Chapter 338: Chapter 337- Four Whole Weeks

Four weeks.

It had been exactly four weeks since Lord Viktor Redwood arrived in Millbrook.

And the transformation was nothing short of miraculous.

Main Street—if you could even call it that anymore—stretched through the heart of the village like a merchant’s dream come to life. Wooden stalls lined both sides of the dirt road, some freshly painted, others still smelling of sawdust and pine. Banners fluttered in the evening breeze, displaying crude but enthusiastic symbols: a loaf of bread for the baker, a hammer for the smith, herbs tied in bundles for the apothecary.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. But there was another light—one that dominated the horizon with impossible presence.

The Tower.

It stood in the distance, easily visible from every corner of Millbrook. Purple and pink light pulsed from its surface in rhythmic waves, like a heartbeat made visible. The structure pierced the clouds, defying every law of architecture and physics.

Most people didn’t even glance at it anymore.

They’d grown used to the sight. Accepted it. The way you accept the sun rising or winter coming.

What they ’couldn’t’ ignore was what the Tower brought with it.

“Did you hear?” A woman’s voice cut through the crowd. She was middle-aged, round-faced, clutching a basket of vegetables. “Another hunter team tried the Tower this morning!”

“And?” Her companion—a younger woman with a baby strapped to her chest—leaned in eagerly.

“Wiped out. Every single one.” The older woman shook her head, but there was no fear in her expression. Just… resignation. “That makes two teams now. The first one barely made it out alive with nothing. The second? Dead. All of them.”

“Gods have mercy,” the younger woman whispered, making a warding gesture.

“Mercy nothing.” A man’s gruff voice interrupted. He was tall, broad-shouldered, a farmer by the look of his calloused hands. “That Tower’s a goldmine. Sure, it’s dangerous. But you know what that means?”

The women looked at him blankly.

“It means the ’strong’ hunters will come.” He grinned, showing missing teeth. “The ones from the capital. The ones with actual skills. And when they come, they’ll need supplies. Food. Lodging. Equipment.”

Understanding dawned on the older woman’s face. “So we—”

“So we profit.” The farmer nodded enthusiastically. “This village is about to become a hub. Mark my words. In six months, Millbrook will be more important than half the towns in the southern territories.”

“You really think so?”

“I ’know’ so.” He gestured toward the stalls around them. “Look at this. Four weeks ago, we had dirt roads and nothing else. Now? We’ve got merchants setting up permanent shops. Traders coming through daily. And Lord Viktor—” He paused, his expression shifting to something approaching reverence. “—Lord Viktor’s been building like a madman. Infrastructure. Jobs. Paying actual wages.”

“My husband got hired for construction,” the younger woman chimed in. “Fifteen silver coins a week. ’Fifteen!’ We’ve never had that kind of money.”

“See?” The farmer spread his hands. “The Tower might be dangerous, but it’s the best thing that ever happened to us.”

All around them, similar conversations echoed.

An elderly couple stood near the bakery stall, marveling at the fresh loaves displayed—actual white bread, not the usual rock-hard grain cakes.

“Can you believe it? White bread. In Millbrook.”

“Lord Viktor brought in better flour. And taught the baker new techniques.”

“I heard he spent three hours just ’teaching’ him. A nobleman. Teaching a commoner.”

“He’s different. Not like the nobles from stories.”

Children ran between the stalls, laughing and playing. Their faces weren’t hollowed by hunger anymore. Their clothes, while still simple, were clean and mended.

A group of young men clustered near the blacksmith’s stall, admiring newly forged tools.

“These are quality,” one of them said, hefting an axe. The blade gleamed in the fading sunlight. “Better than anything we’ve ever had.”

“Lord Viktor set up a proper forge. Brought in materials. Hell, I heard he ’made’ some of these himself.”

“A nobleman who can smith?”

“A nobleman who can do a lot of things, apparently.”

The atmosphere was ’electric’. Not with fear or uncertainty, but with ’hope’. Genuine, tangible hope.

And as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the street, the crowd began to grow thicker.

People emerged from their homes, from the fields, from the workshops. They gathered along Main Street, forming a dense mass of bodies—easily two hundred people, maybe more.

They were waiting.

At the far end of the street, a wooden platform had been constructed. Simple but sturdy, raised about three feet off the ground. Torches were being lit around it, their flames dancing in the evening breeze.

“Is it time?” someone asked.

“Almost. The lord should arrive soon.”

“I can’t wait to see what he announces.”

“My wife said there’s going to be something special. Something about blessings.”

“Blessings? What kind of—”

The crowd’s chatter cut off abruptly.

A sound.

’Clop. Clop. Clop.’

Hoofbeats.

Slow. Rhythmic. Approaching from the direction of the manor.

Every head turned.

And there, emerging from the twilight shadows, came a carriage.

But not just any carriage.

This was ’luxury’ given physical form.

Silver. The entire body was polished silver, gleaming like moonlight made solid. Intricate engravings covered every surface—patterns of vines, flowers, and strange symbols that seemed to shimmer when the light hit them just right.

Four white horses pulled it, their coats pristine, manes braided with silver thread. They moved in perfect synchronization, their steps precise and elegant.

The carriage wheels were reinforced with metal bands that ’sang’ as they rolled over the packed dirt—a clear, bell-like sound that cut through the evening air.

“By the gods…”

“Is that really Lord Viktor’s carriage?”

“Where did he even ’get’ something like that?”

The crowd parted instinctively, creating a path down the center of Main Street.

The silver carriage rolled forward slowly, giving everyone time to ’see’ it. To appreciate it. To understand that their lord wasn’t some backwater noble scraping by on inherited titles.

No.

Their lord had ’resources’.

The carriage came to a stop directly in front of the wooden platform.

For a moment, nothing happened.

The crowd held its collective breath.

Then the door opened.

And Lord Viktor Redwood stepped out.

The reaction was immediate.

Gasps. Whispers. A few scattered cheers that quickly grew into a roar.

Because Viktor looked ’different’.

Four weeks ago, he’d been fat. Obese, even. Soft and round, the kind of body that came from too much food and not enough exercise.

But the man who stepped onto that platform?

He was ’transformed’.

Tall—though he’d always been tall. But now his height was accentuated by a body that looked like it had been carved from marble.

Broad shoulders filled out a dark coat perfectly tailored to his frame. The fabric was fine—probably imported from the capital—and it moved with him like a second skin.

His chest was wide, powerful. You could ’see’ the definition even through the layers of clothing.

His waist was trim, creating that classic V-shape that made women’s eyes linger.

His arms—visible where his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows—were corded with muscle. Not the grotesque bulging kind, but the lean, functional strength of someone who ’worked’.

And his face.

Gods, his ’face’.

The fat was gone, revealing sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline. His dark hair was styled back, showing off features that could only be described as… aristocratic. Handsome. The kind of face that belonged on statues or in paintings.

But it was his eyes that really caught people.

Dark. Almost black. They absorbed light rather than reflecting it, giving him an intensity that was both magnetic and slightly unnerving.

“Lord Viktor!” someone shouted.

And the crowd ’erupted’.

Applause. Cheers. Whistles.

Viktor raised one hand, acknowledging them with a slight smile. Not arrogant. Just… confident.

Then he turned back toward the carriage.

And extended his hand.

A woman’s hand emerged first. Delicate fingers wrapped around his palm.

She stepped out.

And the crowd’s noise shifted—less cheering, more… fascinated murmuring.

’Mira.’

She was stunning.

Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that was both mature and beautiful. Green eyes scanned the crowd with intelligence and warmth.

But it was her ’body’ that drew the eye.

She wore a dress—dark green, form-fitting in all the right places. And there were a ’lot’ of right places.

Her breasts were massive. Heavy. The kind that made the dress’s neckline strain despite clearly being custom-made for her figure. They swayed slightly as she moved, drawing attention like magnets.

Her waist was thick but not fat—just ’womanly’. Soft. The kind of body that promised comfort.

And her hips.

’Gods’, her hips.

Wide. Childbearing. The dress clung to them, emphasizing curves that seemed almost exaggerated. Her ass was prominent even from the front, creating a silhouette that was pure fertility.

But there was something else.

Her belly.

It was… ’rounded’.

Not obviously. Not dramatically. But enough that those paying attention would notice.

She was pregnant.

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

“Is that Lady Mira?”

Mira smiled at the crowd, her hand resting briefly on her slightly swollen belly before Viktor guided her toward the platform.

The second woman emerged.

’Helena.’

If Mira was voluptuous, Helena was ’abundant’.

She was older—early thirties, perhaps. But her body was ’ripe’.

Brown hair fell past her shoulders. Warm brown eyes held a maternal gentleness that made people instinctively trust her.

And her figure…

She wore a simple dress—cream-colored, modest in design. But modesty meant nothing when your body refused to be contained.

Her breasts were ’enormous’. Larger than Mira’s. They hung heavy and full, straining against the fabric in a way that suggested they were filled with more than just flesh.

Her hips rivaled Mira’s in width. Her thighs were thick, pressing together as she walked.

And like Mira, her belly was slightly rounded.

Pregnant.

“Who are these women?”

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