The group of refugees in Keith's custody were housed on a barren stretch of land southwest of Emerald Town. When Blake and his companions followed Keith out of the town and arrived at the refugee camp, all they saw were rows of shabby tents scattered across the wasteland. Though the tents were numerous, the camp had a desolate, forlorn air about it. Men and women dressed in tattered, filthy clothes wandered listlessly about the grounds. Their gaunt, emaciated figures were clear signs of malnourishment—but under the current circumstances, there was little else to be done.
"Are these people refugees... or slaves?" Ophelia asked, her eyes widening slightly in surprise as she glanced around. First, she spotted the garrison soldiers patrolling the perimeter of the camp; then, she noticed several dozen mercenaries clad in leather armor standing guard at the camp's outer edges—precisely the men Keith had mentioned were surrounding the slaves. But honestly, counting them up, there were barely a hundred soldiers and mercenaries in total. Compared to the over a thousand refugees locked inside the camp, they were nothing more than a drop in the bucket. The former princess found herself quite astonished. How could such a small force hope to contain so many refugees?
"They are both refugees and slaves," Keith replied, his lips twisting into a wry smile. But when he caught sight of Ophelia's violet hair, he quickly bowed his head respectfully and answered her question properly.
"I think you may have a slight misunderstanding, my lady. It's true that these refugees are currently classified as slaves, but in reality, they are far more obedient than ordinary slaves. Don't be fooled by the small number of mercenaries—their only real job is to keep these people in line, to prevent them from wandering off or causing trouble. Frankly speaking, these refugees have no intention of escaping."
"Why is that?" Ophelia asked, even more surprised than before. She stared at the refugees in confusion. After all, they had once been ordinary civilians—now they were slaves. Did they not wish to escape this place and regain their freedom?
"The reason is quite simple—they are just refugees," Keith shrugged, spreading his hands.
"These people are all victims of war, forced to flee their homes after their cities were attacked. The group of slaves I'm holding here, for example, are from the Great Timber Valley. Their hometown was destroyed by the Sith Empire, reduced to nothing but rubble and ash. They hadn't gotten far from their homes when they were captured by the Sith army and sold to me. These refugees are not like other slaves, my beautiful lady. Why do ordinary slaves try to escape? Because they crave freedom—they want to return to their families. But these refugees are different. Look around you—their wives, their children, their families—they are all right here with them. What's more, every country on this continent has extremely strict policies regarding refugees. Let me be blunt with you: without slave traders like us to act as intermediaries, not a single nation would be willing to let these people cross their borders. After all, refugees are not just pieces of merchandise—they need food, they need water, they can cause all sorts of trouble. And once they settle down in a new country, they can create all kinds of governance headaches for the local authorities. That's where slave traders like us come in. We purchase these refugees, transport them across borders as 'cargo,' and in return, the countries we pass through get to collect taxes and fees from us. It's a win-win situation for them. And these slaves will eventually be sold off anyway—one way or another, they will end up contributing to society. If these refugees were allowed to cross borders freely, the local officials would be stuck with the burden of providing for all their needs—and they would also have to worry about potential uprisings and rebellions. That's the last thing any ruler wants."
Keith sniffed, then clapped his hands together.
"And if these refugees ever dare to rebel or escape while they're in another country, that nation will send its army to hunt them down without mercy. Sure, some of the stronger, younger refugees might be able to slip away. But what about their wives? Their families? Their children? These people can't run fast or far. If they're caught, they'll all be hanged for treason. Rather than condemning their loved ones to death, it's far safer for them to accept their fate as slaves, to stay put and hope for a chance at a better life."
"I see," Ophelia murmured, lowering her eyes. She understood exactly what Keith meant. She knew all too well how much of a headache refugees could be for a country. After all, in the early stages, refugees could not contribute much value to a nation—on the contrary, they were a drain on resources. From the perspective of any ruling class, taking in a group of poor, useless, potentially dangerous refugees was the last thing they wanted to do. But slave traders filled a crucial gap in this system. They took responsibility for these refugees, they fed them, they guarded them, they found buyers for them and put them to work. And in the process, the countries involved got to collect taxes and fees. It was a perfect arrangement for everyone—except, of course, the refugees themselves.
As Blake and his companions drew closer to the camp, the refugees and garrison soldiers alike noticed their arrival. Some of the refugees living on the outskirts of the camp—seeing their nominal owner approaching—put down their work and watched the group curiously. The garrison soldiers, however, frowned in displeasure. One of them stepped forward, striding over to meet them.
"Keith! What are you doing here again, you weasel? I'll tell you this straight—without the captain's orders, you're not taking a single one of these slaves away!"
"I'm just here to take a look, that's all—just a quick look..." Keith replied, forcing a bitter smile onto his face. He scurried over to the garrison soldier, slipping a few silver coins into his palm. Once the soldier had the money in his hand, he let out a cold snort and turned on his heel, walking away. After all, in his eyes, this group of four posed no threat whatsoever—let them do as they pleased... though he would have to report this little visit to the captain later, to let him know the weasel was poking his nose around again.
After watching the garrison soldier leave, Keith let out a long sigh of relief. Then he walked over to the edge of the refugee camp, where a leather-clad mercenary and several refugees were already waiting for him, crowding around eagerly.
"Mr. Keith! How is everything going?" one of the refugees asked, his voice filled with anxiety.
"How do you think it's going?" Keith replied with a sigh. "That one-eyed brute still isn't ready to let these people go. What about you guys? How are things here?"
"Things are terrible, Mr. Keith—terrible!" the refugee said, his face grim.
"We've almost run out of food entirely. A lot of people haven't eaten in days. Some of us tried to go into the forest nearby to hunt for food, but those damned soldiers stopped us. It's outrageous! Now some of the people are starting to get sick, Mr. Keith. If this goes on much longer..."
"This is a real mess..." Keith frowned, looking just as troubled as the refugee. His concern for these refugees was genuine—after all, he'd paid five gold coins per head to get them across the border! How could he not care about them?
From Keith's perspective, the last thing he wanted was for these refugees to die here. This was his last-ditch effort to save his business—if this deal fell through, he would lose everything. The Winterless Hand Trading Company would go bankrupt for good. But right now, he was stuck in a terrible situation. If the soldier had only been injured, Keith could have thrown some money at the problem and made it go away. But the soldier was dead—and no amount of money could bring him back to life. And the garrison captain clearly wasn't interested in compensation. He was determined to starve these refugees to death where they stood. In fact, he was probably waiting for them to try to escape or rebel—so he could have an excuse to slaughter them all.
As Keith and the refugee exchanged worried words, Ophelia watched the scene unfold with great curiosity. She had always assumed that refugees and slave traders hated each other—but now, watching the way these refugees interacted with Keith, she saw that their relationship, while not exactly friendly, was at least peaceful and cooperative. It completely overturned her preconceived notions about the relationship between slaves and their masters.
"How many people are there in total here?" Blake asked, standing at the edge of the camp and scanning the rows of tents with his eyes, his voice cool and detached.
"Six hundred and thirty men, three hundred and sixty women," Keith replied promptly—he had done his homework thoroughly. "Of those, over seven hundred are adults. The rest are elderly people and children."
"And how much will this cost me?" Blake asked, cutting straight to the chase.
"This..." Keith hesitated, taken aback by the question. He glanced at Kaster out of the corner of his eye, wondering what this young man was thinking. After all, even the most ordinary nobles would drag their feet when buying slaves—they would inspect every last person, checking for illness or weakness, before finally paying only for the healthy ones. There were always a few elderly, sick, or disabled people in every group of slaves. But slave traders knew this well—so they always inflated their prices a little, to make sure they didn't lose money on the deal. But this young man—he'd barely even glanced at the camp, and he was already asking about the price? It was far too hasty.
"Well... if your lordship is truly interested in buying them all, I can give you a discount," Keith said, hesitantly. "Nine thousand gold coins. Does that sound reasonable to you?"
"No problem," Blake replied without hesitation, nodding his head. Then he made a small gesture with his hand. Seeing the signal, Ophelia pulled a leather pouch from her pocket, took out several sparkling diamonds, and held them out to Keith.
"Here is ten thousand gold coins, Mr. Keith," she said, her voice calm and steady. "I trust this will be more than enough to cover the cost. And I would like you to hire some doctors and buy more food for these people—immediately. After all, I don't want a bunch of sickly, emaciated wretches arriving in my territory. I think you understand what I mean."
"Of course, honored sir—of course I do!" Keith replied, his eyes fixed on the diamonds in Ophelia's hand. He swallowed hard, realizing that he was dealing with a very wealthy client indeed. But instead of reaching out to take the diamonds, he looked at Blake with a worried expression on his face.
"But honored sir... these refugees are still being held captive by that one-eyed brute. We can't just..."
"You don't need to worry about that," Blake interrupted him, turning to face the merchant. His jet-black eyes stared at Keith calmly and steadily. Though Blake generally held slave traders in low regard, he had to admit that Keith's hesitation had earned him a modicum of respect. Keith could have easily washed his hands of this messy situation—he could have taken the money, handed over the refugees, and let Blake deal with the garrison captain on his own. But instead, he'd chosen to warn Blake about the danger. He knew that if he'd gone through with the deal without mentioning the captain, he would have ruined his reputation—and lost a potentially valuable long-term client.
It seemed Kaster had chosen the right man after all.
"I will handle the one-eyed brute personally," Blake said, his voice cold and confident.
"This..." Keith hesitated, looking even more troubled than before. He knew that Blake was someone important—there was no mistaking that air of authority. But as the saying went, a strong dragon could not defeat a local snake. Keith had been doing business in this area for years—and he had never heard of anyone like Blake before. He was beginning to doubt whether this young man really had what it took to stand up to the garrison captain... Wait a minute.
Suddenly, Keith froze. He looked up at Ophelia again, his eyes widening in realization.
That violet hair—shining so beautifully in the sunlight...
Royalty? Come to think of it, there had been some rumors floating around recently... Could it be...?
Keith's face paled. He said nothing more, quickly taking the diamonds from Ophelia's hand. Then he waved one of his mercenaries over, whispering a few urgent instructions in his ear. The mercenary took a small diamond from Keith's palm, then turned and hurried away. Only then did Keith take a deep breath, steal one last glance at Blake—who was still standing at the edge of the camp, looking out at the scenery—and then leaned over to Kaster, his voice low and urgent.
"Kaster... where did you find this man? Is he... is he who I think he is?"
"I am now the captain of the First Garrison of the Twilight Forest, Keith," Kaster replied, a smug smile spreading across his face. As the saying went, it was good to have a powerful patron.
"I think you know exactly what that means."
"I do! I understand perfectly!" Keith exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with understanding. Of course! How could he have been so stupid? Everyone on the plains knew about the powerful High-Rank Swordsman who ruled the Twilight Forest—and about the beautiful royal lady who stood by his side... Keith wanted to slap himself. How could he have missed such an obvious clue? Blake rarely made public appearances, but after the Midsummer Festival, the rumors about that beautiful royal lady had been everywhere! Had he gone completely senile?
"Mr. Keith," Blake's voice suddenly rang out, making the merchant jump in surprise.
"Yes! I'm here! My lord! What can I do for you?" Keith replied, bowing his head respectfully.
"Lead the way," Blake said, nodding his chin toward the camp.
"Now that these slaves are my personal property, I assume I have the right to inspect them?"
"Of course! Of course you do!" Keith replied quickly. Though no formal contract had been signed yet, the young man had already paid in full—and Keith had no intention of cheating him. The deal was done. In the space of a few short minutes, ownership of these refugees had passed to Blake. Such was the fate of slaves.
"Please, follow me, my lord!" Keith said, hurrying to walk ahead of Blake, his attitude now far more attentive and deferential than before. The few refugees who had been standing nearby watched the young man with a mixture of caution and curiosity. Then they exchanged glances and fell into step behind the group—after all, this young man was going to be their new master. Slaves had no right to choose their fate, but these people still wanted to see for themselves what kind of man he was.
Perhaps due to hunger and illness, the refugee camp was eerily quiet and lifeless. Most of the people were sitting outside their tents, resting listlessly. When they saw Blake and his companions walking through the camp, many of them looked up in surprise—but that was as far as their reaction went.
Keith, however, talked nonstop as he led Blake through the camp, eagerly explaining the refugees' backgrounds and skills. Now that he had guessed the young man's true identity, he was determined to make a good impression.
From Keith's explanations, Blake learned that this group of refugees was surprisingly diverse. Among them were farmers, blacksmiths, craftsmen, and even a few former soldiers—though these soldiers were not regular army troops. Generally speaking, slave traders avoided selling experienced soldiers to other countries, as they could pose a security risk. Most of these former soldiers were reservists or militia members; a few had once served in local garrisons, but after their hometown was destroyed, they had become refugees like everyone else.
Blake nodded silently to himself as he listened to Keith's words. Though this group of slaves was a mixed bag, that was actually a good thing. He hadn't bought these people just to put them to work in the fields or mines—unlike other lords who only cared about extracting labor from their slaves. Blake wanted to build a prosperous, well-rounded territory. To do that, he needed people with a wide variety of skills and talents. He couldn't rely on farmers alone—he needed blacksmiths to make tools and weapons, craftsmen to build houses and furniture, and merchants to trade with other territories. This diverse group of refugees was exactly what he needed.
As Blake walked through the camp, he rounded a corner—and then suddenly stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening slightly. He stared at a large tent standing off to the side. This tent was significantly bigger than the others—and it stood out for another reason as well: all the other refugees kept a respectful distance from it. It wasn't fear that kept them away—it was reverence. That was highly unusual.
"Who lives in this tent?" Blake asked, nodding toward the large tent.
"This one?" Keith followed Blake's gaze—and his expression immediately turned awkward and uncomfortable.
"This is Mr. Morland's tent, my lord. He was once a scholar and a merchant... but now, as you can see, he is just another refugee."
"A scholar and a merchant—how did he end up as a slave?" Ophelia asked, frowning in confusion. If she had been completely ignorant about refugee slaves before, now she understood the situation far better. On this continent, the title of "scholar" was one of great honor and respect. Only those with extensive knowledge, wisdom, and talent could earn such a title. Scholars were generally held in high esteem—few people dared to harass or mistreat them.
After all, Ophelia had once traveled the countryside disguised as a scholar, using that identity to avoid unwanted attention from nobles and soldiers. She knew firsthand how much respect the title commanded.
"Mr. Morland is a very good man," one of the refugees who had been following the group spoke up, when Keith hesitated to answer. It was the same man who had talked to Keith earlier, the one who had looked so anxious.
"When we were fleeing the Sith army, he was the one who gave up his own carriage so our children and elderly could ride in it. He spent all his money buying us food and water. Even after we were captured by those Sith bastards, Mr. Morland never abandoned us... but good people always seem to get the worst luck..."
The refugee trailed off, his voice thick with emotion. He seemed unable to continue. Blake looked at him in surprise, waiting for him to finish—but it was Keith who stepped forward, filling in the painful details the refugee couldn't bear to say.
"The young girl who was killed a few days ago... she was Mr. Morland's granddaughter."
I see, Blake thought to himself, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He walked over to the tent, intending to speak to Mr. Morland—when suddenly, the tent flap was thrown open, and a wooden staff came hurtling toward him, aimed straight at his chest.
The attacker clearly hoped to catch him off guard—but Blake was a knight, a High-Rank Swordsman. Such a clumsy, unskilled attack was nothing to him. Without even a moment's hesitation, Blake reached out his right hand and caught the staff easily, his grip firm and unyielding. Then a young, angry voice rang out from inside the tent:
"What do you villains want? Why have you come here again?"
It was a boy—no older than twelve or thirteen years old.