This world was steeped in blood and baseness; excessive kindness led only to a quick death, especially for a noble. Phield had exhausted whatever patience or goodwill he once possessed for dealing with its refuse.
Villainy was the true passport of the aristocracy.
And proof came swiftly: humans turned on their own kind far more easily than they fought the corrupted—at least fellow men didn't look monstrous.
One human slave leaped forward without hesitation, pinning the screaming, one-armed soldier to the ground. He drove his sickle deep into the man's throat and yanked with savage force. The head tore free in a wet rip, the soldier's final expression of terror frozen on his face.
"Well done. The coin is yours." Phield's lips curved in approval. He flicked a silver from his pouch; it arced glinting into the slave's bloodied palm. "I permit my slaves to own property. The harder you work, the more you earn."
Eyes around him turned red with greed. One silver bought a hundred black loaves—another hundred days of life. In an instant, avarice awakened their bloodlust.
With Ashina's Drakewolf charging at the fore, the slaves surged forward without fear, weapons gripped tight.
It was scarcely a fight—more an effortless slaughter.
Against a Divine Chosen, a mere handful of fully armored infantry were laughable. Soldiers in heavy plate were smashed into bloody pulp beneath massive claws; blood jetted in pressurized bursts from crushed bodies.
Pleas for mercy and whimpers went ignored. The traitorous garrison fell in moments.
Phield stepped lightly on tiptoe to avoid the scattered limbs and gore, carefully entering the bunker.
"This is… an armory!"
Joy broke across his face the instant he saw the fortress stores.
Piles of plate armor rose like small mountains, the fresh scent of tung oil clinging to polished steel. Neat bundles of standard halberds, longswords, and kite shields lined the racks. Walls bristled with crossbows; barrels brimmed with arrows of every purpose.
Enough to fully arm five hundred men, every one in complete harness.
No single baron could afford such wealth. These were imperial levies—materials and coin drawn yearly from lords across the realm to bolster the border against corruption and orc invasion.
"Kazan is only an outpost," Phield murmured in awe. "If a frontier fortress holds this much, I dare not imagine the riches in the greater citadels beyond."
"Have we… struck it rich?" Ashina asked softly, fingers caressing a fine cavalry bow with reluctant wonder.
"A modest fortune," Phield replied, though exhilaration coursed through him. He swept a grand gesture toward the racks. "What are you waiting for? Arm yourselves first."
"Yes, my lord!" The promise of real armor sent them scrambling. Ropes were sliced; plate segments clattered as they donned harness for the first time. The weight bore down heavily on starved frames, yet the solid steel brought an unfamiliar, profound sense of security.
The only drawback was how gaunt they remained—the armor hung loose, and many staggered beneath it.
"Heh. Richard, since you crossed me… I won't hold back." Phield beckoned the slave who had struck first. "What's your name?"
"My lord, I'm called Ben." The man shifted nervously.
In an age when knowledge itself was hoarded, common names were careless things. Anything grander risked the blade or the hoof.
"I have a task for you. We'll rehearse it twice first." Phield drew Ben close, voice dropping to a secretive murmur.
Since he was already swallowing Baron Bull's arms and armor whole, a little more excess hardly mattered.
After dispatching Ben with twenty men, Phield paced before the stockpiles, deep in thought.
"Take everything—we must take everything.
Leaving a single piece behind would gnaw at me."
He strode back and forth. "Ashina, have Kaor bring everyone here. Lower the equipment over the walls. We'll collect it after passing the gate. It's all Nightfall Domain property now."
Yet it still wasn't enough. Weapons and armor alone couldn't sate him. The Nightfall Domain was a desperate gamble—he had to stake everything.
Kazan Fortress drew supplies from nobles kingdom-wide, yet the villages beneath it paid full taxes without relief. Six large settlements in total, their rich soil yielding endless cattle, sheep, wheat, and coin to the baron's castle each year.
Between rolling hills etched like ancient battle scars, a column of fully armed soldiers advanced steadily. Baron Bull's family banner snapped in the wind as they crossed wasteland choked with withered vines and weeds, passing crumbled remnants of old walls.
Bullhorn Village was famed locally for its two towering sentry posts—barely four meters including the roofs, yet still the hamlet's pride.
From those crude towers, hunters and militia could repel bandits behind the wooden palisade.
Only last night they had felled three corrupted corpses that had slipped past the outer defenses.
Gods—monsters even inside the fortress now. The elders muttered of the dread orcs once more.
Three or four villagers in coarse burlap lounged by the gate with manure forks at hand, passing bowls of thin vegetable soup. They traded vile jokes about the widow in East Hamlet and how many rounds she could endure beneath a greenskin, bursting into crude, raucous laughter.
"The lord's soldiers!" They recognized the banner but remained baffled by the visit.
Soon Ben and his slave-guards came fully into view.
"Open the gate, damn you." Ben snarled, practicing the swagger he'd rehearsed. His men slammed halberd butts to the ground in unison, plate clanking crisply. He lifted his chin haughtily.
"Or do you want us freezing out here, you filthy idiots?"
The villagers jolted into motion, hastily swinging the gates wide to welcome the troop.
"My lord, is it about the corpses?" The headman beamed like a blooming flower, hurrying forward with eager bows. "We repelled them—praise the gods, and of course Baron Bull! We'll offer a maiden, the finest we have. I'm certain His Lordship will be pleased." His smile faltered upon seeing Ben clearly. "This officer… I don't recall your face."
Ben's heart pounded, but he recalled Phield's instructions perfectly: when stumped, simply curse.
"Fuck your mother, you useless lickspittle! Who asked for your chatter?" He yanked his blade halfway free. "I'm here for taxes, not kinship. Seen me or not—what does it matter?"
The headman recoiled from the spittle and drawn steel, nearly tumbling over. "Of course, my lord! My error!"
"Farm tax, poll tax, hearth tax, tithe, land tax, scutage, breathing tax—and whatever else you know is customary. The usual levies for the Bull lands."
Medieval taxes came in endless varieties. There was always one perfectly suited to bleed a peasant dry.
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