The woman lazily waved her slender arm.
"Well, that's perfect, isn't it? Didn't he leave part of his gold stored here with us? Dead men aren't protected by royal law, and with no one to contest it, we can quietly swallow it up. Still," she added, her lips curling into a mischievous smile, "I'd hate for that clever, obedient little boy to die before I've had a proper taste of him."
With that, she secured a shackle around her ankle and let out a strange, feverish sigh of pleasure. "Inject the orcs in the basement with the frenzy serum and bring them to me. I've bound myself tightly—this time, I promise their bodies won't be crushed by my outbursts of divine strength."
Simon wiped the sweat from his brow, his face full of worry. "Go easy on them, will you? Don't kill off all the orcs again. Strong, healthy ones are hard to come by these days. Ever since the Grey Mist devastated the Northern Provinces, the price of orc slaves has skyrocketed. Do you even know how much I spent to get those orcs?"
"This is the price you pay for making me wait," the woman replied indifferently, her voice laced with mockery. "A small price, Simon. Just a small one."
Field stepped out of the Mapleleaf Manor, the warm sunlight soothing his nerves.
"Phew, the issue of funds is resolved," he muttered to himself. "Now it's time to purchase supplies—this time, more food and livestock."
Due to the unique environment of the Shadowlands, even after purging the corruption, the soil lacked fertility, and agricultural yields were dismal. Field planned to establish a ranch, primarily raising chickens, ducks, pigs, and cattle. Their manure would serve as an effective means of improving soil fertility over time.
It was worth noting that in the Empire, prices varied greatly between cities. For instance, a single copper coin could buy a loaf of bread in Golden Eagle City, but in the impoverished Western Mountains, the same coin would only get you the smell of bread—shopkeepers would graciously let you take a whiff.
Mapleleaf City's Economy and Field's Strategy
Mapleleaf City, with its thriving service industry, had little interest in war. The number of slaves available was meagre, and most were women and children. Male labourers were exceedingly rare, with their prices soaring to more than three times that of women.
Grain and fodder formed the bulk of Field's purchases. With the Shadowlands producing nothing of value, it fell entirely on Field to sustain his territory. At present, it wasn't Field exploiting his people—it was his people exploiting him.
Only Field's modern perspective made this arrangement remotely viable. Any other noble would have abandoned such a losing endeavour long ago.
"Before making any purchases, I need to recruit some skilled managers and administrators," Field muttered, rubbing his temples. "Right now, there are only two literate people in the entire domain. Kao's management skills are mediocre at best. And we're severely lacking craftsmen—the great vineyard is in desperate need of repairs."
Gathering his thoughts, Field turned to his guard, Hammer. "Take the gold back to the inn first. Then join me at the tavern."
Taverns in medieval cities were not just places for revelry but also served as talent markets and hubs of information.
After finishing his errands, Field arrived at one of Mapleleaf City's bustling taverns. Pushing open the door, he was greeted by the chaotic symphony of chatter, laughter, and clinking tankards. People of all shapes and sizes crowded together, boasting about their exploits. Others were engrossed in card games or rounds of dice.
Everyone seemed to be laughing, but Field could see through their hollow mirth. Those smiles were masks, nothing more. Who could say how many would wake from their drunken stupor to face despair?
Dressed in a black nobleman's robe, a steel longsword at his hip, and flanked by three armed guards, Field stepped inside. His imposing presence silenced the room. Conversations halted, and wary eyes turned toward him. Many assumed he had come to apprehend a fugitive.
"Three mugs of barley beer," Field said coolly, flicking a few silver coins onto the counter as if by magic. "Keep the change."
Realising Field wasn't there to arrest anyone, the tavern quickly returned to its lively commotion.
"Thank you for your generosity, my lord." The barkeep set down three wooden mugs with an ingratiating smile, his expression beaming like a sunflower as he swiftly pocketed the silver coins. Three mugs of barley beer cost no more than fifteen copper coins—Field's payment was overly generous.
"Don't rush off just yet," Field said evenly. "I need some information from you. Start with the latest imperial news."
Field handed the beer to Hammer and the other guards, uninterested in the coarse and sour drink himself.
"Have you heard about the armoury theft in the Bull Barony?" the barkeep asked, leaning closer. "Count Nibelungen has begun an investigation, but the unlucky Bull Baron is set to take the brunt of the punishment. Still, I can't help but wonder—who could possibly steal more than two thousand sets of armour without a trace? Only a devil could pull off something like that!"
"Two thousand sets?"
Field frowned slightly. He'd only managed to secure five hundred. It seemed the old Count Nibelungen had inflated the numbers—likely to balance his own accounts.
Still, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. If the count had reported the exact figure, it would signal his determination to uncover the real culprit. But exaggerating the numbers suggested he intended to profit from the situation himself. In all likelihood, some hapless bandits would be rounded up and executed to settle the matter.
Ah, the games of nobles, Field mused, a small smile playing on his lips. Always circling back to their own interests.
"Very good," Field said. "What else?"
"There's another big story. The imperial treasury has lost a fifth-tier artefact—The Eye of Vows. It was a war trophy from those accursed heretics and is said to have the power to corrupt minds, turning ordinary people into their puppets. The heretics have grown bolder, likely due to their massive western crusade. The capital city of the prosperous Purple Gold Empire, the gateway to the Inner Seas, has been under siege for a month now. As for the rest of the Purple Gold Empire's cities—they've all fallen."
"Anything else?"
Field showed little interest in the last piece of news—it held no value to him. Stuck in the Shadowlands, the theft of some artefact was entirely irrelevant to his concerns.
It's not like I stole it, Field mused, and I've no way of even touching a fifth-tier artefact.
The barkeep wiped the tankard in his hands with a rag. "Nothing more, I'm afraid. If that's not to your liking, I could offer you another mug of barley beer—on the house."
"I'm looking to hire some people for work. Do you have any connections?" Field wasn't interested in drinking.
The barkeep's face lit up with an expression of instant understanding. Leaning closer, he whispered, "There's Pockmarked Face, a true desperado. For just twenty silver coins, he'd kill his own parents if you asked. Or there's the Mad Dog Mercenaries—a band of utter lunatics who take pride in eating their enemies' hearts and livers. Their services don't come cheap, though. You'd need at least thirty gold coins to get them involved, but beware—they're rumoured to murder their employers as well. Tread carefully."
"I'm not looking for assassins or mercenaries," Field clarified, waving a hand to dispel the misunderstanding. "I don't want anyone killed. I need capable individuals for constructive tasks." Pausing, he elaborated, "Specifically, I'm looking for skilled people with practical expertise—like managers, architects, herbalists, or craftsmen."
"Ah?" The barkeep seemed genuinely surprised. "That's a rare thing, my lord. Why not recruit the sons of other nobles?"
Nobles typically entrusted knights or squires with administrative duties. Despite common misconceptions, being a squire wasn't a lowly role. It was, in fact, an exclusive path for noble families to ensure their progeny 'started on the right foot.' Squires were often second sons sent to other lords' households to learn martial and administrative skills, make connections, and earn favour.
The barkeep scratched his head, thinking. "Well, there is someone who knows management—Tate, the former prison warden. He's literate, but he's an inflexible fool who once refused a bribe in the name of justice. Ha! Idiotic to a fault. In the end, his own subordinates conspired to frame him. He lost his job and now spends his days drinking himself into a stupor over there."
This sounded acceptable. Field nodded in agreement.