Chapter 38: have to face reality eventually

Phield actually had a Divine Chosen maid?

Even in the wealthy Maple Leaf territory, there was only a single Divine Chosen—the “Peerless Dancing Girl.” What on earth had Phield relied on to attract a Divine Chosen willing to pledge her loyalty?

No wonder Baron Phield dared to enter the Nightfall Domain. He had a Divine Chosen protecting him.

“Just like my lord always says—this is nothing yet, right?”

Phield’s maid, Nina, let out a snort of laughter. This carefree, blunt-spoken maid squinted her eyes as she smiled. “Even I’m not worried. As a man, what are you afraid of?”

Tate scratched his head awkwardly. Being mocked by a maid was downright humiliating.

“Hurry up and pull yourself together. The higher our operational efficiency, the lower the chance of being completely surrounded by corpse hordes.”

Phield glanced at the minimap. A massive number of skull icons were stirring restlessly, covering almost the entire map. A vague sense of unease crept into his chest.

The corpse hordes were becoming more active.

Damn corrupted creatures—no matter how many you killed, they never seemed to run out.

“Move faster. Get the slaves moving!” Phield’s tone hardened. “Breaking through the corpse hordes is dangerous, but staying in place is just waiting to die.”

Tate clenched his teeth. There was no time to think anymore.

“Yes, my lord!”

Countless rotting corpses surged out of the gray mist, only to be burned to ash by the Drakewolf. Then more followed, wave after wave, like moths throwing themselves into a flame—without any visible end.

Phield’s worries came true. By the time they reached the Grand Winery, thirty-nine people had died to corpses and monsters. One warhorse had its leg broken in a collision, two ordinary horses were bitten to death, and seven goats were used to lure away corpse tides. The losses were heavy—but fortunately, none of the food supplies were lost, and no one from the cavalry was killed.

For Tate, this journey had already surpassed every moment of danger he had experienced in his entire life. His daughter and wife climbed down from the carriage in shock, their legs giving out as they collapsed to the ground. They sat there dazed for a long while, still clinging to each other and trembling uncontrollably.

Saying he didn’t regret entering the Northern Province would be a lie.

The corpse attacks along the way had almost never stopped. If it weren’t for the fact that once inside the gray mist there was no way back out, Tate would have slapped himself twice and turned around immediately.

Upon reaching the territory, Tate was stunned by what he saw. He had thought the Northern Province was bad enough—but Phield’s “castle” was just as terrible. Strictly speaking, it looked like a drafty structure leaking wind from all sides. Fine—calling it a Grand Winery was more accurate. It was completely a winery.

Still, the fully armed guards, along with Ashina’s overwhelming strength, gave him a sliver of hope.

Phield wasn’t in a great mood either. Compared to the first trip, the losses this time were far too heavy. Without human shields, the scale of the convoy had been too large. Back then, Connor’s entire knight order had been wiped out, which was precisely what allowed Phield to reach the winery safely.

“This was too greedy. A three-hundred-man convoy was simply too big—there was no way to protect everyone when we were attacked.”

Rubbing his temples, Phield forced himself to look on the bright side. “At least we brought all the food back. That alone means we didn’t lose.”

The good news was that while Phield had been gone, the territory hadn’t been attacked.

The slaves were already digging in the fields. The first batch of farmland had been purified and immediately put into production.

Though the soil was barren, it was still far better than leaving it abandoned.

“No plows—this efficiency is way too slow.”

Phield rode toward the Grand Winery, looking around as he went. The slaves were hacking at the ground with hoes or even digging directly with their hands. The scene was completely different from what Phield remembered about farming. There were no ridges between fields, meaning they didn’t understand ridge cultivation at all—not even drainage ditches separating plots. “There are several oxen in the Nightfall Domain. With plows, we could cultivate the land much faster.”

Still, it didn’t really matter. There weren’t many fields anyway. Even relying purely on manpower, the slaves could get the job done.

At least it kept everyone busy, so they wouldn’t start harassing women or getting into fights once they were full.

“The entire Nightfall Domain… is it all slaves?”

Tate was dumbfounded. Phield was the most unusual lord he had ever seen.

“Not entirely. There’s a small open area south of the Grand Winery that I’ve set aside for freefolk—about a dozen people or so. You could say I lured them here.”

Phield spoke bluntly. There weren’t many secrets in the Nightfall Domain. Without mist-dispelling lamps, ordinary people had no chance of escaping.

Tate’s mouth opened wide enough to swallow an ostrich egg.

“That’s why this place is perfect for you. It’s like a giant prison—the mist is the cage. Your job is to be my internal affairs advisor: prevent slave uprisings and assign labor.”

“It really is just like a prison.” Tate’s mouth twitched.

“There’s still a difference. They’re people, after all.”

Phield glanced at the waste on the ground and frowned again. “I plan to allocate part of their labor time to reform—like learning new skills or correcting bad habits. Especially relieving themselves wherever they feel like it.”

It seemed his previous prohibition hadn’t worked very well.

Thankfully, the weather wasn’t warm. Otherwise, Phield might not have been able to sleep at all.

Tate had mostly recovered from his earlier fear and was now looking around as well.

The slaves working nearby immediately dropped what they were doing when they saw Phield on horseback, rushing forward to kneel and salute him. Then came the patrolling guards, along with Kaor wandering the fields. Seeing the returning convoy, they ran over excitedly.

“Thank the gods—Lord Phield, you’re finally back!”

Kaor was so emotional he nearly burst into tears, almost throwing himself forward to kiss the horse’s hooves. He had been terrified that Phield might have run off alone or died on the road—because if that happened, he would be finished.

“Yes, but the credit mainly goes to Ashina, and to the brave warriors who protected us with their lives.”

Phield had no intention of mentioning the minimap—that was his personal secret.

Ashina had faint dark circles under her eyes, and a rare trace of languor showed in her beautiful gaze. Killing corrupted corpses night after night would exhaust even a Divine Chosen. Still, her wolf ears swayed smugly, making it clear she was in a very good mood.

She didn’t bother with polite words. Ashina merely nodded to the crowd. Lately, she had grown fond of Phield’s calm and restrained style, and rarely showed her lively side in public anymore.

Only in private did she enjoy playfully teasing Phield.

“We are willing to offer our lives for you, my lord!”

Hearing Phield praise them, Sam and the others immediately straightened their backs. For some reason, their lord particularly liked seeing people stand tall. Since that pleased him, they were more than happy to comply. Sam struck his chest armor with a right hand stained with dried blood. “All thanks to the blessing of the Goddess of Winter, protecting our beloved lord.”

Great—one trip out, and they’d become even more sycophantic. A bunch of bootlickers.

Kaor rolled his eyes disdainfully, though a smile still crept onto his face. Every guard who returned meant the territory was that much safer, and it meant he wouldn’t be so frightened that he couldn’t sleep—or even dare to go to the toilet at night.

“My lord, forgive my bluntness, but please don’t take such risks again. I pray every night and worry myself sleepless,” Kaor shouted loudly.

“This time, after returning, I won’t be leaving the territory again for quite a while.”

Maple Leaf City was pleasant, but compared to his own dilapidated land, it never truly felt like home. The journey had also been too grueling, and Phield was exhausted. He waved his hand. “First, arrange housing for my advisor and the freefolk. Then designate an area for the slaves to live in—place it next to the former slave camp.”

Phield didn’t have the energy to do more for now. Days of nonstop fighting and high-intensity map observation had drained him completely.

“The cavalry will take three days off. Sam, you too—three days of leave. Go get some proper rest. Kaor, organize the freefolk and have them distribute meals to the slaves. Each person gets two loaves of bread and a serving of vegetable stew. I don’t want them surviving the corpse tides only to die of hunger.”

Most of the thirty-plus slaves who died had been slow on their feet, largely the elderly. Phield still felt a pang of regret—those were laborers, after all. What a waste.

Only after returning to the Grand Winery did Phield feel the air turn fresh again. Though there was still a faint trace of mold, it was far cleaner and more comfortable than outside. The stone walls had regained their original color instead of being smeared with dark purple remnants of corruption. The interior was slightly damp, clearly showing that the maid Meg hadn’t slacked off and had cleaned the winery thoroughly.

There was no human waste inside either. Phield had seen plenty of it before—some servant had been too lazy to go outside and relieved themselves indoors. Fortunately, as Phield’s authority grew, that person no longer dared to do it. Of course, it was also possible they had simply cleaned it up themselves.

“Hmph. Don’t let me catch you.”

Phield was curious about which bastard it had been. If it turned out to be a maid, she’d get a hard spanking.

After dinner and a long, comfortable bath, Phield lazily reclined in a cushioned armchair, every cell in his body finally relaxing. The newly purchased furniture made his room look somewhat proper at last. At the very least, the tables, chairs, and bed had all been replaced with high-quality furnishings befitting a noble. No more worrying about chairs creaking under him.

Phield took out the spellbook Flame Robe. Even though he had no magic, that didn’t stop him from being curious about it.

Knock knock knock.

Unbothered by the interruption, Phield placed the spellbook back on the shelf and cleared his throat.

“Come in.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Lord Phield.”

The visitor was Tate, known by the epithet “Gaoler.”

Nicknames were common in this era. Phield had even fantasized about earning titles like “Steel Rod” or “Demonic Muscleman”—they sounded pretty cool.

“My lord, I’ve come to understand your intentions, so I can manage the Nightfall Domain more accurately.”

Tate hadn’t rested at all. He had walked the entirety of the Nightfall Domain, and the stench of sweat clung to him. He looked anxious and uneasy. “For example, should this year’s focus be on taxation, population, or food?”

These were the core concerns of most nobles.

“You’ve entered work mode faster than I expected,” Phield said with a satisfied nod.

Seeing Tate’s earlier poor mood, Phield had half-expected him to quit on the spot.

Tate answered honestly, “People have to face reality. My family is already bound to the Nightfall Domain. Of course I’ll give it everything I’ve got. I don’t want my children to end up in the jaws of corrupted corpses.”

“Good. But the next phase of work won’t focus on taxation, food, or even population.”

Phield took a sip of red tea.

The wretched conditions of the Nightfall Domain didn’t allow for real output yet.

Even if he set absurd targets like earning a hundred million gold coins a day, it would be meaningless—just empty slogans. Phield had no interest in that kind of impractical nonsense.

“First, we must gradually reclaim corrupted farmland and houses, organizing manpower to remove all traces of corruption. As the lord, I possess a domain talent. Once the corruption is completely cleared, the mist won’t be able to seep back in.”

Phield paused, then continued, “Second, we need to educate the slaves—turn them all into obedient, skilled laborers. Ideally, they should all become freefolk. If we’re talking about reforming people, you should be the professional here. But let me warn you: don’t be fooled by how pitiful some of them look. Quite a few have committed crimes in secret. Sort them out quickly so we can proceed further.”

What is noble is the person, not the profession. Likewise, what is base is also the person, not their circumstances.

Even among slaves, oppression exists. It’s ironic.

This time, Tate was genuinely surprised.

“You actually have such precise, well-structured, and forward-looking guidance on governance. It’s truly astonishing.”

This man looked upright and honest—turns out he was quite good at flattery.

Phield chuckled. “Isn’t this just basic competence?”

“No. At least, I’ve never heard of it. Most lords focus on this year’s taxes and food, or on armies, family affairs, and noble ladies. You’re the first I’ve seen who truly cares about matters at the bottom.”

“Oh?”

Phield lightly tapped his fingers on the tabletop, producing a pleasant rhythm. He liked tapping the table when thinking.

Because before transmigrating, he had been a modern man with a modern education, many things Phield considered perfectly ordinary appeared unbelievable to people of this era.

…

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