47：One Kingdom’s Trash, A Warlord’s Treasure

The old man trudging forward with the aid of a thick branch had fingers as thin and frail as twigs. The pads of his fingers were completely smooth, save for a thick, heavy callus on his right middle finger.

It was a mark that could never be left by gripping a farmer’s hoe or a soldier’s sword. It was the distinct signature of someone who had spent a lifetime gripping a stiff quill.

He was likely a bookkeeping clerk or a junior scholar.

Then there was the woman clutching a child to her chest. Her inner thighs showed no chafing from horseback riding, and her toes and soles were completely free of the callouses and deformities born of grueling manual labor.

Near the clasp of her tattered shawl, one could faintly glimpse torn, golden threads—the remnants of a fine brooch that had been violently ripped away.

She was undoubtedly a pampered woman of the middle class, or perhaps even a lady from a minor noble house.

As for the dozens of men in their prime walking at the fringes of the procession, not a single one possessed the broad, developed shoulder muscles of a laborer or a warrior.

Soren’s gaze grew icy. His political instincts were incredibly sharp, and he had already pieced together the truth.

The "laws" of the Silvermoon Kingdom were simply staging a brutal, systemic robbery.

In an era where human life was as cheap as weeds, true felons—those who murdered and pillaged—would be dripping with hostility and bloodlust. They would never exhibit this kind of numb, broken obedience.

The truth was far uglier. Some count wielding actual power had likely taken a fancy to the prime real estate owned by the merchant guild that employed the old clerk.

A general serving under some commander had probably lusted after the fertile fields or rich mining veins belonging to the woman’s husband’s family.

Through the sheer force of authority, there was no need for violent evictions or assassinations. All it took was a single judgment decree stamped with "Heretic," "Collusion with the Enemy," or "Blasphemy against the Kingdom."

Estates, workshops, carriages, and gold were all entirely and "legally" confiscated, neatly deposited straight into the pockets of those in power.

As for these newly-minted 'prisoners,' stripped of all their worldly possessions, they were simply bundled up and exiled to the Mist Swamp.

The natural predators of the swamp—the demonic crocodiles and the roaming Orcs—would naturally dispose of the evidence.

It was a flawless, legally sanctioned campaign of plunder.

These exiles likely hadn't committed a single crime. Their only fault was possessing wealth that others coveted.

The higher-ups of the Silvermoon Kingdom were not only rigid and archaic in their military tactics, but they had long been rotting from the very core.

Watching the walking corpses trudging forward, Soren felt a faint stir of pity—but more than that, his ambition began to swell.

The Silvermoon Kingdom tossed these exiles away casually, treating them like worthless garbage.

But in this desolate frontier, they represented something entirely different: over a hundred educated, literate middle-class citizens who knew how to sew, draft logistical plans, and manage accounts.

Soren stood up from his rocky vantage point, peeling off the mud and grass camouflage he had draped over himself. He gave the order:

"Gary, go tell Kyle to pull out the thick blankets and a few sacks of clean flour from the supply carts."

Gary drew in a sharp breath. "My Lord... are we going to take in these condemned prisoners?"

"No, do not call them that," Soren corrected him. "We are welcoming the newest villagers of Greywater Village."

With that, Soren raised his right hand and snapped his five fingers shut, forming a tight fist in the air.

The tactical hand signal was quickly relayed through the thin mist.

Instantly, the halberdiers lying in ambush within the trenches sprang into action.

Sixty-five soldiers marched onto the granite-paved road with unified, thundering steps. They swiftly covered the half-mile distance, catching up to the rear of the exiled procession.

Forming up in a disciplined, three-rank halberd formation, the soldiers seamlessly locked their lines together, completely blocking the exiles' path forward.

A deathly silence fell over the exiles. The hundred-odd people who had just been dragging their weary feet completely froze in place.

In the front row, a few men missing their toes felt their knees buckle, collapsing directly onto the harsh gravel.

They saw the cold gleam of the blood grooves running down the halberd blades and smelled the intense, metallic stench of fresh blood wafting off these elite, battle-hardened troops.

They had run into the Silvermoon Kingdom’s regular army.

In the Mist Swamp, the Silvermoon Kingdom’s border patrols were often more enthusiastic about murdering and silencing witnesses than the local Orcs. To the border guards, killing meant they could loot the last scraps of leather and cloth from the exiles' bodies.

The old clerk at the very front felt his lips tremble. Clack. The walking branch slipped from his grasp, hitting the stone path.

Closing his eyes, he bowed his head in utter despair, waiting for a halberd to pierce his throat.

"Lower your weapons."

Soren strode out from the side of the road.

Swish. The tight formation parted seamlessly. The soldiers inverted their white-ash polearms, their movements crisp and uniform, standing at attention on either side of the road.

Soren walked to the front alone. His gaze swept over the old clerk before he raised his voice so all could hear:

"I am Soren, Captain of the First Vanguard Battalion of the Silvermoon Kingdom's Crimson Moon Knights."

The words struck like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, leaving the crowd absolutely stunned.

This simple introduction wasn't meant to pacify them, yet it worked absolute miracles.

The old clerk snapped his eyes open.

The woman cradling her baby lifted her mud-streaked face.

Even the despondent, dead-eyed men at the fringes of the group felt a flicker of hope ignite in their eyes.

Within the utterly putrid and corrupt military system of the Silvermoon Kingdom, only the Crimson Moon Knights—an order composed entirely of commoners—still upheld their tenets of aiding the poor and the downtrodden.

To the lower-class citizens, the reputation of this knightly order made them synonymous with salvation.

"Crimson Moon... an officer of the Crimson Moon."

The old clerk dropped to both knees.

"We have never offended the Knights! We haven't even committed any major crimes! We were simply stripped of our assets and tossed into the swamp..."

"Where are you headed?" Soren asked, looking down and cutting off the old man's tearful pleas.

The old clerk froze. He shook his head slowly as tears spilled down his cheeks.

"Headed? Sir, where could we possibly go?"

He pointed a trembling finger back at his zombified companions.

"This is the only road left to us. On either side lies man-eating miasma and toxic bogs. Yet we also know that if we just keep walking down this road, we will eventually run into the Orcs."

"We have no weapons. Not a single grain of wheat. The moment the sun sets, the venomous insects and demonic crocodiles will crawl out of the muck, and we will become nothing more than a midnight snack for beasts."

That was exactly what Soren was waiting to hear.

He didn't bother offering empty platitudes. Instead, he simply turned sideways and used his riding crop to point down the fog-shrouded road behind him.

"The territory under my command is called Greywater Village."

"It rests with its back against the forest. We have barricaded checkpoints, watchtowers, spearmen, and active patrols."

"The village has elevated wooden cabins, warm bonfires, and most importantly..."

Soren paused, locking eyes with the old clerk.

"My territory has no shortage of food."

The moment those words left his mouth, a massive commotion rippled through the crowd of exiles.

If the high-ranking generals of the Silvermoon Kingdom were standing here looking at this group, they would only be doing a string of cold calculations in their heads:

Over a hundred frail bodies. They would consume half a cartload of rye every single day. Yet, not a single one of them can swing a sword or form a shield wall. Even if used as mere meat shields, their panic would likely break friendly formations.

In the dead of a freezing winter where rations and clean water were severely lacking, the Silvermoon commanders viewed these people as parasites. They were trash. Utter deadweight that needed to be purged. Associating with them at all would quickly drain the already meager supplies of the frontline camps.

But Soren’s strategic vision was vastly different from theirs.

Looking at these shivering men, women, and children, an entirely different picture formed in his mind:

The [Bog-Dweller Potato Seeds] rewarded by the Warlord System required people to constantly plant and harvest them in the muck, yielding crops every sixty days.

The [Blacksmith] facility had just been unlocked. Relying solely on old Cook the Goblin as an assistant wasn't enough. Who was going to pump the blast furnace bellows? Who would sew the inner leather linings for the armor? Who was going to sort through the mountainous piles of scavenged Orcish black iron scrap?

When he eventually began training a company of archers, who was going to fletch and grind the arrowheads?

Over a hundred people... That was over a hundred precious logistical assets! And potentially, a valuable recruitment pool to expand his military forces!

Other lords might not be able to afford to feed them, but Soren had three fully-loaded Kodo beasts. They were hauling tens of thousands of pounds of dried meat and refined flour. His people could eat flatbread every single day of the winter and still not run out.

Soren tilted his head, shooting Kyle a meaningful glance.

Kyle drove the butt of his halberd into the dirt, turned, and disappeared into the mist.

A few seconds later, he jogged back, a heavy burlap sack slung over his shoulder.

Thud!

The fifty-pound sack was slammed heavily onto the granite stones right in front of the old clerk.

The hemp rope tying the sack snapped under the impact.

Like a miniature avalanche, a mound of pure, exquisitely fine white flour spilled out onto the rock.

Flour.

Highly refined white flour.

The air itself seemed to freeze.

Even the veteran halberdiers standing at attention couldn't help but gulp.

The old clerk’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets. In utter disbelief, he grabbed a handful of the white powder and shoved it straight into his mouth.

There was no dirt or sand grinding against his teeth. There was no bitter, moldy aftertaste. There was only the pure, rich aroma of wheat dancing across his tastebuds.

The woman holding the infant suddenly threw herself forward. Scooping up the spilled flour with both hands, paying no heed to the dirt from the stone path, she frantically tried to feed the powder to her child like a woman possessed.

"Follow me,"

Soren commanded, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.

"As long as you work for me, my territory will keep your bellies full."

Caught between the horrific abyss of starvation and the terror of the monstrous swamp, that spilled sack of white flour shattered whatever hesitation remained in their hearts.

More than half of the exiles began pulling each other to their feet, eagerly crowding toward the outer edge of the halberdier formation.

A few of the more cynical and paranoid men, convinced that the military’s sudden charity was an elaborate trap, turned tail and disappeared into the dense, thorny brush.

Soren didn't spare a single glance for those who fled. He simply raised his hand and issued his command:

"Secure the front and rear of the column. Lead them home."

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