This Godforsaken Middle Ages
Pitter, patter.
Splat!
The sky had been heavily overcast since morning, and now the raindrops were growing thicker by the minute.
Small gullies had formed along the dirt road, carrying all sorts of floating filth. Had he not been on horseback, he would have been forced to trudge through that putrid water.
It was mid-June.
It was already a season where the stench of rot made it hard to keep one's senses. On days when it rained, the foul odor vibrated through the entire territory.
Jeron grimaced at the wretched sight as he nudged his horse forward.
"This godforsaken Middle Ages," he muttered.
He swept back his dampening hair.
Along the road stretching all the way to the castle walls, commoners dressed in rags lay prostrate, bowing their heads low.
Their clothes were frayed, torn, and patched over and over.
Adults, children, and the elderly alike—everyone was praying for Jeron to pass quickly.
Though he had witnessed this scene hundreds of times since his birth, he thought the same thing every single time.
This is incredibly inefficient.
It was a trivial thought, one he could only afford because he had been born a noble.
This was a primitive society where uttering even a single word out of turn against the nobility could get one's head chopped off on the spot.
What would have happened if Jeron hadn't been born a noble?
Instead of looking down at them from atop a horse, he would have been face-down in the rotting, filthy mud, bowing his head.
Perhaps that alone was reason enough to count his blessings.
"Young Lord," a voice called out.
"What is it?" Jeron replied.
His adjutant, Sir Garcia, tossed his wet hair. He had inherited his knighthood at a young age and was widely considered the most handsome man in the territory.
Rumor had it that no young woman in the land was safe from his charms. Jeron's eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed a peek of the man's undergarments sticking out, which was strangely irritating.
"It has already been three days since we lost contact with the Lord, has it not? I cannot fathom what is happening. Such a thing has never occurred before. If, by some chance, some misfortune has befallen him..."
Thud!
Splat!
Sir Garcia tumbled to the ground, sent flying by Jeron's kick.
Having rolled in manure-laden water on a rainy day, the stench would likely cling to him for at least two days.
Perhaps that would reduce the number of local maidens weeping and clutching at his coat sleeves every single day.
"You bastard, how many times have I told you to watch your mouth?" Jeron snapped. "There is a saying in the far east that words have a way of becoming reality. If a knight like you starts panicking, the soldiers will lose their composure too. How many times do I have to tell you? Did you really have to make me do this in front of all the commoners?"
"I-I apologize! But I am simply so worried, what else could I do? He has never behaved like this before."
"Today is the limit. If we hear nothing by the end of the day, send out a scouting party."
"Yes, Young Lord!"
"And you, if I hear even one more rumor about you misbehaving with your lower half, I'll snip it off myself."
"Ahem. Well, it is my personal creed that every woman in the world has the right to be happy."
"Get lost before I do it now."
"Yes, sir!"
Embarrassed, Garcia began running around in the rain, shouting at the top of his lungs. He seemed to harbor the delusion that working up a sweat would somehow absolve him of his sins.
"Make way for the Young Lord! Everyone, on your knees!"
As they neared their destination, the castle wall, the mud became thicker as soil washed down from the slopes. Yet, as if kneeling before a noble was far more urgent than avoiding the muck, everyone stopped their work and scrambled to throw themselves onto the ground.
When Jeron was a child, he had once asked his father, Baron Ark Farrow.
"Father, must we really do this? It is incredibly inefficient. Every time we pass, the people have to kneel and bow their heads. It seems terrible for hygiene as well."
"You certainly have a knack for inventing strange words. Hygiene? Regardless, the commoners kneeling is simply the proper etiquette owed to nobility. It is codified in noble law, but more importantly, the moment discipline crumbles, governance becomes impossible."
"So we maintain this policy of keeping them ignorant solely to make ruling easier?"
"You possess remarkable insight! Indeed, not just our kingdom, but every nation keeps the masses ignorant. There is no need for the lower classes to be clever, after all."
It was then that Jeron realized something.
Maintaining a territory of thirty thousand people with a garrison of fewer than a thousand soldiers was, in itself, an absurdity.
If the commoners became intelligent, complications would arise, making it impossible to control the territory with such a small force.
Increasing the military required immense maintenance costs, including wages and equipment. Thus, to keep the territory stable with minimal troops, keeping the populace ignorant was an absolute necessity.
Jeron swallowed the curse rising in his throat and called out to the construction overseer.
"Sir Jenald!"
"Loyalty! I greet the Young Lord!"
The veteran knight, Jenald, rushed over with a tight-lipped expression and knelt on one knee without hesitation, right into the mixture of muddy runoff and filth.
It was a display of loyalty, in its own way.
Since he had to enter the lord's castle in that state, Jeron wished they could dispense with such empty formalities. However, knowing that doing so would only invite gossip about violating noble laws, he kept his mouth shut and endured it.
"Why is the construction so delayed? The soil is washing away everywhere."
"Forgive me, my lord! The relentless rain has made the work exceedingly difficult."
"You must hasten. The construction must be completed within a few days, before my father returns. Surely you haven't forgotten what happened last year."
"Of course not, my lord."
Sir Jenald had dark circles under his eyes, showing just how much he had been struggling.
He was already balding, and Jeron couldn't help but worry if the rain would wash away what little hair he had left. He looked like a drowned rat, though it was doubtful he even understood the concept of hair loss.
But a noble's command was absolute, far outweighing any concerns of hair loss.
The strictly disciplined veteran knight flushed red as he began barking orders at the overseers.
"You fools! The Young Lord has issued a special decree! Move your lazy hides!"
"Yes, sir!"
As the overseers were pressured, they took it out on the commoners. In turn, the commoners mercilessly whipped the slaves forced into hard labor.
The effect was immediate.
When pressure cascaded down the chain of command, it inevitably led to a boost in productivity.
It was an unavoidable necessity.
Defeated barbarian remnants frequently crossed the borders, and occasionally, undead legions marched south. The wall had to be completed before the month was out, no matter what.
If disaster struck the Farrow Territory, a barony granted by the king, the neighboring lords would not lift a finger to help.
This was the cold, harsh Middle Ages.
If they could not secure their own survival, the entire territory would collapse.
Jeron walked along the ramparts.
Having lived in this primitive society for eighteen years, he knew exactly how vital this seemingly flimsy wall truly was.
About twenty meters from the main gate, a landslide had breached the wall, leaving a gap of roughly six meters.
If barbarians or the undead chose this moment to march south, it would pose a catastrophic threat.
"Sir Jenald, this gap is far too wide. If the rain made it impossible to rebuild, you should have at least reinforced it with a wooden palisade."
"I have no excuse, my lord. The repairs on the main gate are still underway, making it difficult to spare any carpenters..."
"My father went to war and secured those slaves precisely for times like this. If we spend too much coin, the treasurer will surely foam at the mouth... I trust you understand what I mean."
"I will see it done, by any means necessary!"
Even as the Young Lord, Jeron did not find it pleasant to badger a loyal veteran knight whose family had served the territory for three generations.
But what choice did he have?
If you don't have teeth, you have to chew with your gums.
Out of a population of thirty thousand, three thousand were slaves.
These slaves were defeated soldiers from past wars, and treating them harshly carried no social repercussions.
In fact, they had to be treated harshly. If they were given too much leisure, they would have energy to spare, which would inevitably lead to thoughts of rebellion.
The society was primitive, but the people were not stupid.
The commoners drove the slaves even harder on behalf of Jeron and Sir Jenald. Consequently, the pace of construction quickened.
Only then did Jeron feel satisfied.
By the time he finished inspecting the walls, the rain had stopped.
The sun began to beat down brilliantly.
"Well, it's a perfect day for an execution," Jeron murmured.
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
The central plaza of the territory was always favored as the execution ground.
So many people had been put to death here that even the rain could not wash away the caked blood beneath the gallows. If anything, the dampness followed by the sudden heat made the metallic stench of blood rise thick and suffocating.
The commoners had gathered, each clutching a loaf of bread as they secured their spots. Some even brawled to get a better view.
A baseless superstition ran rampant among the populace: dipping one's bread in a condemned criminal's blood would absolve them of their sins and grant them robust health. Thus, whenever an execution was scheduled, the plaza would pack to bursting.
The Middle Ages had its own set of customs, and attempting to change them rashly would only trigger a massive backlash.
Since it could easily disrupt his rule, Jeron chose to leave it be, despite his distaste.
Jeron gave a slight nod. Sir Garcia, still reeking of the manure-laden puddle he had rolled in, bellowed in a stern voice.
"Bring forth the prisoner!"
"Yes, sir!"
Soldiers clad in heavily patched, tattered armor—though still in better shape than the commoners—dragged a bloodied man forward.
As they approached, the crowd parted to the left and right.
The prisoner's path was a gauntlet of torment.
People pelted him with filth from the streets, and stones cracked his head open. By the time he reached the scaffold, he was practically a corpse.
Even if he were released now, he would live out his days as a cripple. Putting him out of his misery here was, in a way, a merciful sentence.
"Sir Garcia, what are his crimes?" Jeron asked.
"Yes, Young Lord! I report to you! This heinous wretch has committed theft and robbery, and is charged with assaulting and murdering a woman. Furthermore, he has routinely insulted the nobility, attempting to shake the very foundations of our society."
"Is that so?"
"We have obtained a full confession."
Jeron, of course, did not trust the results of the interrogation.
This was a society where simply insulting a noble could result in being framed for every crime under the sun and executed.
Human rights were nonexistent. Maiming a suspect under the guise of interrogation was a daily occurrence.
Nevertheless, according to the rumors and Jeron's own private investigation, the man had indeed assaulted and raped a woman.
The victim had subsequently taken her own life.
Upon hearing the news, the guards had arrested him and piled on every charge they could think of. Personally, Jeron thought they had handled it well.
A place where rape was punishable by death—that was the Middle Ages.
Garcia leaned in and whispered, "Um... Young Lord? The commoners are highly anticipating this. You see the bread they brought out, yes?"
"I have eyes, Garcia."
"If we simply hang him, the public will be displeased."
"..."
It sounded utterly absurd, but it was the truth.
Everyone was eager to dip their bread in the blood. If that expectation went unfulfilled, there would be unrest for weeks.
"Should we draw and quarter him, then?" Jeron asked dryly.
"If the Young Lord wishes, dismemberment is fine, but I believe decapitation is most suitable. A clean strike to the neck yields a generous flow of blood. Quartering him is... well, the cleanup is rather tedious."
Jeron had adapted his mindset to that of a noble to survive in this primitive world, but he was no psychopath who took pleasure in human suffering.
Having made his decision, he calmly pronounced the sentence.
"Behead him immediately."
"Hooray!" the crowd roared.
The commoners cheered as if celebrating a festival.
Ignorant superstitions, blind faith, and the consequences of keeping the populace uneducated—all these filthy, absurd social evils combined to produce this grotesque spectacle.
And in the midst of it all, Jeron had to survive as a noble.
Thud!
The blade fell, severing the prisoner's head.
As the blood pooled on the wooden platform, the commoners surged forward, shoving and clawing at one another to dip their bread in the fresh gore. Chaos erupted instantly.
Jeron turned away, moving on to his next schedule.
The sky had cleared completely, as if it had never rained at all.
Basking in the brilliant sunlight, Jeron let out a long sigh.
"Sigh... This damn Middle Ages."