The Lord: Raising a Maiden in the World of Torment

This world was steeped in blood and treachery. Being too kind-hearted only made one a target for an early grave—especially as a noble. Field no longer had the patience or compassion to reason with the scum of this world.

Better to let iron and blood do the talking. Treachery, after all, was a noble's true passport.

The results were immediate. Humans attacking other humans proved far easier than fighting the undead. At least their fellow man didn't look so terrifying.

One of the slaves let out a battle cry and pounced on the soldier clutching his severed arm. With a crude sickle, the slave drove the blade into the soldier's neck and wrenched it violently. The soldier's head tore free, his face frozen in an expression of shock and terror.

"Well done. This is yours," Field said with a smile, tossing a silver coin to the blood-spattered slave. "I permit slaves to own property—and the harder you work, the more you'll earn!"

The surrounding slaves' eyes turned red with greed. A single silver coin was no trifling sum; it could buy a hundred black bread loaves—enough to sustain their lives for a hundred days.

The promise of such wealth awakened a primal ferocity within them.

Bolstered by the presence of Ashina's dragonwolf charging fearlessly ahead, the slaves lost their hesitation. Gripping their makeshift weapons tightly, they surged forward in a wave of violence.

"What a delightfully effortless slaughter," Field remarked, his smirk deepening as he watched the carnage unfold.

In the face of a Chosen One, a small number of fully armored infantry were nothing more than a joke. Soldiers clad in heavy armor were flattened with a single swipe of the dragonwolf's claws, their bodies crushed into grotesque "2D" shapes. Blood gushed from their mangled corpses, pooling into a crimson river.

Ignoring the pleas and cries for mercy, Field swiftly eliminated the treacherous garrison.

Stepping carefully to avoid the severed limbs and viscera littering the floor, he made his way into the bastion.

"This is... the armory!"

Field's eyes lit up with unrestrained joy as he took in the sight before him.

Piled high like small mountains were stacks of armor, neatly bundled and emanating the faint scent of camellia oil, evidence of meticulous maintenance. Nearby racks held rows of standard-issue pikes, steel sabers, and iron-reinforced shields. On the walls, longbows and crossbows hung in orderly rows, with barrels of arrows for various purposes neatly stored below.

The arsenal could easily arm 500 men to the teeth, with every soldier fully outfitted in armor.

A single baron could never afford such a trove of military supplies. This cache had been funded by the Empire, supplied through annual contributions of resources and gold from lords across the land to fortify the borders against corruption and orc invasions.

"If a mere forward outpost like Kassan Fortress has this much wealth, I can't even imagine how rich the larger fortresses behind it must be," Field mused, his voice tinged with wonder.

"Are we... rich now?" Ashina asked, picking up a cavalry bow and admiring it with fascination.

"We've struck a small fortune, but this is just the beginning," Field said, though inwardly he was overjoyed. With a grand gesture, he barked, "What are you waiting for? Arm yourselves first!"

"Right away!"

Hearing they could equip themselves with such valuable gear, the slaves rushed forward eagerly. They tore at the bindings, pulling out sets of lamellar armor and donning them piece by piece.

For the first time, they felt the weight of true protection. Though the armor was heavy, it gave them an overwhelming sense of security.

The only downside was that the slaves were too malnourished—wearing armor, they wobbled as if the weight might topple them over.

Serves you right for underestimating me, Richard, Field thought with a smirk. He rubbed his hands together and called over the first slave who had stepped up to fight earlier.

"What's your name?"

"Sir, I'm called Lynx," the slave replied nervously.

In an era where knowledge was tightly controlled, commoners often had simple or haphazard names. Not that they had much choice—naming oneself after a noble could lead to swift punishment by guillotine or trampling hooves.

"I have a task for you," Field said, beckoning Lynx closer. Lowering his voice, he laid out the details while gesturing secretively.

Having already seized Baron Bull's armory, Field didn't mind taking things a step further.

After sending Lynx off with a group of twenty men, Field turned his attention back to the weapons and equipment before him.

"Take it all. Every last piece. Leaving anything behind would be unbearable," Field muttered, pacing back and forth. "Ashina, have Kao bring everyone over. We'll lower the equipment down from the walls. Once we've crossed the checkpoint, we'll come back to retrieve it. These are officially Nightfall Territory's supplies now."

But that still wasn't enough. Weapons and armor alone wouldn't suffice—going to Nightfall Territory was a gamble, and Field intended to bet everything.

Kassan Fortress received abundant supplies from the Empire's noble contributors, but the villages under its control still paid their taxes in full.

There were six major villages that supported the fortress, their fertile lands producing a steady supply of cattle, sheep, wheat, and levies for Baron Bull's castle.

Through the rolling hills and overgrown ravines, a well-armed squad of soldiers marched. They bore Baron Bull's family banner, pushing through withered vines and the ruins of forgotten structures.

Horn Village was renowned locally for its two towering watchtowers, though they were only four meters high—including their peaked roofs. Despite their modest stature, they were a source of pride for the villagers. These seemingly rudimentary towers, paired with a wooden outer wall and skilled hunters stationed atop, were enough to repel bandit raids.

Just last night, the villagers had shot down three undead that had somehow slipped past the outer walls.

Heavens above, monsters inside the fortress walls? The older villagers whispered among themselves, their thoughts inevitably drifting to the horrifying memories of orc invasions.

At the village gate, three or four peasants dressed in coarse linen sat idly with pitchforks in hand, sipping vegetable soup. They were crudely joking about how long the widow from the neighboring village might survive against green-skinned orcs, their laughter lewd and unpleasant.

"It's the lord's soldiers!" one of the villagers called out, spotting the banner. But the sight of the approaching soldiers left them confused—they couldn't fathom why the troops were here.

Soon, Lynx and the slave militia came into view.

"Open the gate!" Lynx barked, cursing under his breath. The soldiers flanking him slammed their pikes into the ground, the clinking of their lamellar armor ringing sharply. Mimicking the haughty demeanor of a noble, Lynx puffed out his chest and shouted, "Do you want us to freeze to death out here, you damned idiots?"

The villagers snapped to attention, scurrying to open the gates with exaggerated deference.

"Is this about the undead?" the village chief asked nervously, his face plastered with a sycophantic grin. "We've held off the attack, thank the gods—and, of course, Baron Bull. We're prepared to offer him a young maiden as tribute to ensure his satisfaction."

His words were cut short as his eyes landed on Lynx. For a moment, the chief's expression froze in confusion. "I don't believe I've seen you before, sir."

Lynx felt a pang of anxiety but quickly recalled Field's instructions: If you don't have an answer, insult them.

"Shut your damn mouth, you sniveling lackey of that venomous snake!" Lynx snapped, drawing his sword with a dramatic flourish. "I'm here to collect taxes, not to make friends! Does it matter whether you've seen me or not?"

The village chief flinched as Lynx's spittle splattered across his face. The sight of the drawn blade sent him stumbling back, nearly losing his footing. "Of course, sir! My apologies—it's entirely my fault."

"Let's see—farm taxes, population taxes, household taxes, faith taxes, land taxes, exemption-from-labor taxes, breathing taxes… what else was there? You know the drill. The usual taxes we collect in Bull Territory."

The sheer variety of taxes in the medieval system was nothing short of exhaustive—there was always one perfectly tailored to burden the poor peasants.