Chapter 313: Observations

Under Gawain’s calm gaze, Daniel didn’t resist for long before lowering his head. “…In the face of your great power, my loyalty to Typhon and the Sleepless can be set aside.”

“Good,” Gawain nodded with satisfaction, then pointed to a special edition of Network Security issued exclusively for the Sleepless. “Let’s start with this one. This will be your first step toward advancement within the Sleepless order. At first, your task isn’t to spread this knowledge directly, but to identify fatal flaws in the current psychic network. Report your findings to other members who are slightly above or at your level. Once the Sleepless begin to recognize these vulnerabilities, you can release the first chapter as your research output. Now, let’s begin by understanding what a distributed network is, and the concept of resource allocation within it…”

Daniel bowed his head, adopting a respectful, eager-to-learn posture.

He truly recalled his youth, the years when he first studied under his mentor…

Meanwhile, in the eastern borderlands of Ansu, in a certain town.

The snow had stopped, and the clear night sky was dotted with brilliant stars. Their light shimmered over the land, reflecting off the snow and preventing the town from sinking entirely into darkness. Amid the haphazard stone and wooden buildings lining the narrow streets, a tall, slender figure cloaked in black moved silently.

Finding a corner shielded from the biting wind, the figure stopped and pulled back the hood.

Beneath the hood was the striking golden hair unique to silver elves, and a face of exceptional handsomeness.

High Elf Ranger, Solderin Frostleaf.

The human town was unusually quiet at this late hour, at least in the poorer districts. Solderin’s long elven ears twitched slightly as he caught faint sounds of a lute and tambourine drifting from the distant lord’s castle—signs that the nobles’ nightlife was just beginning.

He inhaled the crisp, icy air, then frowned, pressing a hand to his chest.

That strange woman had been more formidable than he’d imagined. Though rangers weren’t known for direct combat prowess, he hadn’t expected to be outmatched by a suspected druid.

If not for the advice of a knight named Byron to carry some “newfangled weapons for dispensing justice,” he was certain his situation would be far worse.

As he eased the throbbing pain in his wounds, feeling the supernatural power within him slowly neutralize the strange toxins, he recalled the battle. He was now sure the woman’s power was indeed druidic.

Poisons, withering vines, thorns, corrupted treants—all druidic spells, but tainted and twisted… The Cult of the End of All Things? That was the most likely explanation.

Why would a high-ranking cultist of the End of All Things infiltrate an elven surveillance outpost? What was her purpose?

The cold night wind swept through the alley again. Solderin tightened his cloak and pushed these thoughts aside for now. It was better to wait until he returned to Cecil’s territory—Gawain and his clever subordinates could offer more insight than he could alone, blindly guessing here.

Unfortunately, his identification papers had been damaged in the fight. Upon returning, he found that the eastern borderlands had been placed under a higher state of martial law due to shifting circumstances. A decree from Duke Selas Loren had made travel difficult throughout the region. Conditions were somewhat better in disorderly areas, but in these mid-sized towns under strict noble control and heavy surveillance, he had to be extremely cautious.

In this chaotic era of fractured noble rule, a foreigner without papers had no advantages—especially since he had recently served in Typhon’s army. Many of Duke Selas Loren’s knights and officers knew him, unaware he had switched allegiance to Cecil. A chance encounter could be disastrous.

The northern continent’s winter nights were bone-chilling. Though his high-level supernatural constitution kept him from falling ill, Solderin still felt uncomfortable and sought somewhere warmer. Due to the duke’s strict rule and martial law, all taverns and inns were heavily monitored. Outsiders and those with unfamiliar accents were subject to questioning. At full strength, Solderin wouldn’t worry, but now, injured and drained from suppressing the toxins, he didn’t want to attract attention from human supernaturals.

As he searched for shelter, a flickering fire caught his eye.

He approached and found a small bonfire deep in a narrow alley. Several shadowy figures huddled around it, occasionally stirring the weak flames and tossing small pieces of charcoal or dry twigs into the fire.

A high elf ranger sharing a fire with beggars…

Solderin smiled silently but still moved closer.

He could have chosen better options. Despite his poor condition, he could have sneaked into a barn or a warm citizen’s home for the night. But seeing the fire and the people gathered around it stirred memories—seven centuries ago, during the expedition’s darkest days, he had huddled with human soldiers and refugees in the coldest nights, sharing warmth and encouragement to survive the bleakest times.

Since the human kingdoms stabilized, he hadn’t experienced anything like this for many years.

The homeless noticed the stranger approaching and tensed, but soon realized he wasn’t a patrolling soldier—in such cold weather, soldiers rarely ventured into slums, usually just circling the streets before heading back to drink.

The man in the black cloak looked more like another homeless person.

Pulling his hood back up, Solderin sat by the fire and spoke in a low voice, “Cold night.”

A ragged man muttered, “No more room.”

“I have some wine,” Solderin said, pulling a wine pouch from his cloak. “Enough for a few sips each.”

“Sit beside us, then.”

Solderin sat down. The pouch was quickly snatched by a nearby man, who pulled the stopper, sniffed deeply, then took a large gulp despite trying to savor it. The pouch passed silently from hand to hand.

By the firelight, Solderin could see their faces—some deeply lined with wrinkles, others marked by frostbite, a few younger but all worn and frail. They wore tattered coats or rags barely recognizable as clothing, and a foul odor clung to them. These people clearly had no chance to bathe.

“A sip of wine warms the soul,” croaked one.

The pouch eventually returned to Solderin, who shook it and was surprised to find some wine still left.

The man opposite the fire said, “Save some. Might be the thing that saves your life someday.”

Solderin quietly tucked the pouch away and sighed softly, “It’s a bitterly cold winter night…”

“You speak so fancy,” a homeless man chuckled, “but yeah, it’s cold.”

“Last winter wasn’t this bad,” muttered the man across from him.

“Last winter you had a house, of course you weren’t cold!” someone mocked.

“Shut up!”

Curious, Solderin suddenly asked, “Where’s your house now?”

The man’s voice turned bleak. “The knight took it… I owed him five years’ rent. Couldn’t pay, so they took the house and land.”

Solderin fell silent.

But the man kept talking, reminiscing about last winter’s “good times.” “I had a house then, a little land… and a wife.”

“His wife died years ago,” whispered the man beside Solderin. “He’s not right in the head now.”

“It’s all that ‘Tenant Rent Amnesty Act,’” said a young man poking the fire. “Nothing good ever comes from it.”

“‘Tenant Rent Amnesty Act’?” Solderin frowned. He hadn’t heard of it.

In the Kingdom of Ansu, counts and higher nobles could enact certain “private laws” within their domains. Depending on their rank, their legal authority varied—some could set tax rates, mint coins, or regulate inheritance. Beyond the kingdom’s general code, local laws were chaotic and often contradictory. This patchwork of rules was a constant challenge for traveling merchants and adventurers, and a major headache for outsiders like Solderin.

“It was passed by Count Berry ten years ago,” the young man explained. “The count allowed tenants to delay rent without punishment in the first year—no whipping or confiscation. But in the second year, rent doubles; third year, doubles again; fourth year, doubles yet again… If you still can’t pay by the fifth year, they take your house and land. The count called it mercy, giving those who had a bad year a chance to repay. So it’s the ‘Amnesty Act.’ But if you can’t pay for five years straight, you’re just lazy and don’t deserve to farm the land anymore…”

The man beside Solderin sighed. “But hardly anyone can pay it back. Most of us end up like this after five years.”

It was a trap—a painfully simple trap.

How could a farmer possibly repay rent that doubled every year? Even the second year’s increase was nearly impossible to cover. They couldn’t save enough food or money to meet the skyrocketing demands.

Before the act, late rent meant whipping and partial confiscation. Now, any arrears meant losing everything—land and home. But ordinary farmers didn’t understand this.

They couldn’t read or do math… and had no energy or time to think beyond working the fields.

They faced impossible debts they could never repay, losing their land and homes in utter despair—and in the end, they couldn’t even understand why it all happened.

Solderin glanced at the small campfire flickering before him, and suddenly the memories in his mind—of seven hundred years ago, when everyone stood shoulder to shoulder, huddled together for warmth—began to blur and fade.

Across the fire, a man muttered softly, “I used to have a little patch of land, right by the river… I even had a wife.”

Someone nudged him. “Enough, stop talking. You’re just stirring up the wind.”

“Time to add more wood…”

“Don’t throw it all in at once. Dawn’s still a ways off.”

“When morning comes, we’ll head to the Holy Light Church. If we get there early, the porridge will be hotter.”

“Not too early— the new priest doesn’t stir the porridge much and ladles from the top. Get there too soon, and you’re stuck with watery gruel.”

Solderin listened quietly. Through the elf’s keen hearing, he caught the distant sounds of a seven-stringed lute and tambourine from the castle finally falling silent.

He hadn’t slept all night. Only when a faint light crept over the horizon, the sun’s rays breaking through the clouds and spilling into the town, did he finally feel the day begin.

The church bells rang out in the distance. Solderin stood, and one by one, the homeless who had managed to catch some rest struggled to their feet—the bell was their signal to wake.

The fire was nearly out, its last embers barely warm enough to reach those huddled around it. The vagrants flexed their numb fingers and toes, trying to regain some strength before the sun fully rose. It would help them hold onto the food they’d receive at the church doors.

But as everyone stood, one man remained seated.

The one who had sat opposite the fire the night before.

Someone stepped forward and gave him a push. The hunched figure collapsed to the ground—he was dead.

The homeless watched in silence. A sigh broke the stillness. “We were short a few logs last night.”

“He still had a house last year…”

Solderin’s face remained expressionless. Seven centuries ago, those who had marched through darkness and hardship hand in hand—their descendants had built a kingdom like this?

He turned away and walked toward the street now bathed in sunlight.

He had to return to Cecil’s domain quickly.

(End of chapter)