The morning mist in the Vayne March usually carried the scent of damp pine and a bone-chilling cold.
But this dawn, the atmosphere in the city center felt different.
The cold remained, but there was something sharper stinging the senses of the starving populace: the savory aroma of rendered beef fat, the warmth of cinnamon spices, and the steam of simmering broth.
Before the sun had truly risen, a massive surprise awaited at the market square.
Master Galt, the merchant who just yesterday claimed his warehouse was empty due to God’s curse, was found in a truly pitiable state.
He wasn’t dead, but his dignity had been stripped bare.
Galt sat bound in front of his own warehouse doors, which now swung wide open—revealing a cavernous, empty space after his ten thousand sacks of grain had “miraculously” vanished overnight.
Around Galt’s neck hung a wooden sign written in bold, black ink:
“This grain is not rotten; only its owner is rotten with greed.
Enjoy the justice of the Vayne Demon.”
The commoners, who had woken up ready to riot at the castle gates, were stunned.
They saw the empty warehouse, and soon, rumors spread like wildfire across dry plains: The Marchioness has seized the traitors’ grain.
A crowd of thousands gathered, carrying stones, clubs, and faces ready to explode.
Malachi’s white-clad provocateurs still tried to shout, claiming that Azura had violated private property and that the seized food was “cursed.”
However, just as the sun touched the tip of the towers, the heavy iron gates of the castle groaned open.
It wasn’t a line of knights with spears who emerged, but rows of servants and soldiers pushing massive copper cauldrons.
Thick steam billowed high, carrying the scent of Thick Beef Stew—a hearty concoction with chunks of tubers and fat melting perfectly into a rich, reddish-brown broth.
Beside the cauldrons sat stacks of hearty grain bread, slathered in garlic butter and toasted until crisp.
The roar of the mob fell instantly silent.
A hungry stomach cannot compromise with fanaticism.
Thousands of eyes stared at the cauldrons, saliva nearly pooling in their mouths.
Azura stepped out.
She wore no armor, but a black velvet gown paired with a wolf-fur cloak that radiated absolute authority.
Beside her, Arthur stood rigid, while Aurelia held a long stack of parchment.
”God has closed the doors of your prosperity, or so Malachi says?” Azura’s voice echoed, cold and clear, cutting through the silence of the plaza.
“Yet strangely, I found ten thousand sacks of fresh grain in Master Galt’s warehouse last night.
It seems the ‘curse’ he spoke of only applies to your stomachs, not his gold-filled pockets.”
A Church provocateur tried to scream, “Don’t listen to her!
That food is cursed!
It’s stolen loot!”
Azura glanced at the man.
Her gaze was so sharp that the man choked on his own words.
”Correct, it is stolen loot,” Azura replied casually.
“I stole it from the rats who wanted to watch you starve to death just so they could sell your souls to the Altar.
Now, the choice is yours.
You can keep listening to sermons about heaven on an empty stomach, or you can eat like nobles today.”
The mass began to surge forward, but Arthur and the guards immediately crossed their spears symbolically—not to attack, but to organize the line.
”One more thing,” Azura interrupted, raising her hand.
In my domain, there is no food for the idle.
Anyone who wants a bowl of thick stew and a large slice of buttered bread must trade it for one hour of work.”
Whispers of confusion rippled through.
Work?
While we’re this hungry?
”Aurelia will record your names,” Azura continued.
“You will help clear the clogged city drains, reinforce the foundations of the outer walls, or assist with logistics at the garrison.
One hour of work for one full portion.
If you work more, you may take grain home to your families.”
In the middle of the crowd that was beginning to organize itself, lured by the scent of meat, a man in ragged clothes stood in line, twirling a wooden plate on his finger.
Duke Alaric Varentis was busy listening to the complaints of the people around him.
”Hey, old man,” Alaric greeted a citizen in front of him who was trembling while holding an empty bowl.
“Did you hear that?
Your Stepmother says you have to work before you can eat.
Quite cruel, isn’t it?”
The old man turned, his eyes red from hunger.
“Cruel?
Son, for ten years I’ve been a laborer in the market, and Master Galt only gave me crusts of grain bread as hard as stone.
Now, the Marchioness gives us beef stew.
If I only have to clean a ditch for an hour, I’ll clean it until it shines just to taste that broth.”
Alaric chuckled softly.
He glanced toward the podium where Azura stood.
”Interesting logic,” Alaric murmured.
Suddenly, a Church agent approached Alaric, attempting to influence him.
“Brother, do not be deceived.
This food contains black magic.
The Altar will provide better salvation.”
Alaric stopped twirling his plate.
He looked at the agent with an expression of pure, feigned stupidity, as if he truly were a brainless wandering knight.
”Whoa, black magic, you say?
But it smells more like ‘delicious’ magic to me,” Alaric replied nonchalantly.
“Look here, friend.
If the Altar wants to give me salvation, where’s the stew?
I can’t eat prayers for breakfast.
My stomach is a devout follower of ‘Full-ism.’ So, step aside, the line is long.”
The agent stared blankly, not knowing how to respond before finally being shoved aside by the citizens who were impatient to get their ration of stew.
Azura monitored the situation from afar. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
In her eyes, statistical figures began to move.
[System: Sassy Mode ON.]
[Damn, Boss.
The ‘Feed the Dogs to Tame Them’ strategy is working perfectly.
Look at that—your image as the ‘Bloody Demon’ is starting to shift into the ‘Demon with the Good Stew.’ By the way, Alaric is target number five in line.
He just rejected a pyramid scheme offer from a Church agent.
His charisma score is through the roof—want to recruit him as a dishwasher at the castle?]
Shut up, Azura thought.
Keep Liar’s Discernment active.
If anyone tries to poison these cauldrons, mark them immediately.
Azura saw Alaric finally reach the serving table.
A servant poured steaming thick stew into Alaric’s wooden bowl and handed him a large slice of warm grain bread.
Alaric didn’t leave immediately; he paused, looked toward the balcony where Azura stood, and raised his bowl as if offering a toast.
”Honest flavor, Your Grace!” Alaric shouted from the distance, loud enough for several citizens to turn their heads.
“The meat is tender, the broth is rich.
Far better than empty promises!”
The people who heard him chuckled, and the tension that had shrouded the castle gates began to melt away.
One by one, citizens began to pick up the work tools Arthur had prepared.
They were no longer throwing stones; instead, they held brooms, shovels, and hammers.
In the distance, atop the Cathedral tower, Inquisitor Malachi stood with a face nearly blue with rage.
He saw his plan for a total riot crumble into pieces over a few pots of beef stew.
”She insults the Altar using the stomachs of the people,” Malachi hissed, gripping the edge of the tower balcony.
“Does she think she can buy their loyalty?”
”The people don’t care about loyalty, Inquisitor,” an aide replied with a trembling voice.
“They only care about who keeps them alive today.”
Back at the castle front, Azura knew this was only the beginning.
The embargo hadn’t ended, and she still had to contact the black market tonight.
But for now, she had won the most crucial battle: The Battle of Public Opinion.
”Arthur,” Azura called without turning around.
”Yes, Your Grace?”
”Ensure the spices and beef fat from Galt’s warehouse are enough for the coming week.
And send a plate of this stew to Master Galt’s cell.
Let him smell the aroma of his wealth now becoming the strength of the people he once trampled.”
”As you command,” Arthur bowed deeply, this time with genuine respect.
Not out of fear, but because he had just witnessed how a “Demon” was capable of managing a mob’s rage into productive energy in just a matter of hours.
Night was coming, and Azura knew the smell of stew would soon be replaced by the smell of hardworking sweat—and the smell of blood from the traitors still hiding in the shadows.