Chapter 602: Belcrolyn
The room was carpeted in sky blue, lined with towering bookshelves, adorned with priceless oil paintings and silver candelabras. Belcrolyn stood respectfully before the desk, reporting to Edmond Morn, who sat behind it.
The young prince, clad in a black coat and sporting a growing beard, listened intently, his expression grave and focused. Belcrolyn maintained a sincere reverence throughout, unwilling to let even the smallest flaw slip into his report.
“The bandit troubles in Hol County and Lentartel County have been quelled. At their hideouts, we found a stash of unmarked gold coins. Using divination magic, we preliminarily confirmed these coins originated from local lords. Despite your recent regulations, some nobles continue to secretly harbor the ‘Black Gloves’…”
“This is a direct violation of the law and must be punished severely,” Edmond said, displeased. “The nobles involved have two choices: either be demoted one rank in nobility or surrender half their lands or an equivalent sum in gold.”
Belcrolyn then detailed a series of developments and current conditions in the eastern territories, including recent activities by the White Sand Mining Company. Edmond responded with a variety of fitting measures—some matters beyond Belcrolyn’s authority, others requiring his own handling. The prince would outline his plans or engage in frank discussions with the young marquis before him.
Frank. Serious. Just. Patient.
No matter how many times Belcrolyn met with Edmond Morn, these words always surfaced in his mind.
He watched the prince, close to his own age, thoughtfully devising solutions, proposing admirable plans. It was clear the young man was genuinely striving to govern the land well, to bring prosperity to the kingdom. That conviction and action were why Belcrolyn pledged his heartfelt loyalty.
Yet… shadows still lingered.
A flicker of disappointment and inner conflict stirred within Belcrolyn. Before he could speak, Edmond noticed the change in his expression and met his gaze.
“Belcrolyn, is there something else?”
Belcrolyn frowned but did not hide the truth. “Your Highness, in many parts of the East, your serf emancipation law has met with unexpected… setbacks. Only a few serfs have truly gained free status. Most remain bound to the land. As a result, land reforms have barely progressed, and factories cannot recruit workers—training can’t even begin.”
Edmond regarded him quietly. “Why?”
“Various reasons, but mostly because of obstacles set by landowners. Some demand serfs buy their plots to gain freedom; others require them to hand over the entire first year’s harvest; some even expel serfs from farms or orchards immediately after granting them free status…”
The prince closed his eyes briefly, steadying his breath. When he opened them again, his gaze was deep and somber.
“So, those who ‘gain’ freedom end up unable to survive, yes?”
“Yes. They ultimately have no choice but to return to their masters—‘voluntarily’.”
This time Edmond was silent longer. Half a minute passed before he finally spoke in a calm voice.
“I understand.”
“Your Highness, perhaps we should—”
Belcrolyn began eagerly, but Edmond cut him off.
“Belcrolyn, I will discuss this with Duke Loren—he has more experience with land issues. As for you, there is a new task.”
Though still pondering the serfs’ plight, Belcrolyn’s loyalty made him respond immediately.
“Your Highness, please command.”
Edmond’s expression grew serious. He lifted a cup of water, took a sip, then spoke in a low voice.
“It concerns the increasingly rampant cult activities—the followers of the End of All Things…”
After leaving the castle’s main hall, Belcrolyn’s steps felt heavier than before.
He had thought the entrenched conservative nobles, roving bandits, and misled commoners in the East were the greatest obstacles. Yet in Solinfort, there was an even graver problem.
The End of All Things cult—a dark sect that once only dared to scheme in the shadows—had grown into a significant threat. They had even reached the Great Wall and the ruins of Gondor?!
According to the prince, the cult’s corruption and spread within the kingdom had far exceeded expectations. They spread among the poor, the townsfolk, even among the gifted and the nobility. Their doomsday ideology was absurd and insane… yet so many still flocked to believe, to self-destruct.
A cold but invigorating north wind blew, snapping Belcrolyn awake. He realized the snow had stopped sometime ago, leaving vast swaths of silver-white covering the courtyard, paths, and rooftops.
A squire led a horse over and bowed respectfully beside the young marquis.
“My lord, where are you headed?”
Belcrolyn waved him off. “Take the horse back. I want to walk around town.”
At this time of year, most populated areas had fallen into desolate quiet. Even Solinfort—the largest city in the eastern Holy Plains—was no exception. Outside the warm castle, the common districts were cold and empty, with few pedestrians. Even on the widest streets, passersby were scarce.
Yet seeing any commoners on the street was a sign of some vitality—at least some were willing to brave the cold, and basic commerce and social life still functioned among the city’s lower classes. This was rare in the countryside.
Belcrolyn neither rode nor wore armor, just a wolfskin cloak over his knight’s uniform, strolling casually through the western district’s streets and alleys.
Since the Eastern Legion occupied this once-royal city, he had never had the chance to walk its streets so freely. As heir to the Eastern Guardian Dukedom, he was always busy learning and managing countless affairs. Though he had just received a new task from the prince, it was not one to be acted on immediately. First, he needed to dispatch subordinates to gather intelligence on heretical rituals, missing persons, and unusual diseases in the surrounding areas. Only then could he act personally. For now, he finally had a rare moment of leisure.
Unfortunately, it was winter, and there was little to see among the common folk.
He wandered aimlessly, watching the empty streets, and sighed.
Indeed, winter walks were dull.
The young marquis turned to leave.
But just as he stepped forward, a sudden noise reached his ears.
It was a mix of curses, blows landing on flesh, and muffled groans.
Belcrolyn frowned and looked toward the source—two streets away, beyond normal hearing range.
He quickened his pace, his figure flickering like a phantom through the near-empty streets. Within seconds, he reached the alley and saw the scene unfolding.
Several tall, burly men surrounded a thin, curled-up figure on the ground, punching and kicking while shouting crude curses. Nearby, a wooden basin lay overturned, and a dozen pieces of clothing were scattered around.
The sight darkened Belcrolyn’s face. He immediately shouted, “Stop! What are you doing?!”
The attackers froze at the sudden voice, turning toward him. Their faces, once full of anger, shifted to stunned silence, accompanied by sharp intakes of breath.
“M-my lord…”
One stammered. Belcrolyn looked at him.
“What’s going on here?”
Seeing their strong builds, relatively neat clothes, and their instant recognition of him, Belcrolyn guessed their identity.
“My lord… we were punishing a criminal,” the first man said nervously. “She’s a laundress, but she stole her employer’s clothes…”
She?
Belcrolyn looked down at the frail figure slowly rising from the ground, trembling as she gathered the scattered clothes and the basin. Her dry, yellowed hair hung messily behind her head. She wore a tattered garment faded beyond recognition, with strips of cloth wrapped around her legs for warmth. She glanced up, revealing a pale, gaunt face, sunken from malnutrition.
She was a woman—not beautiful, but her eyes left a faint impression on Belcrolyn.
If she had been beautiful, she might have faced worse than just beatings here.
Belcrolyn lowered his gaze, calmly watching the laundress pick up the damp clothes, nearly frozen on the ground.
“Whose clothes did you steal?”
The laundress kept her head down, voice barely audible.
“No one’s, my lord.”
“My lord, she’s lying!” one of the men shouted. “She stole—”
“Stole from you?” Belcrolyn looked sharply at the speaker.
The man immediately fell silent.
“From you?” Belcrolyn turned to the next man.
He too was silent.
“Or you?” “Or you?”
No one answered.
“Good. At least you don’t dare lie anymore,” Belcrolyn said, his gaze pinning each of them, making their necks shrink further. “That means I don’t have to send your bodies back to the East.”
These men were soldiers on rest duty from the Eastern Legion.
Few others were as strong, warmly clothed, and energetic as they were. And they recognized Belcrolyn in his common uniform instantly.
Belcrolyn looked down again at the laundress, who knelt by the basin, head bowed.
“Are you a local?”
She still kept her head down, as if afraid to meet his eyes.
“Yes, my lord.”
Belcrolyn nodded, then inhaled deeply, slowly suppressing the magic within him.
The army must have discipline—this was Prince Edmond’s order.
“Bullying civilians and deceiving your superiors. Report to your centurion. Each of you will receive thirty lashes, one week confinement, and half your pay withheld this month.”
The disgraced soldiers left, fearful and dejected.
The laundress remained kneeling, head bowed, beside her basin and the clothes needing rewashing.
“Look up.”
Belcrolyn said quietly.
He saw her lift her head slightly, but she quickly lowered it again, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead.
Belk sighed inwardly, crouched down to meet her eyes, and looked at that malnourished face—one that had nothing to do with beauty—and those eyes, filled with a mix of reverence and numbness.
In another setting, in the grand hall of the castle, countless noble-born, stunning young ladies would give up an entire estate just for the chance to look into his eyes from this close.
“Those people are the scum of the Eastern Territories. They do not represent the Eastern army.”
The laundress immediately lowered her head in response. “Yes, my lord.”
Belk frowned, glancing at her thin, tattered clothes. Then he pulled two gold coins from his pocket.
He hesitated for a moment, then put the coins away. After rummaging through another pocket for a while, he finally found some copper coins and a few cut pieces of silver.
He dropped the coins into the wooden basin she held, then stood up. “This is compensation from the Eastern Territories—you can use it to buy bread, and to get yourself some warm clothes.”
Her eyes fell on the clinking coins. She carefully gathered them all, her movements gentle and earnest. When she finished, Belk heard her suddenly ask:
“My lord, could you give every person bread and warm clothes to get through the winter?”
The unexpected question caught Belk off guard. Instinctively, he wanted to say—of course he could.
He was the eldest son of the Duke of Guardianship, Marquis Belkrolen, future master of the Eastern Territories. He owned countless estates and farmlands. Even if half had already been donated to the legion or distributed to serfs and tenants in response to Prince Edmond’s decree, he still had the means to provide every commoner in Solinfort with food and clothing for the winter.
But the laundress had already stood up, bowed respectfully, and left with her basin and clothes.
(End of chapter)