Chapter 165: What Happened in the Kant Territory

It was a finely crafted dagger. Though not enchanted, its material contained a small amount of mythril and purple steel—giving it a faint purplish sheen under the light. Such materials didn’t grant extraordinary powers, but they were effective against enchanted armor and protective gear.

On the dagger’s hilt, Gawain noticed a mark resembling a bear’s head, surrounded by a wreath of flowers.

In this era, many emblems were not to be used casually. A large number of beasts and plants were considered the exclusive symbols of noble families. Combining a beast’s head with floral motifs often signified a particular family’s crest. Commoners using these marks unknowingly infringed on noble rights. According to Gawain’s knowledge of heraldry and Ansu noble law, the mark on this dagger was clearly a family emblem.

For seven centuries, these noble family crests had followed ancient traditions.

This dagger was likely a gift from a noble family. Gawain knew that nobles were very particular about gifting weapons: battle axes, war hammers, and polearms could only be granted by the king, and only to nobles with military achievements; swords—especially longswords—were more commonly gifted, and any noble could give one to another noble, provided the recipient was at least a knight; but daggers, knives, and short bows were considered “less prestigious” and were often given to favored commoners—usually exceptional guards, retainers, or… hunting dogs.

“Looks like I was right,” Gawain said, holding up the dagger for a closer look. “Those mercenaries were ‘tamed’ by a noble family. The question is, do they serve just one family, or several at once?”

“Do you recognize this mark?” Amber asked, leaning in curiously. “I just thought it looked cool at first…”

“No,” Gawain said after careful examination, shaking his head. “This family probably didn’t exist during my lifetime. Go fetch Hetty—she should know more about the southern nobles.”

Soon, Hetty arrived at Gawain’s tent.

After studying the dagger’s emblem, she said confidently, “This is the Kant family crest.”

“The Kant family?” Gawain frowned, trying to recall. Then, from his recent crash course in contemporary affairs, he remembered. “The viscounts north of the Lesley family?”

“Yes,” Hetty explained. “Their lands lie beyond the northern wilderness of the Whitewater River, just north of where you brought back those refugees. The Kant family rose to prominence about three centuries ago, granted this territory for military service. When the Cecil family fell from grace, they remained loyal to the current royal house and thus escaped the southern purge. They’re now one of the few noble families in the south with over a hundred years of history.”

Gawain asked casually, “What’s their relationship with the Cecil family?”

“Neither close nor distant,” Hetty replied. “During the southern purge a century ago, they neither helped nor hindered. They stayed neutral. They’re a rather secretive family, rarely mingling with the upper social circles here—though those circles are loose to begin with—and Kant members are the least visible.”

“What’s their main industry? Farmland? Mines? Ranches?”

“The Kant lands mainly produce grain, along with various high-quality herbs, including magical herbs, but no mines.”

“That’s a problem—a big one,” Gawain tapped the table. “A noble territory without mines, relying mostly on farmland, suddenly raiding a large group of slaves before winter—what are they planning? And judging by this dagger, these mercenaries work specifically for the Kant family. They’re not new to capturing slaves in the wilderness. Why are so many slaves being sent to Kant lands?”

“That…” Hetty also sensed something strange. Then she recalled another odd detail. “The Kant lands have always focused on grain, with herbs and magical herbs as secondary products. But in recent years, the amount of herbs and magical herbs they sell externally has steadily increased—especially magical herbs. Their output has doubled, and quality has improved so much that magical herbs are nearly surpassing grain as their main economic pillar. But this is hard to explain based on the local magical energy patterns…”

Because of the world’s supernatural forces, “medicinal plants” fall into two categories: ordinary herbs with general effects, and “magical herbs” used in rituals or as spell components. Magical herb growth depends heavily on the local magical environment, which sets a natural production limit. If the magical energy is weak, no amount of cultivation or seed improvement can increase yield—in fact, increasing quantity often dilutes the magical potency.

Yet the Kant lands’ magical herb output keeps rising year after year.

In this age, where statistics are scarce, nobles rarely notice fluctuations in their neighbors’ crops—often they don’t even know their own yields, leaving that to advisors and stewards. But Hetty, as a mage from a fallen noble family, kept a close eye on the magical herb market and quickly spotted this anomaly.

Amber, who had been boredly listening nearby, suddenly twitched her sharp ears and gasped in horror: “Oh my god! The Kant family can’t be using living people as fertilizer for their herbs, right?!”

“…While some nobles’ morals might allow for such thoughts, actually doing it is unlikely,” Gawain said, twitching at the suggestion. “Magical herb fields are hard to hide—any outsider can see them. And using living people as fertilizer wouldn’t increase magical energy concentration. What kind of dark magic is that?”

Just then, Betty’s voice came from outside the tent: “Master! Master! Pittman is here to see you!”

Gawain paused, recalling the task he’d given the druid earlier, and smiled slightly. “Looks like his ‘special remedy’ worked.”

Knowing that ordinary interrogation wouldn’t work on those mercenaries, Gawain had asked Pittman to find another way to deal with the two captured “prisoners.”

Druids weren’t skilled interrogators—their spells paled compared to blood cultists or necromancers specialized in torture—but intelligence gathering didn’t rely solely on interrogation.

In Gawain Cecil’s memories, many methods used druidic potions and rituals to extract information from enemies. Even after seven centuries, these methods still worked.

In a small makeshift prison hut, Gawain found the two captured mercenaries—drugged, with ointments applied to their foreheads, and having endured an hour-long ritual incense session.

Both were now dazed and confused.

Pittman stood nearby, beaming with pride. “I told you, my potions and rituals work wonders. Especially this incense—no matter how strong-willed, it makes people lose themselves in its magic…”

Indeed, the hut was thick with a cloying incense scent, almost nauseating. Even though the ritual’s magical interference had ended, Gawain still frowned at the smell. Amber was complaining loudly, “Wow—old man, are you trying to smoke meat here?”

“With this kind of incense, most people would probably break even without the potions,” Gawain said, casting a protective spell on himself to stand his ground. “I’m starting to think your ritual just knocks people out with the smell. What does magic have to do with it?”

Pittman chuckled. “You hit the nail on the head. Years ago, I thought about improving this spell—figured even just smoking the target with manure would work. But my mentor beat me up for that idea, so I gave up. But you just reminded me… maybe…”

“You dare try that?!” Gawain glared at the little old man. “If you smoked these two with manure for an hour, I wouldn’t even want to ask them anything, no matter how willing they were!”

Pittman shrank back, eyeing Gawain’s muscular frame and deciding this legendary warrior could easily beat his mentor twenty times over. He wisely dropped his bold “improved ritual” plan.

Gawain frowned at the two mercenaries, their vacant eyes staring blankly at the floor. The potions, ointments, and incense had dragged them into a twilight state between reality and dreams. In this state, they couldn’t tell if they were answering questions in reality or reliving memories in dreams. Before the magic faded, they would answer almost anything.

“It’s the Kant family’s…” Gawain began, then suddenly forgot the current head’s name, awkwardly turning to Hetty. “Hetty, who’s in charge of the Kant family now?”

Hetty tilted her head slightly. “Viscount Victor Kant. An elderly viscount.”

“Right, Victor Kant,” Gawain said, turning to the mercenaries. “Did he send you to capture slaves?”

The mage among the mercenaries still hesitated, but the leader spoke first: “Yes… Viscount Victor Kant sent us to capture refugees in the wilderness… but not as slaves.”

“Not as slaves?” Gawain frowned. “Then what for?”

“To help him…” The leader’s eyes were still dull at first, but then he suddenly lifted his head, staring straight at Gawain with a strange smile. “To enter the dream, Lord Gawain Cecil.”

(End of chapter)