck would ensure the blood flows plentifully. Dismembering is, well, somewhat messy to clean up afterwards.”

Jeron had evolved into a noble with the mindset required to survive in this barbaric place, but that did not mean he enjoyed human suffering like a psychopath.

After finishing his thought, Jeron solemnly pronounced the sentence upon the criminal.

“Execute him by beheading immediately.”

“Wow!”

The crowd erupted into cheers for reasons unknown.

Wrong beliefs and superstitions, along with policies to dumb down the public, were to blame for such ills in society.

And amidst all this, Jeron had to survive as a noble.

The guillotine dropped!

The criminal’s head was severed, and blood spilled out at the execution site, prompting the commoners to rush in with their bread to soak up the blood, creating chaos.

Jeron then turned and moved on to his next engagement.

As if it hadn’t rained at all, the sky cleared up beautifully.

Bathed in the dazzling sunlight, Jeron sighed.

“Damned Middle Ages.”