Phield stepped out of the manor, the sunlight easing his nerves.
"Whew, the money issue is sorted. Now it's time to procure supplies—buy more food and livestock this time."
Due to the territory's special environment, even after eliminating the pollution, the soil's fertility was insufficient, and agricultural output would be minimal.
Phield planned to build a ranch, mainly raising chickens, ducks, pigs, and cows—their manure could also effectively boost soil fertility.
It's worth mentioning that in the empire, prices varied by city. One copper coin could buy a loaf of bread in Golden Eagle City, but in the impoverished western mountain regions, it could only buy the scent of bread—the shopkeeper would let you sniff it.
As a place with a developed service industry, Maple Leaf City had no interest in war, so slaves were scarce. You could only buy some human slaves, mostly women and children, with able-bodied laborers priced at over three times that of women.
Grain and fodder were also major purchases.
Nightfall Domain produced nothing, relying entirely on Phield to sustain the whole territory. Currently, it wasn't Phield exploiting the people—it was the people exploiting Phield.
Only Phield, with his modern mindset, would do such a losing deal; other nobles wouldn't touch it.
"Before buying anything, I need to recruit some management and administrative talents first." Phield rubbed his brow. "The entire territory has only two people who can read and write, and Kaor's management skills are pretty average. Plus, we're short on craftsmen—the grand winery needs repairs."
After organizing his thoughts, Phield said to his guard Sam: "First, send the gold coins back to the post station. Later, come with me to the tavern."
Taverns were medieval talent markets and one of the most informed places.
After handling everything, they arrived at a tavern in Maple Leaf City, and Phield pushed the door open.
The place was filled with "boom boom" noisy clamor—tall, short, fat, and thin people gathered together, boasting about their glorious deeds. Some played cards or finger-guessing games; everyone seemed to be laughing heartily, but those smiles were just masks worn on their faces.
Who knew how dejected they'd be once sober?
Phield, in a black noble robe with a fine steel longsword at his waist and three guards behind him, startled everyone as he entered.
They fell silent, staring at him oddly, assuming he was there to catch some fugitive.
"Three mugs of barley ale." Phield casually tossed a silver coin. "Keep the change."
Hearing Phield wasn't there to arrest anyone, the tavern instantly returned to its noisy state.
"My lord, thank you for your generosity." The bartender respectfully set down the wooden mugs, grinning as brightly as a chrysanthemum, and scooped up the silver coin. Three mugs of barley ale cost only fifteen copper coins—Phield had given way too much.
"Don't rush off; I want to ask you about some news. First, tell me about the empire's recent big events."
Phield rewarded the ale to Iron Hammer and the others; he himself had no interest in the rough, sour barley ale.
"Have you heard about the armory theft in Bull territory? Count Nibelungen has started investigating—of course, the unlucky Baron Bull is in for severe punishment. But I'm curious: who could quietly move over two thousand suits of plate armor? Probably only a devil could do that."
"Two thousand suits?"
Phield frowned. He'd only found five hundred?
Probably Nibelungen inflating the numbers to balance the books.
But this was good news—if the count reported accurately, it meant he really wanted to find the culprit. Inflating the figures meant the count wanted to pocket some benefits himself; likely, he'd just grab some bandits, kill them, and close the case.
Nobles' tricks always revolved around their own interests.
Phield smiled faintly: "Very good. Anything else?"
"There's another big event: the imperial family had a tier-five artifact stolen, a trophy from those damned heretics—the Eye of Ancient Vows. It's said to bewitch minds, turning normal people into their puppets. The heretics are so rampant because of their massive western crusade. The gateway and barrier to the prosperous Taloria, the imperial capital of the Purple Gold Empire, has been besieged for a month, and as for the other cities in the Purple Gold Empire, they've all fallen."
"Anything else?"
Phield had zero interest in this news—it held no value. Holed up in Nightfall Domain, whether it was stolen or not had nothing to do with him—it wasn't like he stole it, and he had no ability to steal a tier-five artifact anyway.
The bartender wiped the mug in his hand: "That's it. If you're not satisfied, I can give you a mug of barley ale."
"I want to find some people to work for me. Do you have channels?" Phield didn't want to drink.The bartender gave a knowing look and whispered: "There's a real desperado—for just twenty silver coins, he'd even assassinate his own parents. Or the Mad Dog mercenaries, a bunch of thorough lunatics who take pride in eating their enemies' hearts and livers. The cost is high—no less than thirty gold coins to hire them—but there are rumors they've murdered employers, so be careful."
"I don't want assassins or mercenaries."
Realizing the misunderstanding, Phield waved it off. "I'm not looking to kill someone; I need capable people." Phield said, "Specifically, I need talents with practical skills, like in management, architecture, herbalism, or craftsmanship."
"Ah? That's unusual. Why not seek heirs from other nobles?"
Nobles typically appointed knights or guards to management roles—don't think guards are lowly jobs; actually, it's an exclusive channel for nobles to "win at the starting line." Guards were usually family second sons, going to other lords to learn martial arts and knowledge, helping out the nobles along the way to get familiar faces.
"Let me think—there's one good at management: Gaoler Tate, who can read and write. But he's a rigid fool who refused gold bribes and insisted on upholding justice. Haha, hopelessly stupid—in the end, his subordinates conspired against him, and now he's out of a job, drinking alone over there."
This sounded alright. Phield nodded.
"There's also a horse hunter named Durand—that bastard sneaked into the lord's backyard at midnight, raped the stallion, and escaped hanging through sophistry. A pervert with real guts; perhaps you could have him serve as a diplomatic advisor."
Phield nearly flipped the table.
It really was a horse hunter!
What his territory lacked was talent for hard work—as for diplomacy, you couldn't mate with zombies anyway.
Don't let him sneak into the stables at night and bugger his beloved warhorse.
"Let's talk about Tate." Phield wiped his cold sweat.
After getting the information, Phield approached Gaoler Tate and sat down unceremoniously.
"I'm Phield, lord of Nightfall Domain." Phield interlaced his fingers and said sincerely, "I need someone who understands management and can read and write, especially to keep slaves in line. I wonder if your professional skills are up to the task."
Tate was a middle-aged man with a full beard, looking extremely resolute: "I can read and write—learned from an old monk as a kid—but the problem is, I only know how to manage prisoners."
"At least there's commonality. I'll give you a salary far above market rate—three times your previous wage."
"But I'd need to be alive to spend it. I have a wife, daughter, and mother. The northern province isn't a place for people—it's absolute death territory."
"Nightfall Domain is dangerous, no doubt about that, but if you stay put, it might be even more dangerous." Phield spread his hands. "I hear you offended quite a few people during your enforcement days, and your colleagues don't like you. I imagine the local gangs have long been preparing revenge—especially on your family."
"They wouldn't dare!" Tate's eyes turned red with rage as he slammed the wooden mug down angrily, spilling beer everywhere.
"From your reaction, I know I guessed right—and you know it in your heart too."
Phield knew he'd hit his sore spot: "Come on, go take a look at Nightfall Domain. It might be a hell full of corruption, but compared to a hell full of debauchery, it might be a bit better. Plus, one more thing—the northern province isn't absolute death; at least I'm still alive."
"You've convinced me." Tate slumped down dejectedly. He worried the thugs would target his wife and daughter. "Right now, I just want to escape. Perhaps the remote cursed lands are my destination."
Then Phield verified Tate's knowledge.
About a quarter hour later, Phield laughed heartily and placed a gold coin on the table: "This is settling-in money. Find me at the post station outside the city before noon tomorrow."
Tate was nearly blinded by the gold coin—didn't expect the noble before him to willingly offer a gold coin after just a short chat.
"This is too much."
Now that Phield was flush with cash, he immediately said firmly: "This is my sincerity—don't disappoint me."
"Alright." Tate wasted no more words and left quickly.