Chapter 65: Self-interest is a biological instinct.

The two of them searched around the cave for a while and eventually did find the Investigation Corps’ convoy—five carriages in total.

The horses pulling them were already dead. Their bodies were riddled with writhing tentacles and swollen tumors. Before long, they would have turned into corrupted horses, so Phield had no choice but to put them down properly.

Inside the first two carriages lay several male corpses. When the white cloths were lifted, their bodies were revealed to be covered in bite marks and torn wounds. They were likely wounded members of the Investigation Corps. All of them were dead, their eyes wide open, frozen in disbelief.

“No survivors.” Rosalia shook her head, then swung her blade and cleanly severed the corpses’ heads to prevent reanimation.

Phield found that perfectly reasonable. “Anyone capable of deploying something like a Grievance Widow wouldn’t make such a rookie mistake.”

The remaining three carriages were packed with valuable supplies.

Phield found sets of plate armor superior even to those used at the border fortress, along with ten full suits of heavy chainmail. In an era without gunpowder weapons, chainmail offered terrifying defensive capability—most weapons couldn’t cut through it, and even blunt force was largely dispersed.

The value of ten suits of chainmail was enough to buy an entire farm.

In addition, there were seventeen sets of heavy horse armor, several finely crafted weapons, two crates of mana potions, and one chest filled with bloodstained personal belongings—jewelry, coins, farewell letters, and family banners.

“There’s no doubt about it—they were completely exhausted,” Phield said, instantly grasping the situation. “Other than weapons and armor, there wasn’t even food or extra potions left.”

He had found only half a piece of gnawed smoked jerky. Shaking his head, Phield continued, “Even the wounded who were sent ahead were already in such dire straits. I don’t even dare imagine what kind of situation Miss Sherry is in.”

“After all, there are no supply depots along the route, and no villages they could loot,” Rosalia said, one hand on her hip while spinning her flail with the other like a whirling propeller. She spoke cheerfully. “Imperial knights can’t conjure food out of thin air. Even Divine Chosen have to eat—except for the invincible me.”

For Rosalia, killing was eating.

“You shall receive a title from me,” Phield declared happily. “Nightfall Domain’s First Laborer! The very first! What an honorable title!”

From that day on, the Drakewolves that survived by devouring corrupted corpses, and Rosalia, who survived by slaughtering corrupted creatures, would be collectively known as Nightfall Domain’s First Laborers.

“I refuse!” Rosalia protested loudly. “As punishment, you’re banned from kissing my feet for thirty seconds!”

Compared to flashy titles like “Peerless Dancing Girl” or “Crimson Rose,” Nightfall Domain’s First Laborer sounded unbearably stupid.

“So, going forward, our army needs a proper logistics system,” Phield said, completely filtering out Rosalia’s deranged remarks.

Most imperial nobles placed little importance on logistics, often resorting to pillaging to sustain their armies.

Only the Kingdom of Franveria, influenced by mercantilist thinking, had begun to improve military supply systems. Across the continent, however, plundering the enemy remained the norm.

Rosalia used chains to bind the carriages together and dragged them all back to the territory. Afterward, she carefully wrapped up her jewelry and hid it in a place known only to herself.

“Why does she love hiding things so much?” Phield muttered as he returned to the grand estate ahead of her.

He had barely finished directing the slaves to store the spoils when he hadn’t even warmed his chair.

“My lord, Tate requests an audience.” Mick said, holding a cleaning cloth as he scrubbed the estate spotless.

“Let him in.”

The moment Tate entered, he skipped pleasantries and went straight to business. “My lord, I’ve discovered a serious internal conflict forming among the slave population.”

Slaves were already at the very bottom—and they were still fighting among themselves?

Phield straightened up and gestured for him to continue.

“It’s like this,” Tate explained. “The stronger slaves are using their physical strength and combat ability to divide territory and people among themselves, forming gangs. They’re even sabotaging each other—for example, secretly destroying crops planted by rival groups.”

Wherever there were people, there would be infighting. Slaves were no exception.

“Within the gangs, there’s also a hierarchy. The stronger slaves do less work, dump their labor on the weaker ones, and use violence to steal their food and money.”

“Hah…” Phield exhaled slowly, his tone turning cold. “So resources are being funneled toward those who don’t work, while the ones who work hardest get the least. My food is fattening parasites, while diligent workers starve.”

“Yes. Your analysis is spot on,” Tate said angrily. He despised parasites more than anything. “We need to drag those people out and hang them.”

That idea was… a bit extreme.

After the great battle, Nightfall Domain had only 427 people left. They couldn’t afford that kind of loss.

Killing couldn’t fundamentally solve the problem. It would only reduce population and happiness—no one wanted to live in a territory where they could be hanged at any moment.

“Hang one batch and another will emerge,” Phield said calmly. “Hoarding resources is a biological instinct. You can’t pin everything on individuals or expect everyone to be purely good. Tate—otherwise, why would we need management?”

His fingers tapped lightly against the tabletop as he continued, “Yesterday, I selected thirty men as new recruits. Have them assist in suppressing and punishing gang members. For now, they’ll act as a security force.”

Turning his head toward Kaor, who was watching the spectacle nearby, Phield added, “Kaor, spend one hour every night teaching soldiers and the security team. Just basic words and numbers—nothing more.”

“Huh? Why teach them to read?” Kaor looked utterly unwilling. “They could die on the battlefield any day. And there’s no way they’re smart enough to learn.”

“Just do as I say,” Phield waved him off.

Kaor hesitated. “But I—”

“I heard someone’s been spreading rumors,” Phield said casually, taking a slow sip of red tea. “About me spying on female slaves while they relieve themselves.”

“Oh! Which bastard would spread such outrageous lies!” Kaor broke out in cold sweat, his legs shaking like noodles. “The Goddess herself would rot his tongue! I’ll teach them, I swear! This isn’t a burden—it’s an honor! I’ll cherish it, my lord!”

“Good. Get going.” Phield set down his teacup.

Kaor fled in a panic.

Tate looked confused but stood up. “My lord, I’ll return to work as well.”

“Not yet,” Phield said. “I plan to implement a new labor system—breaking work down to the individual level. For example, if a slave cultivates one acre of land, he earns five copper coins. If he clears corruption from a plot, he earns three. Not like before, where everyone worked together and received the same pay.”

Phield had already devised an effective solution.

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