Chapter 113: Gawain’s Morality

Byron’s suggestion left everyone present somewhat puzzled—especially Hetty, who didn’t hesitate to ask outright: “Buying slaves at thirty percent of market price? And doing it by posting mercenary contracts? Who would agree to that? Not to mention the price is ridiculously low, the mercenaries’ pay would have to come out of that thirty percent… This is a losing deal for any mercenary.”

Byron replied calmly, “That’s why we add one more condition: no requirement for slave registration or contracts.”

Hetty and Rebecca exchanged glances, while Amber’s expression shifted as she caught on. The half-elf thief was about to speak, but Gawain beat her to it: “In that case, mercenaries will just raid displaced people to sell as slaves.”

Amber looked at Gawain in surprise, clearly not expecting the duke to be so well-informed on such matters. Byron, equally surprised, nodded in agreement: “A healthy serf or slave with proper registration and clear origins usually costs twenty to thirty florins, or sixteen to seventeen silver shields. The biggest cost is the slave registration itself, since it’s an official identity record that must be purchased through legal channels. Beyond the purchase price, the slave owner, tax officials, local church, slave markets, and even gangs forming ‘slave labor associations’ all take their cut—sometimes several times the base price. But displaced people… they cost nothing. No one protects them, they have no identity records, and their disappearance or death goes unnoticed.”

Byron paused, giving Hetty and Rebecca a moment to digest this, then continued: “Normally, nobles won’t buy slaves without registration because such slaves have no legal protection, and it makes the noble look stingy, poor, and low-class. Plus, if another slave owner kills or captures them, there’s no compensation. Still, there are those who commission the purchase of cheap, unregistered slaves—this is an unspoken, dark rule, and it means… displaced people.”

Hetty clutched her chest, shaken. Though she was a noble who often mingled with commoners, she had never encountered such a grim truth: “That actually happens?”

“Not only does it happen, it happens everywhere, every year, madam,” Byron said in a low voice. “In some unscrupulous mercenary circles, displaced people are called ‘long-legged money.’ They even trade information about displaced people’s shelters for profit, like sharks and hyenas circling the vulnerable, waiting for someone to buy cheap unregistered slaves—usually in bulk—and then they swarm.”

Rebecca instinctively gripped her iron staff so tightly her knuckles whitened. She muttered softly, almost to herself, “Mercenaries… I’ve heard their stories in taverns—hunting bandits, slaying monsters, exploring castles and ruins. I thought that was their life, but…”

“Lady Viscountess, when you’re in a tavern, those mercenaries aren’t really mercenaries,” Byron said, looking deeply at Rebecca. “Not all mercenaries do what I just described. What you heard is part of their life, but here’s the thing—mercenaries’ hands are never clean. It’s just a matter of how much evil they commit.”

The middle-aged knight then looked up at Gawain. “My lord, your thoughts on posting the contract?”

Gawain gave a faint, knowing smile at the knight, who had just laid bare the darkest truths in front of everyone. The subtext was clear, but Gawain didn’t want to expose the knight’s murky past: “I’m not going to skimp on this.”

Hetty and Rebecca visibly relaxed.

“We’re not short on money. The treasury has enough gold and silver to fund the entire domain for a long time. But if we save money by encouraging evil, the debt on our souls won’t be so easily repaid,” Gawain said deliberately. “We’ll follow the proper procedures: post notices in neighboring lands, send people to read them aloud, negotiate with nobles we can connect with, rent carriages and prepare provisions. If we buy serfs, we’ll do it through normal channels, no penny-pinching. I have only one demand: every person coming to this land must understand one thing—no matter what they did before, they must obey the laws here.”

Byron pressed a hand to his chest and bowed his head. “That is their duty.”

Gawain nodded. “You’re skilled at dealing with these kinds of people, so I’m entrusting this entirely to you. Take whatever funds you need from Hetty, but keep clear accounts and plans. Also, if you have the means, try to find out where the displaced people gather.”

With infrastructure work underway and some manpower freed up, the minting of currency had begun on a small scale. Gawain had recently designed and commissioned the first coins, which were sent to the nearby town of Tansan and several other distant towns. They were officially certified by merchants and nobles, and these coins were now in circulation.

After Byron and the others left, only Gawain and Amber remained in the tent. Amber kept eyeing Gawain strangely, making him uncomfortable. “What are you looking at now?”

“Having mercenaries who only care about money capture displaced people and bring them here is obviously easier, cheaper, and less trouble than sending your own people to spread the word, search, and prepare carriages and provisions. I thought you’d pick a more practical plan—you always say you’re a pragmatist.”

“I am a pragmatist, but I’m not a villain. I can imagine exactly how those mercenaries will capture displaced people to sell as slaves. How many will be killed on the spot? How many families torn apart? How many will die of hunger and disease during their rough ‘transport’? Even if I explicitly require the ‘slaves’ to be kept healthy, how many mercenaries will actually listen? I may not do these things myself, but I would be the cause. That goes against my principles.”

“But you know, even if you don’t do it, others do. Stingy farmers and black-market mines buy unregistered slaves from mercenaries every year—enough to fill your little camp several times over.”

“So I intend to destroy this status quo and build a new order. Not only must I follow these principles, but every land I establish must follow them—whether slave owners, mercenaries, thugs, bandits, crooked merchants, or hereditary nobles and powerful professionals. I won’t do evil—and they won’t be allowed to.”

Amber stared at Gawain, stunned. After a long pause, she said, “You sound so confident… but why are you so determined to protect the weak? Is it really because of those so-called ‘classical noble virtues’ or ‘chivalry’?”

“No. It’s just basic morality.”

Amber, as if deliberately sulking, tried to find fault: “You’re naive. How can one person change so much? You have to know, in this world, it’s survival of the fittest. The strong ruling over the weak—that’s morality itself.”

Gawain looked at Amber and suddenly laughed. “Exactly. Survival of the fittest—that’s the rule of this world, even nature’s rule. The strong should make the rules, and the weak must obey.”

Amber blinked. “Then you…”

Gawain’s smile grew wider, unstoppable. “So haven’t I already started making the rules?”

Amber: “…You can do that!?”

Meanwhile, far from the Cecil domain, sailing on the White Oak along the Whitewater River, Veronica was in her prayer chamber.

She wore a simple white nun’s habit, her pale golden hair neatly tied back without any adornment. Kneeling before the statue of the God of Holy Light, she folded her hands over her chest, mimicking the crossed beams of light on the holy emblem. Radiant light elements swirled around her like translucent little angels, guarding this devout follower of the Holy Light.

She prayed earnestly, letting the glow gradually envelop the statue’s indistinct face, impossible to discern with the naked eye. After finishing a prayer, she opened her eyes and looked at the thick candle burning before the statue.

The flame flickered a few times, suddenly shifting from orange-yellow to pure white. The flame expanded several times, becoming a beam of pure light. It flickered and contracted, gradually forming the image of an old man.

The old man sat in a chair, looking dignified but clearly aged and frail. Any follower of the Holy Light would instantly recognize him as the current supreme leader of the Holy Light Church—Pope Saint Ivan III.

Veronica bowed her head slightly. “Your Holiness.”

The voice from the light was slightly distorted: “Child blessed by the Holy Light, have you returned?”

“Yes, I have left the Cecil domain. The fleet should soon be nearing the mouth of the Dorgon River.”

“Did all go well? Is that Gawain Cecil truly an enemy of our Lord?”

Veronica hesitated for two seconds, then answered softly, “All went well. Gawain Cecil is indeed the legendary figure from seven centuries ago, not a malevolent spirit stealing a hero’s body to survive. Under the Holy Light, he speaks calmly and is a man of noble character.”

“Good. I have heard the Lord’s voice frequently in recent years, commanding me to spread the true path of the Holy Light. Gawain Cecil’s revival at this time is certainly a matter of concern, but now that you confirm he is not the Lord’s enemy, I am relieved.”

Veronica folded her hands and bowed deeply. “The Lord’s true path will surely spread throughout the world.”

The candle burned down, the divine power fading. The voice from the light grew faint: “Return quickly. Do not linger on the road, lest the impure world taint your pure Holy Light. Return to the Great Cathedral…”

The light vanished, leaving only pale ashes. The pope’s presence receded from the chamber.

Veronica waited a few more seconds, then slowly stood, quietly gazing at the statue of the God of Holy Light.

She whispered, almost to herself:

“He’s actually a man without faith, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Not only without faith, but resistant to the Holy Light’s path.”

“He seems to resist the gods, not the Holy Light itself…”

“In any case, he is neither servant of the Holy Light nor minion of darkness.”

“Very interesting…”

“Very interesting.”

(End of chapter)