The sun had just cleared the treetops when the fat man finished his breakfast and strolled into the laborers' camp. It was his first visit to such a place since taking control of Cyrus Castle days before. Upon acquiring the Snow Fox's territory, he had also inherited over a hundred mining laborers.
Across the continent, every nation, to varying degrees and through more or less overt means, utilized slaves. The highest class of slaves included peerlessly beautiful elven women and distinguished warriors, while lower classes comprised various skilled artisans. Laborers were the lowest and most despised of all slaves, often possessing no skills whatsoever, fit only for the most dangerous, backbreaking, and filthy work. The criteria for classifying slaves were simple and direct: their ability to generate value for their masters.
Corresponding to their status, laborer camps were typically the filthiest and most dilapidated areas in any region. Being a laborer was a life sentence, marked by a brand burned onto the face. Escape was hardly a viable option; continental custom dictated that a captured runaway laborer became the property of the captor, though the original master retained the right to repurchase them for a reasonable sum. Most recaptured laborers, with few exceptions, were executed by their original masters in exceptionally cruel ways before their fellow laborers as a warning. Yet, despite this, large-scale rebellions still occurred sporadically, and individual escape attempts were countless.
In the Sacred Calendar year 650, laborers ignited the largest rebellion in the continent's history. Nearly seven hundred thousand rioting laborers even managed to overthrow the king of a small duchy. However, once unleashed, these laborers not only slaughtered all the nobles but also every member of the Church of Light clergy within that duchy. Pope Paul VII himself intervened, summoning a coalition force of 100,000 troops from twelve nations and dispatching an additional 5,000 Temple Knights. He placed them under the command of the Church's youngest Saint Knight, Augustus, to suppress these forsaken people of the gods.
When sheep meet lions armed to the teeth, numbers and will become meaningless—especially when facing a *pride* of lions. That July, Augustus led the Temple Knights to six decisive victories in as many battles, taking no prisoners in each engagement. By month's end, all seven hundred thousand rebellious laborers had been slaughtered, an event history recorded as the Crimson July. Augustus earned the epithet "Blood Angel" thereafter.
Before Rogue could even finish mentally reviewing the history of laborers gleaned from the *Continental Chronicles*, a foul odor assailing his nostrils nearly knocked him flat as he stepped into the camp. Glaring around angrily, the fat man took in the sight. The camp was filled with low, dilapidated shacks—so wretched one might suspect even animal dens were more respectable. Murky streams of multi-hued wastewater snaked through the grounds, clearly the source of the stench.
The laborers were already up, formed into a line waiting for their morning meal. A massive iron pot stood in the center of the camp, filled to the brim with a greyish-green, porridge-like substance. A tall, burly overseer was doling out ladlefuls of this "porridge" to the laborers. Frowning, Rogue strode forward, only to be nearly felled once more by the smell emanating from the pot. Steeling himself, he approached, took the ladle from the overseer, and scooped up a portion for closer inspection. Unidentifiable, uncut leaves floated in the grey-green broth. The "porridge" was viscous; a bubble surfaced, bringing with it a thoroughly cooked maggot. Rogue's breakfast churned violently in his stomach. He hastily averted his eyes from the ladle, only to see the laborers staring with rapt attention at this bit of "meat," their Adam's apples bobbing incessantly.
Rogue's face was a mask of utter disgust. He fixed his gaze on the distributing overseer. "Who is responsible for preparing the food for these laborers?"
The overseer instantly knew trouble was afoot. "I am, sir."
"From purchasing the grain to cooking it, it's all you?" "Yes, sir."
"Damn it! I spend ten gold coins a month so you can feed them something even pigs wouldn't eat? Speak! How much of my gold have you embezzled?" Rogue launched a kick, sending the overseer sprawling. Not satisfied, he rushed forward and continued to kick the man's body fiercely. Several other overseers who had been watching hurriedly stepped in to pull Rogue away.
The beaten overseer clambered to his feet, wiped the blood from his face, and revealed a fierce, thuggish expression. "Lord, your steward, Nira, only gives me four gold coins each month. You should take it up with him first. And besides," he cast a vicious glance around, causing the laborers within his sight to shrink back fearfully, "for these pigs! I'm being plenty generous spending half a gold coin a month to feed them as it is!"
Rogue trembled with rage. He shot a glare at the two overseers still holding his arms; they quickly released him and stepped aside. The fat man composed himself. "Seems you lot are quite close. I try to beat someone on my own land, and you dare interfere. Heh, heh."
The beaten overseer, ignoring the implied threat, said, "Sir, I am the son of Ian, the mayor of Le Mans Town. You can call me Guta. These men are all from our town. You know as well as I do there's hardly anyone around Cyrus Castle. If you drive us away, you won't find anyone else to do this work for you. Surely you don't plan to bring people from Riel City or Faerburg for such rough labor? And why dirty your hands over these lowly swine? Leave them to us. Tell you what, from now on, you only need to pay six gold coins a month for these pigs."
It was clear the other overseers all looked to Guta as their leader. Rogue was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Fine, have it your way. But the current mine output is insufficient. How can they work if you feed them this slop?"
Guta laughed heartily. "Just leave it to me, sir. I guarantee they'll work like studs. When the Snow Fox was here, he relied on me too."
Before the echo of Guta's laughter faded, it was replaced by a choked grunt. His square face turned purple-red, and he clutched his crotch, slowly collapsing. As his bulky frame hit the ground, it revealed Rogue standing behind him, wearing a sinister smirk. The fat man was quite pleased with the effect of his groin kick and rather proud of his footwork. That life-and-death battle had truly been greatly beneficial. Dealing with someone like Guta, who knew nothing of martial arts or magic, was effortless, like taking candy from a baby.
Seeing the situation turn sour, the other overseers seemed inclined to rush him en masse. Rogue snorted coldly. "If you few think you've lived long enough, feel free to try. What's the big deal if a noble kills a few men on his own land? But if you lay a hand on me, a noble, your whole families could be exiled for it!" The words out of his mouth, Rogue inwardly cursed himself. What exile could be more desolate than this place?
The overseers exchanged glances and indeed began to close in. The fat man remained impassive. He stepped onto Guta's ankle, applied a hidden force, and with a sickening "CRUNCH," shattered the bone. As Guta screamed like a slaughtered pig, the other overseers paled in shock. Rogue then hauled Guta up and pressed his face against the large pot, still sitting over the roaring fire. A wisp of smoke rose; Guta managed only two cries before passing out. Rogue threw the unconscious man at the feet of the other overseers. Half his face was now charred black, a mess of blood and flesh.
Having experienced the bloody carnage a few days prior, Rogue was unmoved by such a scene. The other overseers, however, turned green and trembled uncontrollably. Rogue pointed at the shortest one, who was shaking the most violently, immediately causing him to collapse onto his backside. "You! From tomorrow, you're in charge here. You'll still get ten gold coins a month, and you'll feed these laborers until they're as strong as oxen! As for this waste," Rogue kicked Guta towards the overseers, his voice grim, "Screw his grandmother. Thought the laborers were pigs, did he? Tomorrow he works alongside them! Brand him!"
Another overseer ventured cautiously, "Sir, he's the son of Mayor Ian. Doing this might... upset the townsfolk."
Rogue heh-hehed, staring intently at the man, who broke out in a cold sweat, bowing and scraping incessantly.
"Do as I said! If any of you are unhappy, you can take his place! You thought you could gang up and test me, start with an outrageous demand and bargain down, right? Damn it! If you piss me off again, you'll all be in the labor camp tomorrow!" Rogue spat the words and stormed out of the camp, fuming inwardly. "Ian, you old bastard. I haven't even settled the last score with you yet, and now your son dares to interfere with my profits? We'll see about that."
Night fell upon Cyrus Castle. Points of starlight twinkled in the cold wind. Deep autumn nights in the mountains were already bleak. The occasional chirp of an unnamed insect only deepened the desolation of the scene. The mountain folk were long curled up in their warm beds, rolling about contentedly, thinking of those still toiling on the roads, making their own bedding feel infinitely warmer. The men and women of the mountain villages had begun their primal entertainments, their vigorous nocturnal activities testing the quality of their bedframes, destroying countless peaceful insect nests, and disturbing the rats out for a stroll.
A shadowy figure slipped furtively out of Cyrus Castle. A gust of cold wind made the figure shudder even more violently, and he cursed under his breath. Unwittingly, he had become a standard of comparison, highlighting the bliss of the countless souls nestled in their beds. This inadvertent public service brought him no luck. As he hurried onto the road to Le Mans Town, three road bandits leaped out. The figure was shocked that such a remote, impoverished place housed such dedicated thieves. Assessing the odds—one against three—as unfavorable, he was about to offer up his toll when one bandit struck him from behind with a sap, knocking him unconscious. The three then efficiently stuffed him into a sack and carried him back to Cyrus Castle.
The figure had a strange dream, of swimming in the dead of winter. Such dreams naturally lead to quick waking—from the cold. He looked down; he was soaked, as if fished from water. Looking up, he saw a wiry man with a treacherous face holding an empty bucket. He became much more alert. Now he saw several chairs arranged in the room, occupied by those young nobles. Some mercenaries stood around, their faces alone screaming of utter villainy and brutality, all now staring at him with apparent ill intent. Cold sweat instantly drenched him, and the back of his head began throbbing painfully.
"Our esteemed Overseer," Lans said with a sarcastic drawl, his tone unpleasant—as anyone's would be dragged from their warm bed so late. "You are far too dedicated for the pittance we pay you, to be toiling so late into the night."
"Overseer... what was his name again? Ah, Mr. Tovler! You see, it's not a bad name. Might even have a drop of noble blood in you," Franco spoke up. "Might I have the honor of inquiring about your urgent business so late at night? Of course, you may choose to speak later. That would certainly make our night less dull."
Tovler watched in terror as the mercenaries expertly arranged various torture tools. A brazier was lit. He cried out, "I was going back to my home in town! My wife is sick!" No one paid his shouts any mind. The nobles were still critiquing his physique, while the dutiful mercenaries performed their final checks.
The art of interrogation was vast and profound. Whipping and burning were crude methods; psychological warfare was the higher skill. The Dragon and Beauty Mercenary Group had diverse origins—many were military ruffians, bandits, scoundrels, and hooligans, alongside seasoned veterans. In these turbulent times, the line between mercenary and bandit was thin; many were mercenaries in the city and bandits outside it. Thus, the Dragon and Beauty had no shortage of interrogation experts. While not quite masters, they were more than capable of handling ordinary folk.
Hearing that Rogue wanted someone interrogated tonight, the mercenaries had volunteered enthusiastically. The noble degenerates had carefully selected six for tonight's performance. These men were indeed skilled. Merely the setup, before even starting, had large beads of sweat rolling down Tovler's face. "I'm telling the truth! Let me go! What are you doing?"
Franco stepped forward, his handsome face appearing utterly vicious in Tovler's eyes. "You're being cooperative. Otherwise, all our preparations would be wasted. The night is long."
Tovler desperately pleaded, "W-wait! I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"
"Shut up!!" the mercenaries in the room roared.
"You'll talk *after* the first round of torture. Show some backbone, heh," Rogue said, peeling a banana and popping it into his mouth.
A burly, bearded mercenary began undoing Tovler's belt. The esteemed overseer howled like a stuck pig: "I'll talk! I was going to inform Ian! To have him bring all the townspeople to rescue Guta, then go to the capital to petition and bring a case against you!"
The nobles looked at each other. Lans said darkly, "You take us for children? You think that's enough to drive us out? Speak! How many of the Snow Fox remain in Le Mans Town?"
Tovler shuddered. "Wh-what Snow Fox?"
"Seems this night won't be so dull after all!" "Indeed, indeed."
With the boss present, the mercenaries were all in high spirits, eager to show off their skills. The six men busied themselves around Tovler. The moment a cold iron wire touched his skin, the esteemed overseer let out a earth-shattering shriek, making one wonder how such a volume emerged from his scrawny frame. The mercenary holding the wire was so startled his hand trembled, dropping it. Seizing the fleeting opportunity, Tovler immediately launched into a confession, delivered with the volume of a dragon's roar and the speed of a fishwife's cursing, divulging everything he knew about the Snow Fox, which naturally included details concerning a certain prominent figure in Le Mans Town.
At life's extremity, the overseer's survival instincts and mind grew exceptionally sharp, one might even say shrewd. He instantly identified what interested the nobles and automatically repeated the list of Snow Fox members, generously embellishing it with various scandals about that prominent figure—painting a picture of unmitigated villainy, depravity, and every vice under the sun. The scribe recorded it all, his expression lively, his pen flying across the paper; the degenerates listened, swaying their heads, utterly enthralled.
Finally, Mr. Tovler's accusations reached a temporary conclusion, leaving the audience feeling the entertainment had ended too soon. The scribe brought the thick stack of notes before Tovler. Without even looking, he immediately signed his name. The scribe then showed it to the nobles. They read it, heh-hehing with sinister amusement, praising Tovler as a talent, wasted as a mere overseer. Having just escaped danger and receiving such praise, Tovler was both shocked and delighted, feeling that this very place and moment were a slice of heaven on earth.
After reading the confession, Rogue shook his head, thinking to himself, "Whence come the rabble? Truly, when officials oppress the people, the people have no choice but to rebel. Old man, it seems you are the more vicious one after all."
"Dear readers, please add this novel to your collections. This is the greatest encouragement for me, and I will write more chapters."