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Field handed out the rewards himself, coin by coin, and the slaves wept.
Some outright sobbed.
Not that anyone could blame them.
Iron Hammer, the slave with the most kills, walked away with 17 silver coins.
More money than most people saw in a lifetime.
Even Field’s maidservant looked envious.
Everyone else stared at the coins in their neighbors’ hands with barely concealed hunger.
“If I’d known, I would’ve signed up when they were forming the squad.”
“Damn it.
They didn’t pick me.
What a waste.”
People who’d been too scared to lift a weapon before were now stomping their feet in frustration.
“Listen up, citizens.” Field raised his voice.
“I’m announcing the development plan for Nightfall Fief.
Every single one of you has a stake in what I’m about to say.”
The moment money entered the picture, the slaves’ ears practically pricked forward.
They paid closer attention than they’d ever given any priest’s sermon.
“First: if you want to leave slave status behind, earn me one gold coin.
Don’t panic yet.
Under any other lord, that would be flat-out impossible — I’ll say it plainly.
But in Nightfall Fief, it’s simple.
Look at the valiant Iron Hammer.
One day.
Seventeen silver coins!”
Iron Hammer’s chest swelled the moment Field said his name.
He rose onto his tiptoes.
It was the first time in his life that anyone had praised him, truly praised him, instead of calling him a dumb ox or a thick-skulled idiot.
And it was the Lord himself who’d said it.
“Goddess above,” Iron Hammer breathed, feeling the jealous and admiring stares press in from every direction.
“I’ve gone mad.
Today has to be my lucky day.”
The corner of Field’s mouth lifted.
“The old rule still holds: kill one Rotten Corpse, earn one silver coin.
On top of that, I’ll be issuing non-combat tasks as well, farming, wall construction, repairs, and more.
All of it pays.”
Slaves had no motivation.
Field needed Freemen, and he needed them badly.
Freemen fed and housed themselves, paid taxes, and actually had a reason to learn useful skills.
The math was simple.
The crowd broke into loud, overlapping arguments.
Field didn’t wait for them to settle.
“Second: the race question.
I’m not interested in managing it, just don’t violate the Basic Law.
I’m not a Demi-human myself, but my Chosen One is.
So drop the prejudice, look up at the Death Smog choking everything around us, and don’t get everyone killed over something pointless.” He paused.
Work hard, stay honest, and don’t cause me problems, that’s all I ask from any citizen of mine.”
After these past few days, Field had seen enough to know that Demi-humans weren’t what the stories made them out to be.
They weren’t lazy, destructive, or looking for trouble.
He was genuinely glad to have them.
Also, beast-eared girls were extremely cute.
That was simply a fact.
Ashina’s eyes went red.
For the first time in a long while, she felt something that resembled respect, real respect, not performance.
“Third: when you say your prayers from now on, include Ashina’s name.”
That one had given Field the most pause.
He wanted to build this territory on something rational, something modern.
But the books were clear on this point: a Chosen One’s power drew from faith and the prosperity of their city.
Ashina was First-Order.
Advancing to Second-Order required a significant influx of belief from the people she protected.
Field wasn’t entirely convinced.
If power scaled purely with faith, the Papal States should’ve been the mightiest force on the continent, they had believers everywhere.
But they weren’t.
The Holy Griffin Empire had already surpassed them in raw high-end combat strength, and that gap was still growing.
Still.
“No control group, and I can’t afford to experiment carelessly,” he muttered.
“Try the old way first.
Adjust later.”
He moved on to recruitment.
Field called for new slave soldiers, no salary, three meals a day, and earnings came exclusively from kills.
It was the same deal as before.
The difference was night and day.
Last time, he’d barely scraped together volunteers.
Now a solid mass of people shoved forward, all trying to sign up at once.
Field didn’t take them all.
He pointed to the edge of the territory.
“Anyone who wants to be a soldier runs five laps around the fief.
I’ll pick based on performance.
And I’m very democratic about it, you can drop out whenever you like.”
Six people quit on the spot.
Idlers, the lot of them.
The kind who considered a single black bread loaf a full day’s work.
“Can’t even follow a basic instruction.” Field shook his head.
“Those ones just wanted a free meal.”
Everyone else clenched their jaws and ran.
The new batch was a far cry from the first group.
Most were frail, gaunt as skeleton soldiers, all jutting ribs and hollow cheeks.
It took until noon for the last man to stagger across the finish line.
Field watched that final lurching figure and felt something loosen in his chest.
Not irritation.
Satisfaction.
“Physical fitness can be built,” he said.
“Stubbornness like that is much harder to find.”
He cut two men who’d quietly shaved a lap or two off their count.
Field pulled all the Wolf Demi-humans from the original 30-man guard squad and folded them in with the new soldiers, forming a 20-man Raiding Cavalry unit.
The rest were organized into a Guard Squad of 33.
Any visiting noble or knight would’ve been horrified.
Training commoners into a fighting force was already considered madness.
Training slaves was beyond comprehension.
They were supposed to be stupid, cowardly, barely worth using as fodder to fill an enemy’s moat.
The idea of arming them, armoring them, and giving them horses would’ve short-circuited most aristocratic minds entirely.
Carl found Field and got straight to the point.
His mouth was hanging open wide enough to swallow an ostrich egg.
“My Lord, the original 30-man squad was already outrageous.
Now you’ve expanded again, and you’re handing over precious warhorses to slaves?
They’ll eat them.
They’ll look at those valuable animals and see dinner.”
“Calm down, Carl.
Look at what Wildcat and Iron Hammer accomplished.
We cleared a foothold.
We’re still standing.
That happened because of them.”
“That, that was desperation.
A fluke.” Carl jabbed a finger at the sky, his voice climbing.
“A real soldier is raised in a military household from birth.
He masters discipline, weapon technique, tactics.
He has character, breeding — all of it!
What these people have is—”
“Bards,” Field said flatly.
Carl blinked.
“My Lord?”
“You’ve been listening to too many bards.
And reading too many novels.” Field pressed two fingers against his brow.
“Tell me something useful.
We’re surrounded by monsters.
What exactly do you suggest?”
Carl drew himself up.
“Mercenaries.
Adventurers.
Professionals who know what they’re doing.”
Field said nothing for a moment.
Mercenaries.
Right.
The kind of people who sold information to the highest bidder and vanished the moment the contract grew inconvenient.
History was full of lords who’d trusted hired blades and ended up with a knife in their back.
Only soldiers who came from the people, who had something real to protect, ever built armies worth a damn.
“Thanks for the input.” Field rolled his eyes and settled his voice into something that left no room for debate.
“Carl, get the soldiers a better meal tonight.
One extra egg each.
This afternoon, I’m taking them out to clear monsters.” He turned away.
“They’ll prove what they’re worth.”
He didn’t bring everyone.
The territory was already stretched thin on manpower, and leaving the base empty while monsters prowled the fog was a fast way to lose everything he’d built.
➤ Next: Rum Village, More Monsters