Chapter 122: Trouble Brewing

The man known as “Golden-Eyelid Pigel,” a slave trader, was brought in. He was a corpulent fellow with sharp eyes—just like most slave traders of this era, he was decked out in gaudy trinkets and meaningless seals and ribbons. Slave traders were usually quite wealthy, sometimes rivaling minor nobles in fortune. Yet, under the laws of various kingdoms and the prevailing doctrines of most churches, dealing in slaves was considered a stain on one’s soul. No matter how rich a slave trader was, he was barred from noble status—no honorary titles, no empty knighthoods. So these men compensated by adorning themselves with flashy decorations and self-designed insignias, flaunting their wealth as a poor substitute for true status.

Alongside “Golden-Eyelid” came two serfs—a brother and sister. They were siblings of the deceased serf named Sam. The three had been sold together, but before they could even taste a warm meal, their brother had died at the docks.

Yet on the faces of the surviving siblings, fear and anxiety completely overshadowed any grief or sorrow.

Losing a brother was painful, of course, but what terrified them more was the punishment that might befall the living. They understood—and accepted—the harsh truth: to the nobles, serfs were not truly human. A slave exploding on the docks was an unforgivable loss—not only had they lost a slave, but the ground itself was defiled.

So they trembled, dreading the wrath soon to be unleashed upon them. They believed the lord had summoned them to punish them. If it were only to make two people do the work of three, that would be one thing. What truly scared them were the whippings and starvation—both common punishments in this era, and both potentially fatal.

“Golden-Eyelid Pigel” was terrified as well, even more so. The serf turned into a living bomb by dark magic had been brought by him. All the gold and silver hanging from his body did nothing to ease his fear. He knew his place, and he knew how easy it was for a duke to execute a slave trader when there was solid cause—no one would defend him in this matter.

“Golden-Eyelid Pigel?” Gawain spoke, his voice sharp enough to make the corpulent man, who looked like a golden terracotta warrior, shudder. “You brought the serf Sam here?”

“Y-yes, my lord,” Pigel stammered, panic evident in his nod. “But I swear, I had no ill intent! I have no ties to any sorcerers or cultists! I’m just an honest businessman—I’ve never done anything…”

Sir Philip tapped his sheathed sword against the floor. “Answer the questions directly!”

Pigel quickly shut up, staring at his shoes. Gawain pressed on, “Before he was brought here, who did the deceased have contact with? What did he eat or use? Anything unusual?”

Pittman had already scanned the slave trader for magical traces and found no sign of druidic spells. Pigel was unlikely to be a cultist’s pawn—more likely just a tool. Gawain could tell that much.

Pigel wiped sweat from his brow. “B-before my lord, the serf was kept in a room for several days before boarding the ship. He ate and used the same things as everyone else—everything was the same…”

“You’d better tell the truth,” Amber said from behind Gawain, brandishing a small dagger with a sly grin. “We have mages, druids, and shadow grandmasters here. We could even pull your soul out and interrogate it—don’t cause trouble.”

Gawain glanced at the half-elf but said nothing to expose her bluff. Pigel’s sweat now poured like a river—ordinary folk who didn’t understand magic couldn’t distinguish between the various supernatural professions or grasp what soul magic entailed. To them, magic was an all-powerful mystery, and Amber’s offhand threat was terrifyingly effective.

“I-I’m telling the truth, my lord!” Pigel blurted. “Actually… that serf Sam was a bit special…”

Gawain rapped the table. “Special?”

“Yes. He was originally scheduled to be sent to the castle of Viscount Andrew to work,” Pigel spilled it all. “But the knight you sent to the town, my lord, bought up a large number of slaves at a higher price. I didn’t have many slaves on hand, so… so…”

“So you pulled the serf who was supposed to go to the castle back onto the slave ship?” Gawain frowned. “Why was the serf supposed to be sent to the castle?”

“Sam was a hardworking and nimble serf. He could do farm work, feed horses, clean the stables. Viscount Andrew needed a new servant…” Pigel counted on his fingers sadly. “It was a chance for him—a serf in my hands could be a serf, a laborer, or a contract slave. But once he was in the lord’s estate, he’d be a serf forever. If he could get into the castle, maybe he could become a servant…”

“But Sir Byron paid four extra silver coins,” Gawain interrupted, turning to the serf siblings. “Look up. Don’t be so nervous. Before coming here, did your brother show any unusual behavior?”

The older brother seemed braver and spoke first. “Yes. Sam had been saying he was very tired these days. He’d often stop talking mid-sentence, and sometimes he’d suddenly fall asleep standing up.”

Gawain glanced at Pittman, who wore a thoughtful expression. The old druid then asked, “When did this start?”

The pale serf sister answered, “Seven days… or eight. Definitely less than ten.”

They couldn’t be expected to remember exact dates.

Gawain asked Hetty, standing on his other side, “When did Byron announce the slave purchase in Tansan town?”

Hetty’s face grew serious. She had already considered some possibilities. “Four days ago.”

“So, Sam was already acting strange before Byron arrived in Tansan. He was likely under dark magic control then. And he was originally meant for Viscount Andrew’s castle…” Gawain said, slowly scanning the room. “His being sent here was an accident.”

Hetty took a deep breath. “Our neighbors are in trouble.”

“Their trouble will soon become ours,” Gawain said slowly. “The Cult of the End of All Things originates from druids. Their dark magic evolves from life and nature spells. Living beings are not only their spell components but also carriers of many dark plagues. Tansan is too populous and too close to us… And Byron is still in Tansan. He hasn’t sent any news. We can’t just ignore this.”

Hetty looked anxiously at the only druid in the territory. “Pittman, do you think they’ll spread the plague in Tansan? Sending infected people into the castle seems like a move against the lord…”

“It’s hard to say. Cultists’ minds are different from normal people’s. Their brains are mostly rotten meat and gutter sludge,” Pittman said seriously. “We must prepare for the worst.”

“No help is coming from the kingdom. We have to act ourselves,” Gawain stood. “We must eliminate the source before things spiral out of control. But we don’t know how many enemies we face or how strong they are.”

Pittman spoke up. “I can estimate. Sam was turned into a living bomb by the dark magic ‘Summon the Dead.’ Judging by the power and residual aura, the caster was no higher than mid-level—probably just reached fifth-level dark druid. And there won’t be many of them. The Cult of the End rarely organizes large-scale operations. When they attack towns, they send one or two skilled members, relying on cunning and strange dark magic to cause massive damage.”

Gawain pondered. “So we’re likely facing one or two fifth-level or lower dark spellcasters. The number isn’t the problem. The real threat is their bizarre magic. In the worst case, Viscount Andrew himself could be controlled by dark magic. Controlling living beings is their specialty.”

After a brief silence, Gawain waved at the sweating, nearly dehydrated “Golden-Eyelid Pigel.” “You may go. But I suggest you stay away from Tansan for a while. Head further north.”

The slave trader left trembling. The serf siblings stood with bowed heads, nearly fainting from anxiety.

Gawain didn’t know what they were thinking. Even with inherited memories and months in this era, he couldn’t fully empathize with their mindset. He didn’t realize they feared punishment. Instead, he comforted them in his own way: “Your brother is dead. The dead cannot be brought back. I have arranged for Sam’s body to be buried in the forest cemetery. You must live well on this land and strive for your freedom. The Cecil family will protect you.”

The siblings looked up in shock, as if they couldn’t believe what they’d heard.

To Gawain, he was simply following the most basic logic.

The two serfs left in confusion. After they were gone, Amber couldn’t help but speak. “I thought you’d just make them free—like compensation for their brother’s death.”

Gawain smiled at her. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re so kind-hearted,” Amber said matter-of-factly. “I know you’re a good person, so it makes sense.”

Gawain shook his head. “Kindness is fine, but it can’t be reckless. I can’t let them think that sacrificing a family member buys them freedom—especially not for other serfs who don’t know the truth. Freedom must be earned with one’s own hands. I’ve set up rules for this, so even I must follow them. Only then can there be order.”

Amber looked surprised. “So that’s why you insist on a two-month ‘buffer’ period for slaves on the estate, making them work as serfs first before granting freedom, instead of freeing them all at once?”

“…Your understanding isn’t perfect, but it’s close,” Gawain chuckled. “I do want them to realize freedom isn’t easy. But maybe one day, I’ll abolish slavery outright, instead of these small, piecemeal changes.”

Amber was stunned. “You actually think that? When?”

“When people generally realize that even the children of serfs and laborers can cast a fireball strong enough to take down a king,” Gawain said casually. “For now, let’s focus on the problem in Tansan.”

(End of chapter)