Chapter 120: The Outsiders…

The conversation with Pittman didn’t quite fulfill Gawain’s initial expectations, but it yielded some unexpected insights.

He hadn’t gleaned anything profound about the essence of magic from the Druids’ ritual spells—originally, he thought that with his mind as a time-traveler and Gawain Cecil’s own knowledge, witnessing the Druids’ unique brand of magic might spark some kind of epiphany. But reality proved that was wishful thinking. On the other hand, he did pick up a “small insight” from Pittman regarding divine magic and arcane magic.

It wasn’t that humans had stolen power from the gods; rather, the gods had severed a power that originally belonged to humanity.

To be honest, although Gawain Cecil fancied himself half a scholar, that was mostly hot air. He did know a lot, but mostly because of his broad travels and wide circle of acquaintances. Much of his knowledge was broad but shallow. Take Druid history, for example—he knew from memory that three thousand years ago, the Druids were a unified religion, but after the “White Star’s Fall” event, the religion fractured into various academic sects. During this process, the divine magic naturally evolved into what is now Druidic magic. But when it came to the finer details of that history, his inherited memories paled in comparison to Pittman’s, who had received orthodox Druidic training (even if he often seemed irreverent).

Because each Druid sect placed great importance on knowledge transmission, “sect history” was a fundamental subject for any Druid. Moreover, the Druids’ lineage heavily relied on the elves, whose traditions remained untouched by the magical cataclysm seven centuries ago. The three-thousand-year gap meant that Gawain, despite being an “ancient,” had no particular advantage over Pittman in historical matters. So what Pittman knew, Gawain might not.

It was precisely because Pittman clearly understood how Druids used divine magic three millennia ago, and how divine magic evolved into arcane magic, that he could make the startling claim: “It’s not that humans stole the gods’ authority, but that the gods cut off a power that originally belonged to humans.”

Of course, Gawain knew this was just Pittman’s one-sided view and couldn’t be taken at face value. But as a way of thinking about the gods… it wasn’t without merit.

…

Several days after sending out the Byron Knights, the plan to increase the population of the territory finally began to show some progress.

Just as Gawain had predicted, compared to recruiting refugees, hiring craftsmen, or promoting immigration, the only truly reliable and steady way to bring in people was to purchase serfs and slaves.

No one was foolish enough to come settle and farm at the foot of the Dark Mountains if there was any other option.

Far from the civilized borders, right next to the ruins of Gondor, the entire New Cecil territory was built on the edge of hell. The southern border had been in decline for a century, and the dark stories circulating among the common folk had painted the land with a thick brush of terror. Everyone was convinced this place was a death trap, and that the Cecil family’s ancestor who led people here to reclaim the land must have lost his mind after lying in a coffin for too long—who in their right mind would come here?

Oh sure, post a couple of notices, station a loudmouth propagandist, and declare the place safe, livable, with food, lodging, and land provided? Yeah, right.

In this era, people’s numbness was beyond imagination, as was their tolerance for poverty. They’d rather stay in their barely livable homes than risk their lives in a place rumored to be cursed. They couldn’t see or imagine what life might be like elsewhere, and for most, the cost of leaving home and taking a chance was too high—one wrong step, and it was ruin.

So the first arrivals in the territory were slaves bought by the Byron Knights from nearby lands—serfs, laborers, contract slaves, all kinds. Thanks to ample funds, the first batch numbered over three hundred.

More slaves were still on the way or locked in the cages of slave traders.

Gawain, of course, didn’t let these slaves mingle directly with the settlers. He had already ordered a large clearing to be prepared near the forest on the western side of the territory, where many tents and simple fences were erected. The slaves arriving by river were first taken to a temporary quarantine camp on the riverbank for basic identity registration and health checks. After recording their names and confirming their health, soldiers escorted them to the new camp.

From there, these newcomers would stay in the isolated camp for at least two months. During the day, overseers led them to various work sites to labor alongside the locals, learning firsthand the basic order and laws of the land. At night, they returned to their camp, where before sleep, soldiers read aloud the “Cecil Basic Laws” and the “General Labor Regulations,” so they could understand the new personnel management system—and most importantly—

The path to freedom.

Gawain called this process “buffering.”

After two months of adaptation and study, the slaves underwent a simple test—basically reciting what they had been taught. Their work and adjustment were also assessed through feedback from the locals they worked with. Only if both aspects met the standards would an outsider be formally accepted into the Cecil territory. If not, they returned to the buffer camp for further education.

This buffer system was just a prototype, designed to prevent a sudden influx of outsiders from disrupting the fragile order Gawain had painstakingly built. He knew it was far from perfect—the duration, the curriculum, the evaluation criteria all needed refinement. But having this buffer at least reduced the risk of chaos.

The docks by the Whitewater River were busier than ever. Cargo ships hired from Tansan Town were unloading a new batch of serfs and mine laborers. Cecil’s soldiers, clad in full extraordinary armor, kept a sharp eye on the scene, maintaining order—though lacking in “humanitarianism.” The truth was, only when these slaves saw swords drawn and soldiers ready to strike would they line up properly and pass through the designated gaps in the dock fences.

Hetty led a group of literate people selected from the hundred-strong aid corps to register the slaves’ basic information. After another slave left her station, she rubbed her temples in frustration.

That was the third “Sam” she’d seen today.

Almost none of the slaves had proper names, nor did anyone bother to give them one—not even their parents. Usually, slave traders would slap on a name when they found a buyer, but what could these barely educated traders come up with?

The better ones got names like “Sam” or “Home,” the worse ones were called “Fool” or “Big Guy.”

The slaves themselves couldn’t even say their age or place of origin clearly. When asked about their skills, their answers were all over the place: “Strong,” “tough,” “fast eater,” and so on.

But Hetty had to keep registering them—any information was better than none.

Fortunately, the ancestor had the foresight to assign numbers to these people. Even if their names were repetitive and chaotic, numbering them prevented confusion. For now, they only needed to remember their number—surely they wouldn’t forget that.

Hetty lowered her head, organizing the freshly filled forms, when a particularly tall figure blocked the sunlight from her side.

She looked up and saw Gawain’s face.

She hurried to stand: “Ancestor, you’re here!”

“Sit down,” Gawain waved her off and glanced back at the dock, noticing the crowd had thinned considerably. The registration was nearly done for the day. “How are you feeling?”

“To be honest, I’m increasingly convinced that the ‘organizational management’ you talked about earlier is absolutely necessary,” Hetty said, almost on the verge of tears. “I never imagined filling out a few forms could be this exhausting… I wish someone else could do this.”

“Literacy education and night school have already started. More people in the territory will learn to read and write. I’ve also sent word to the Byron Knights to recruit clerks and teachers—even if we have to pay high wages, we’ll bring some in. Things will improve.”

“Let’s hope,” Hetty rubbed her aching back. “You planned a whole management structure, but seven or eight out of ten positions are still empty. Who knows how long it’ll take to fill them.”

Gawain smiled and shifted the topic: “Still only serfs and laborers today?”

“Yes, only serfs and laborers,” Hetty glanced at her forms. “Oh, wait, there are also some refugees—a family of three. They probably had no other choice, thinking that dying in the Dark Mountains or starving outside town was the same. They boarded the ship arranged by the Byron Knights. I’ve assigned them housing according to free citizen standards.”

Gawain frowned. “Only three people…”

“Can’t be helped,” Hetty sighed softly. “Even homeless refugees rarely want to come to the Dark Mountains. They don’t know the real situation and are afraid to come.”

“I’ve already told the Byron Knights to spread the word through their ‘channels,’” Gawain’s frown eased quickly. “For many at the bottom of society, rumors in taverns and among vagrants are more trustworthy than notices posted by nobles. I believe once those whispers spread, more refugees will be willing to take a chance here.”

Hetty blinked, her expression suddenly strange. “You mean the same… method you used when you went to the capital, sending people to spread rumors everywhere?”

She wanted to say “trick,” but considering her age, she didn’t want to embarrass herself by getting scolded by the ancestor, so she chose a more neutral term.

“Please call it ‘influencing public opinion,’” Gawain said seriously.

Just then, a lazy voice drifted from nearby air: “You sure have a knack for spouting all kinds of strange words, huh~~”

Gawain didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “Amber, can you travel like a normal person for once? Why do you always have to Shadowstep around?”

As he finished speaking, Amber gradually materialized in the air. The half-elf girl bounced out of the shadows, completely ignoring Gawain’s reprimand. “I’m telling you, the camp’s about to eat, and I’m just being nice, coming to get you for dinner…”

This girl only ever showed up at mealtimes.

Gawain gave Amber a wry look, about to say something, when suddenly a commotion erupted nearby.

He turned toward the noise and saw the last slave being registered standing at another registration station a short distance away. The shouting came from the clerk in charge, who barked loudly, “Name! I’m asking for your name—stop just swaying around!”

But the slave before the clerk stood there blankly, as if sick and unable to keep balance, gently rocking in place, completely ignoring the voice outside.

The recorder’s voice grew louder, sharp and impatient. “Hey, do you have a hearing problem?! I’m asking for your name! Or are you saying you don’t understand Common?”

The slave finally seemed to react, but only barely. His cloudy eyes flicked toward the recorder, but his body swayed even more violently, trembling noticeably now.

The recorder shuddered under that dull, lifeless gaze. “W-what do you mean by that?! Soldier! Soldier!”

Just then, Gawain suddenly sensed a sudden surge of wildly unstable magical energy rising from within the slave’s body!

(End of chapter)