"They are all warriors of this land," Kent said.
Around twenty bodies lay lined up on the ground, the wounds gruesome; some had even had their chests torn open by claws.
Six of them were Kent's guards, while the rest were locals who had helped defend the Rock Wall.
"They shouldn't have died; I failed to protect them." Kent's voice was low, yet it penetrated the silence at dusk, moving several local women to tears.
The Lord's guilt and sorrow were unexpected; none would have dared think he'd feel this way. If not for Kent and his followers fighting to the death, the entire valley might have been wiped out. What more could they ask?
"My lord, you don't have to…" Splitting Blade, careful not to call him "Chief" this time, began to speak, but Kent raised a hand to stop him.
"These heroes sacrificed themselves for this land. Bury them together," Kent commanded softly but firmly. "Raise a stone for them; we will remember them always."
In the Alliance's customs, warriors who defended the royal family, even if they served an illegitimate son, were honored and compensated. As for commoners of lower status, if they died in battle, it was considered mere loss, their bodies often left in the wilderness. No one cared about their memory, and even their families dared not complain.
For the Lord to grant them the same honor as his guards was a gift no one had expected.
"My Lord…" The mourning spread, and many locals knelt in gratitude.
…
The snowstorm had stopped.
All the locals gathered around the fire, placing their arms over each other's shoulders, singing an ancient tribal song. The women who had lost husbands in the battle gathered in the center, faces still tear-streaked, but grateful to be alive.
"Ado… the wind blows his forge…
Ado… with soot on his face…
Ado… toiled all day…
Ado… igniting the flame…
Ado… raised his hammer…
Ado… clasped his tongs…
Ado… worked day and night…"
The melody was simple, only a few tones in repetition, yet Kent found himself moved by the purity of the song. This "Song of Ado" tells the story of a young blacksmith from Spear Valley who joined the army and died on foreign soil. There was a quiet sadness in it, but more than that, it was a memory of those who had passed.
"Ado… left his home…
Ado… wielded his sword…
Ado… climbed the mountains…
Ado… crossed the battlefield…
Ado… Ado, Ado, Ado…
For family, freed from sorrow…
Ado… Ado, Ado, Ado…
Pressed onward, far he went…
Ado… Ado, Ado, Ado…
Looking back, his home was gone…
Ado… Spear Valley is your home…
The beloved land awaits your return…"
From a modern perspective, Kent thought this might be a kind of ritual to guide spirits onward. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. No matter the tribe, all seemed to respect life in their own way. Death was not the end but the start of a new journey. Life returned to the earth, continuing in a different form—a cycle of life without end.
As the song continued, the vitality of the land seemed to return, and the aroma of roasted bear meat began to fill the air.
The bear they'd slain had been skinned, and its hide would be tanned and offered to Kent. The magical bear core was removed and stored in the lord's warehouse. Unfortunately, the bear's head had been charred; otherwise, it would have made a prized decoration in Kent's quarters, a rare beast of the northern mountains.
Eight local hunters were busy cutting and roasting the bear meat. A huge fire roared in the square, sending waves of warmth. Massive sticks, over a meter long and as thick as an arm, were sharpened at one end and skewered with chunks of meat, arranged in a ring around the fire.
Soon, the bear meat began to sizzle, the fat dripping into the flames, sparking bright embers.
The choicest, tender cuts were placed on a wooden platter, sliced into portions, and carried by two women to Kent. It was customary to offer the best food to the most honored guest.
Behind them, other locals carried more wooden platters, laden with various offerings. These were gifts, brought willingly or half-willingly by the locals to thank Kent for leading the defense against the Tiger Tribe.
The men who had fought on the Rock Wall had witnessed Kent's valor, setting him apart from other lords.
Kent had even wielded his sword and fought the Tiger Tribe hand-to-hand!
A lord who was brave in battle, who led from the front, might just bring stability to the valley in the future.
Greybeard rubbed his hands together, feeling small and humble in front of the lord despite the honor of fighting beside him in the defense. As the chosen representative to present gifts, he now struggled with the weight of their difference in status.
"My lord, these are gifts from each family, a token of our gratitude… please don't find them lacking…" Greybeard said with a fawning smile.
Kent, a little puzzled, looked at the rough gift—dried, grimy animal legs, worn and tattered hides. It was all a bit shabby.
He glanced at Splitting Blade for guidance. As an illegitimate son of the royal family, he'd received no training or advice for his role as lord before being assigned to this remote land.
"My Lord," Splitting Blade leaned closer, explaining quietly, "there's no custom of gifting a new lord. They're probably just grateful you led the fight against the Tiger Tribe."
Kent nodded.
However, seeing these gifts, which had clearly emptied their humble reserves, and looking at the emaciated bodies, sallow faces, and eyes filled with gratitude and respect, he couldn't bring himself to accept the offerings.
He sighed. This was clearly a dark and primitive age, likely a tribal feudal society. Comparing his estate and the guards' attire with the rags of these locals, he saw that class oppression seemed to be an unbreakable rule here.
If things stayed this way, what good would being a lord do? Would he simply live his days in this ignorant, dark world, trampling over these "peasants," collecting taxes, exploiting, deceiving, and slowly becoming one of those old men in the Highland Alliance?
No modern civilization, no electricity or internet, no books, no entertainment; even the malnourished women here failed to stir his interest, despite their willingness to accept his favor.
Was this the life he was meant to live?
What use was it to be a lord if he couldn't change anything?
"Take these things back. Leave the meat," Kent said, smiling.
"Uh…" Gray Beard 's face fell. He mumbled, "M-My lord, this year's hunt… was poor, and we lost many men… this tax is a bit…"
"Oh?" Kent paused, memories piecing together as he realized Gray Beard 's meaning.
In this world, almost every lord imposed extreme taxes on their commoners: hunting tax, mining tax, Iron tax, farming tax, fishing and foraging tax—all collected in kind and stored in the lord's warehouse.
This guy, using the pretext of gifting, was trying to soften me up to get some leniency.
"Come see me tomorrow; I want to know more about the state of this land," Kent said, glancing at the people salivating over the bear meat. "Don't worry, as long as I'm here, your lives will improve. As for… the hunting tax…"
He paused, smiling at the crowd.
"Let's waive it for this year."
"Waive it?" The people were stunned, glancing at each other.
Did the Lord just waive the hunting tax on his first day?
Did that mean more food for the family?
"Long live the Lord!" someone yelled excitedly.
"Long live the Lord!" The locals, accustomed to chanting, followed suit, not quite understanding at first. After two rounds of shouting, they realized what "waive it" meant, and their faces lit up with excitement.
"Long live the Lord—"
Splitting Blade sighed. The lord was compassionate, perhaps overly so. Today, it was the hunting tax, and tomorrow he might waive the mining tax, the Iron tax, the farming tax, and the brewing tax. If the estate had no income, they'd all end up starving.
But for now, it was the lord's moment of joy, being embraced by his people. Despite his concerns, Splitting Blade dared not spoil the celebration with practical worries—unless he wanted to find himself exiled to the mountains.