Chapter 79: Swelling Ranks
As time passed, more and more people joined the convoy. Even the workers who had been on the verge of collapse from the overwhelming workload finally caught a break. These were young men with nothing to their names but their own bodies. And the one providing them with food and shelter was Marhal.
He never explicitly ordered them to work. But the young men were quick on the uptake and pitched in where they could. They knew full well that a single word from Marhal could leave them out on the streets.
There was one hiccup in the middle when food ran short and they had to buy extra at a premium, but otherwise, it was a smooth journey. What started with a hundred people had ballooned to around five hundred by the time they reached the Border again—a fivefold increase.
"Does this count as a success?" Marina asked, appearing beside Marhal.
"Thinking like a mage, huh? All about the results?"
"Magic is the result of history and eccentricity. Naturally, a skilled mage prioritizes outcomes."
"Success or failure... it's ambiguous."
Children and the elderly might not be able to do heavy labor, but they could handle simple, repetitive tasks. In the West, even those were in short supply. In that sense, four hundred workers was a big deal—enough manpower to found three small villages.
But Marhal couldn't confidently call this venture a success. The young men from his hometown? Their fates were secondary. What mattered to him were the people who had died at the hands of that mad zealot.
These were folks who had lost families to war, left their birthlands behind, and made the massive choice to trek to the West. He hadn't been able to protect them—in fact, dozens had perished. To Marhal, this journey was neither a win nor a loss.
"I see. Well, I'll be off then. I've got a backlog waiting."
"Even the great Silanatiell has someone assigning her work?"
"No one's ordering me around doesn't mean I don't have work to do."
Marina spurred her horse toward the Union branch office.
[You never mentioned the Hero even once right up to the end.]
Alasil had appeared like a ghost.
[I thought you couldn't understand Imperial?]
[I know basic words. Hero, mage, saint, thief... and lately, I've picked up 'guide' too.]
Alasil winked with one eye.
[I'll head back now. I can already picture Bishop Anton throwing a fit. Don't worry. As you know, I get very special treatment even in the Holy Empire.]
[Do you even know what kind of 'treatment' that is?]
Marhal didn't know the ins and outs of the Holy Empire, but the Papal Court and its upper echelons had obvious plans. Saints probably didn't sire heirs. Unlikely they took disciples either. A saint aimed to become a god while still in human flesh—an impossible feat, frankly.
They challenged the impossible, leaving no room for worldly distractions. A saint's history wouldn't carry on naturally. But letting it vanish would be a waste. That's where Alasil came in—a product of that process. History Succession without a saint: material to inherit a saint's legacy.
Success would give her real sway in the Holy Empire. But if the Papal Court deemed her a failure... her end wouldn't even warrant empty platitudes.
[Remember what I said when we first met? That I came looking for freedom.]
[I do.]
[Exactly. See you next time. Call me if you need a finger chopped off.]
Alasil rode off toward the church.
"Freedom."
Seeking freedom implied she hadn't had it before. That must have been her life in the Holy Empire. They let her roam because she needed the experience too. Creating a miracle-wielding priest was possible through endless self-harm: infect yourself repeatedly, wound yourself endlessly, and eventually you'd heal both.
But that made priests, not saints—not inhuman beings. The Holy Empire craved inhuman power like a saint's. Power they could control. Alasil seemed aware of her situation, so a day would come when she'd have to choose.
Marhal wouldn't offer help before then. That would insult her pride as a person.
The wagons rolled into Azenman's warehouse. Few places could handle this many people and supplies. Strekl was chatting with his family, while Bayola and Marin watched from afar with curious expressions. Strekl smiling warmly was indeed a rare sight.
A presence suddenly appeared beside Marhal. It was Hugo.
"Master. We have some business."
"'Some'? Try 'a lot' piled up."
"Frankly, yes. The sky splitting and the land race entry changes have the landlords in an uproar."
"Land race was expected. The sky splitting—they're hunting for the Hero too?"
"Yes. Not just landlords; the Union and Duchy have sent people as well."
"Scale?"
"Over twenty named high knights and mercenaries confirmed."
Would the powerful behave themselves in the West? Most wouldn't. Even upstanding folk often turned into drunken murderers after tasting the West's freedoms.
"What a mess. What's most urgent?"
"A land race in a week."
"Location?"
"South-facing from Pioneer Village center. No strategic points."
No strategics? Then create some. Mostly empty land anyway—plenty of resources to carve roads and build cities. Ample water, decent climate; activate it right, and it'd be a hub for centuries.
That's why crowds would flock to the land race. While others bet everything on one race, established landlords eyed elsewhere.
"Any word on the Northern Granary?"
"No rumors even in the Union. If there are, it's high-level only."
"Figures."
The Northern Granary. A vast swath north of the continent's center. Back in the day, Aphranche had scraped into great power status just because part of it overlapped their territory. Prime farmland feeding the continent—but rarely fully exploited.
Food was power. Whoever claimed it would wield immense might, so surrounding nations' checks kept its potential locked. The warring states vanished. No one left to claim rights.
Land races gave pretext. A colossal event not seen in a decade. Union nations and groups would pour everything into it.
"Skip this race. Holy Empire influence is strong south, and they might distract south while springing one north."
"How to handle entries?"
"Landlords can buy them, right? Take applications; give to anyone who wants."
"Scammers will swarm. Count and priest likely to scheme too."
"Not 'likely'—certain."
Hugo nodded.
"Schemes... If they demand thousands at once, it'll strain funds."
Marhal toyed with the Pen of Responsibility from his sleeve. Once or twice was fine. But if, every race, thousands who had no intent to participate demanded entries, even his wealth couldn't sustain it. Beyond money, other issues.
Totran Baekjak and Ales didn't need to buy for their own. Just snag Marhal's unlimited ones.
"Flags okay? No word on entries without flags?"
"Probably not. Flag sales are a key Union revenue stream."
"As planned: unlimited entries. But only to flag buyers."
Each land race used unique flags, with set sales deadlines and spots. Three days before start, central to the starting line extending beyond the horizon.
"They spend to bleed us? Make 'em spend too."
Hiring fake entrants to drain Marhal? They'd have to buy pointless flags. Totran and Ales spoke for Empire and Holy Empire. Weaken one, the other strikes. No reckless mutual sabotage.
"I'll handle it."
"Knights causing trouble? Azenman will sort 'em. Anything else?"
"One knight looking for you."
"Who?"
"Kaban, the stone-cutting knight. Full plate."
"Right. Him."
The knight who'd betrayed Duke Kalaens last land race to become a landlord.
"What does he want?"
"Money."
"Figures. Where's a knight get cash?"
Rumors of the duke's humiliation would draw investors, but Empire comms took time.
"Lend it?"
"I recruited him; minimal aid's due. First..."
Marhal's gaze fell on Ultekan with the subordinates. Amid welcomes, he was isolated. His exotic look drew stares, but he ignored them. Bigger priorities.
"Where's Kaban?"
"At the villa."
"Prep horses. Got someone to bring."
"Understood."
Hugo fetched a wagon; Marhal approached Ultekan.
Marhal's villa at the Border. Seized from the innkeeper who'd tried scamming him, then renovated. Plenty of empty rooms from its inn days. First-floor dining for dozens, huge kitchen—solid perks.
Marhal sat at a dining chair. From his spot at the round table, Ultekan and Kaban sat diagonally opposite.
Marhal poured from the central wooden barrel of cheap beer—not glass.
"Drink?"
"Can't be a knight without it."
Kaban politely accepted the pour. He'd seen Marhal's status, his power. Refusing wasn't an option.
"Holy Empire tongue?"
"Not a word. My apologies."
"No need. Common enough. Can support you. Marin's land's nearby—rebuild while you're at it."
Her land central, his city bonus. Kaban didn't mind. Word of Bachea Empire's sole heir was law.
"First, one job. Snatch someone from the church."
"The church?"
Empire knight Kaban had no strong faith. But churches weren't to be poked.
"Fine. All top secret."
Marhal switched languages: Imperial to Holy Empire.
[Ultekan, introduce yourself. This is stone-cutting knight Kaban. For kidnappings, more reliable than iron-cutters.]
Ultekan extended a hand with awkward Duchy speech.
"Ultekan, Anche warrior."
"Empire high knight—no, just high knight Kaban. Stone-cutting knight."
"Greetings done. Let's move."
"Where to?"
"What place in the West ties church trouble?"
Southern Border City. Ales the priest's land.