"Whew~"
A large mass of flame surged from the scroll, igniting the two corpses.
The fire burned the corrupted deer's bodies with crackling sounds.
But… that was it. The used scroll lost its magical glow, turning completely into toilet paper.
There were no fancy special effects, none of the apocalyptic nether flames from the Drakewolf. Phield felt like he'd just watched a street fire-breathing act—not even as exciting as a gas canister explosion.
"I think I just wasted ten gold coins." Phield realized this belatedly, breaking into a cold sweat.
Though magic scrolls had low damage, a Tier 1 magic scroll's market price was around fifteen gold coins. An antique-grade one was probably worth ten—not cheap at all.
Ashina smiled brightly. "How could it be a waste? We learned the power of a magic scroll. Just like you said, practice yields true knowledge. Besides, it's my first time seeing a magic scroll too—it was very interesting."
This girl was so thoughtful, even giving him a way to save face.
"I only mentioned it in passing, and you remembered." Phield was infected by her positive attitude, smiling as he patted Ashina's head.
There were 24 magic scrolls in the chest. Minus the one Phield used, they could probably sell for 230 gold coins—a bountiful harvest.
Picking through trash is pretty fun, Phield thought secretly. Just going out for a stroll could yield a huge profit.
Due to the Northern Province's special environment, few adventurers dared venture deep here, so plenty of good stuff remained.
Back at the territory, everyone breathed a sigh of relief seeing Phield return safe and sound.
After all, if something happened to the lord, they would be killed by the death mist that very day. Moreover, Lord Phield was an exceptionally good person. The slaves thought: they hoped Phield would remain their lord forever; being able to eat half-full would be a fulfilling life.
"Ah! A goblin head!" A more experienced freeman exclaimed. "I've seen these filthy little things in big cities. They can even breed with sows and produce a litter of baby goblins."
"That's right—these monsters were the ones that attacked the territory." Phield casually tossed the goblin head to the ground and wiped his hands with a handkerchief. "We've avenged the dead. I hope they can return to the Goddess's embrace."
"Long live the lord!"
"Thank you, Lord!"
The slaves were overwhelmed with gratitude. The feeling of having their right to life respected was wonderful; they no longer had to worry about being killed by vile monsters at night.
Though Phield wasn't doing it for human rights—he was simply eliminating threats so the slaves could work properly—it didn't stop their gratitude. Most lords wouldn't care about slaves' lives or deaths; they'd only ponder whether to have apple pie or cherry pie for dessert.
"Disperse now and go rest." Phield was tired too.
After resolving the goblin problem, Phield clapped his hands—he'd just remembered something important.
That was the guards' poor performance during the goblin attack. The patrolling guards had hidden somewhere sleeping, while the off-duty ones acted like it was none of their business. If the manservant Mick hadn't woken a few, the entire territory might have been slaughtered without the guards ever showing up.
"Without strengthening the territory's military power, I can't even sleep peacefully."
Relying solely on Ashina definitely wouldn't cover the whole territory.
After planning it out, Phield recorded it in characters only he could recognize, then lay down on the bed. The grand winery's rotten floor and windows immediately creaked "creak creak," with foul-smelling drafts occasionally blowing through the brick cracks.
"I need to repair the house soon." Phield covered his ears in despair, burying his head in the blanket. Only the bedding still retained the scent of civilized society.
The next day, after enduring a tormented night, Phield finished his bread spread with blueberry jam and assembled all the soldiers, including the subhuman cavalry who still couldn't ride horses properly.
"Stand straight." Phield reprimanded them in a stern voice.
The guards knew their performance last night had been abysmal. They shrank their necks in fear; some were so terrified they nearly wet themselves, thinking they faced hanging. Yet they dared not make a sound, occasionally stealing glances at Phield's face, hoping to read some clue.
Phield had originally planned to drag the derelict idiots out and give them thirty lashes in front of everyone. But seeing how many were sallow and emaciated, their ribs clearly visible in neat rows, and how some swayed and nearly fell just from wearing plate armor, Phield abandoned his rather impractical idea.
Forget thirty lashes—even ten would either kill them or leave them paralyzed for months. To save them, he'd have to use precious potions, and the loss would still be his own.
Most crucially, if he beat them to death, there would be even fewer suitable recruits among the remaining slaves.
Phield rubbed his brow, consoling himself. The guards got two fist-sized black rye bran loaves a day, with no pay, no freedom, and no women. From their perspective, Phield wouldn't want to work hard either.
"The guards on patrol last night will run six laps around the territory. Those who didn't show up for assembly will run three. This is punishment—don't even think about slacking off."
"Whew~" The guards let out a sigh of relief; many even smiled.
Though they didn't understand why the lord was so fond of running, compared to lashes that could plow a bloody gash, running was far too comfortable.
"I love running," one guard said with a silly grin, dropping his weapon and unfastening his plate armor.
"Wait—run in leather armor instead, and every one of you must carry your weapon." Phield emphasized. Before they could show looks of despair, he added in a devilish, tempting tone, "If you finish before noon, each of you gets a slice of smoked meat."
Extra nutrition was only proper.
"Smoked meat?"
"Mama mia! What did I just hear?"
"Is it a holiday today? Our beloved lord!"
The complaints in their stomachs instantly turned into gas and escaped. The guards quickly changed into leather armor, shouldered their weapons, and began sprinting like madmen. The scene was incredibly lively, drawing frequent sidelong glances from the slaves working on the corrupted farmland nearby.
The remaining dozen or so men looked at each other. Thinking of smoked meat, they drooled uncontrollably. Finally, Ben mustered his courage and asked cautiously, "What about us, my lord? Can we run too?"
Phield scanned them. The ones left were the elite among the guards; many had killed more than ten corrupted corpses. He raised an eyebrow. "You don't need to run. Last night, you were among the few who showed up for assembly—smoked meat is what you deserve.
I have a new training exercise for you, called standing at attention. If you do it well, I'll reward each of you with an extra egg."
Gulp~
At the mention of an egg, another round of swallowing sounds echoed.
…
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