13 – The Totem The woodland behind the mountain.
The salty sea wind was blocked by the dense cedar trees.
Rek’Sai stopped.
He looked around.
This clearing backed against a steep cliff face, with an open gentle slope in front—excellent visibility.
In his mind he locked onto [Basic Beast Camp] and confirmed placement.
A deep, muffled vibration rose from the earth.
The ground split open.
A thick black-wood totem pole burst upward from the soil.
The totem stood three meters high.
Its surface was covered in crude runes, and a massive white bone ox skull hung from the top.
A warm, earthy scent of soil suddenly filled the air.
An indescribable heavy aura spread outward with the totem as its center.
Pig suddenly grew quiet.
Its huge body stretched comfortably, then simply lay down at the foot of the totem.
It gave a low, contented growl as every tense muscle fully relaxed.
Rek’Sai watched as the spear wounds the pirates had left on Pig’s back stopped bleeding, closed, and formed scabs at a speed visible to the naked eye.
The invisible fluctuations radiating from the totem were like a warm hand smoothing away the wild beast’s pain.
“Good thing.” Rek’Sai rubbed his chin.
He no longer needed to spend his own extremely slow-recovering mana to heal his battle pet.
Within a ten-zhang radius around the totem pole, even the buzzing of flying insects had vanished.
An invisible pressure blanketed the area.
Ordinary predators would not dare approach this zone at all.
Rek’Sai left Pig to rest at the camp and carried the Arcanite Reaper back down the slope himself.
In the open ground at the center of the village, the smell of blood had not yet faded.
The villagers were trembling as they dragged away the pirate corpses.
At the edge of the open ground, Brienne’s attendant Pat was squatting on the ground.
His backside stuck up in the air as he used a stick to rapidly draw tally marks and strange symbols in the blood-soaked sand.
“Eleven iron-bound round shields, three damaged.
Twenty-seven cutlasses, eight with rolled edges.
Twelve spears broken, seven intact.” Pat muttered under his breath while the stick in his hand never stopped moving.
“One hundred thirty-five copper stars, two silver stags.
Two broken wooden ships—sails need patching, keels unbroken…” Rek’Sai’s heavy footsteps stopped behind Pat.
A massive shadow completely covered the young man.
Pat’s entire body shuddered.
The stick in his hand snapped with a sharp crack.
He stiffly turned his head and looked at the leather boots still stained with brain matter and blood.
The color drained from his face in an instant.
“L-Lord…” Pat collapsed onto his backside and stammered.
Rek’Sai said nothing.
He tore the leather pouch he had taken from the pirate leader off his belt and casually threw it down in front of Pat.
“Keep counting.” Pat swallowed hard.
With trembling hands he untied the cord and poured out the contents.
Several gold dragons, a pile of silver stags, two low-quality rubies, and a tattered sheepskin sea chart.
In fewer than ten breaths— “Four gold dragons, thirty-eight silver stags.” Pat quickly sorted the coins into piles, voice still shaking.
“The rubies are too impure—worth two gold dragons at most.
This chart… it shows the route from the Stepstones to Windblown Point.
Worth a few silver stags.” The corner of Rek’Sai’s mouth pulled into a satisfied curve.
This kid had talent.
He turned his head toward Brienne, who was wiping the blood from her longsword nearby.
“Disciple.” Rek’Sai’s voice was as rough as sandpaper.
“I’m taking this kid.” Brienne’s hands paused.
She lifted her head, a flicker of surprise in her blue eyes.
“Master, Pat is a man of House Tarth, and my attendant.
What do you want him for?” “He can’t even kill a chicken with a sword.
Following you, he’ll turn into a pile of rotten meat sooner or later.” Rek’Sai pointed at the accounts on the ground.
“But I can see he has some talent with numbers.
This territory needs someone like him.” Brienne looked at the accounts, then at Pat, who had gone completely limp with fear.
Pat did possess real talent for arithmetic and organization.
Staying at Rek’Sai’s side to manage the books would be far safer than following her in pursuit of empty knightly honor.
“Alright.” Brienne did not struggle with the decision.
She nodded cleanly.
She looked at Pat.
“Pat, from today onward you serve Ser Rek’Sai.
Manage this territory for him.” Pat’s mouth hung open.
He looked at the powerful Brienne, then at the iron-tower-like Rek’Sai, and in the end could only nod in despair.
“Collect the money and make a ledger.” Rek’Sai gave the order and strode toward the other side of the open ground.
More than a dozen villagers stood there.
At their head was a white-haired, stooped old man leaning on a wooden staff, both hands trembling like leaves in an autumn wind.
Behind him followed a sturdy but expressionless middle-aged man and a young girl with sharp, alert eyes.
When the old man saw Rek’Sai approaching, his knees gave out and he dropped straight into the mud.
“My lord.
I am Edric, headman of Cedar Village.
This is my son Duncan, and my granddaughter Ayla.” Duncan knelt as well.
Ayla hesitated a moment, then dropped to one knee, though her eyes secretly studied the enormous Arcanite Reaper in Rek’Sai’s hand.
“Stand up when you speak.
I don’t have the patience to watch people kowtow.” Rek’Sai dragged over an empty wooden barrel and sat down with casual dominance.
The barrel gave a strained creak under his weight.
Edric, supported by his son, stood up on shaking legs.
“How many dead in the village?” Rek’Sai asked.
“Two young men dead, three houses burned.” Edric’s voice was choked.
“These pirates came from the Stepstones.
They—” “Stop.” Rek’Sai cut him off roughly.
“They’re a pile of minced meat now.
That ends it.” He leaned forward, dark-green vertical pupils fixed on Edric.
“How did you pay taxes to House Tarth before?” Edric swallowed.
“Half of every harvest went to Evenfall Hall.
During the fish runs we had to hand over an extra two-tenths of salted cod.
Every year we also had to provide ten laborers to repair the castle roads.” “The rules have changed.” Rek’Sai took out a gold dragon and idly flipped it between his thick fingers.
Sunlight flashed harshly off the coin.
“I don’t take grain, and I don’t want rotting fish.” Rek’Sai’s voice rolled across the open ground, every word striking with hard force.
“You fish, farm, and cut wood.
Whatever extra you produce, Pat will convert into coin.
I only want money.
Head tax every season—one silver stag per person.
And you will be responsible for raising my battle pets.” Edric froze.
This kind of tax system was unheard of in Westeros.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Rek’Sai gave a cold laugh.
“Pay enough coin and I will protect you.
But if the day comes and you can’t produce the money…” He gripped the haft of the Arcanite Reaper and slammed it hard into the ground.
Boom!
The earth trembled.
Gravel flew.
“I’ll feed you to my battle pets.” Rek’Sai bared a mouthful of white teeth, killing intent pouring off him.
Edric nodded repeatedly, cold sweat soaking his back.
“Understood, my lord!
We will definitely pay enough!” “Drag those scraps of meat out and burn them.
Anyone still breathing, repair the pirate ships—they’re my property now.” Rek’Sai waved a hand, dismissing them.
The villagers felt as if they had been granted a pardon and hurried away to work.
“Wait.” Ayla, who had not spoken until now, suddenly stopped.
She turned around and looked straight at Rek’Sai.
This sixteen-year-old girl had remarkably calm eyes.
“My lord… can you truly protect our Cedar Village?”