Chapter 260: Mother of Freedom

Blackrock Fortress, once the massive stronghold that the Principality of Corlay used to guard against Dark Creatures, had, after the Fishmen breached the capital, become the refuge where the Corlay Family and their followers settled under siege from all sides, reestablishing their base here. Thus, Blackrock Fortress turned into Blackrock City.

Compared to the besieged Church Nation, the Corlay Family’s situation was far better. Especially in recent days, the appearances of Dark Creatures had gradually lessened, seemingly in retreat. This gave the tense people a rare chance to breathe.

But when tension suddenly eased, people inevitably needed to vent.

Taverns and women—this simple and crude indulgence was what best allowed warriors, who had fought Dark Creatures with blades in hand, to relax.

Knights, however, were more restrained. They would rest quietly within their own manors, savoring brief moments of peace.

As the fortress of a Grand Duke, Blackrock Fortress, though not grand enough for such a status, was nonetheless the best available option at present.

Outside the fortress stood a cross, on which a ragged woman was bound. She was covered in bloodstains, filthy all over, reeking with stench. Piled beneath her feet were shards of stone.

Passersby, whether idle or irritable, picked up stones and hurled them at her. Even children, treating it like practice, used her as a target for training their throws.

Parents and nearby warriors praised these children for it.

After all, before bows and arrows, throwing stones was an excellent attack method.

Now, when every soldier mattered and every ounce of strength had to be squeezed, these children—perhaps only twelve or fourteen in a few years—would be thrown into battle. Such daily practice would only help them in the future.

As for the stoned woman, no one sympathized with her.

She came from the Church Nation, and even dared to plead with them for aid. Did she not know? The Corlay Principality’s capital had fallen, and the Church Nation had played no small role in that. Worse, after the fall, the Church Nation had even slaughtered the dispossessed nobles of the principality. And now, they had the audacity to send a woman here to beg for help.

“This is nothing but an insult!” shouted an old man with graying hair.

The listener grew impatient. “Then why don’t you simply kill her? To treat such a warrior in this way, to humiliate her so—”

The old man’s voice softened. “Raymond, you must understand—our followers need an object on which to vent their anger.”

Raymond Corlay, the last bearer of pure Corlay blood. It was precisely because no other bloodline was purer than his that, at only twenty years of age, he had become head of the Corlay Family, the current Grand Duke of Corlay.

The purer the bloodline, the greater the ability to wield a Sacred Relic.

The young Grand Duke sat on the throne, clad in luxurious robes. On his right hand, both his middle and index fingers bore rings, and his forehead was crowned with the circlet of a Grand Duke. His eyes were heterochromatic—one a dark shade of brown, the other a bright emerald green.

Raymond glared at the old man, saying, “So, the nobility has fallen so low that they must insult a woman in order to vent? How can such nobles ever restore the principality?”

The old man was a Corlay elder, of his grandfather’s generation. In the absence of a scholar serving as political advisor, the elder temporarily held that role, handling affairs of state.

“She is no mere woman,” the elder said. “She represents the Church Nation. You know their doctrine as well as I—coexistence with them is impossible. She is our enemy, and against the enemy, there is no distinction of gender, no need for mercy.”

He gave Raymond a deep look, then continued, “Of course, if you wish to use her to bear children of your blood, that could be considered differently.”

“As you said yourself, she is a warrior. A woman of such will—joined with you—would bear heirs of strong bloodline, worthy successors.”

Raymond rose, walked to stand before the elder, and declared, “I only admire her courage. I respect her as a warrior. I despise you for humiliating such a woman.”

The elder chuckled. “This is politics, Raymond. I know you don’t yet understand what politics means. But no matter. All you need do is embrace the power of the Sacred Relics, grow accustomed to the Suits of Armor, and become strong enough to drive away the Fishmen. Leave politics to me.”

His voice grew heavier. “Raymond, I am your great-uncle. Our veins carry the same blood. We are both survivors of the Corlay Family. And we share one purpose: to make the Corlay Family great again!”

Raymond did not look back at him. He left the hall straightaway.

Politics was complicated—but was it really worth so much weight?

Raymond did not think so.

Back when the principality still stood, there had been treaties and trade with the Fishmen. Was that not politics? But in the end, status was decided not by words, but by armies and strength.

Politics? What use?

If one hated the Church Nation, then grow strong enough to destroy it.

If one wished to expel the Fishmen, then grow stronger still, and kill them.

Political balance? Did that mean clinging to nobles who vented their anger on a bound woman?

Besides, when the principality fell, was it not through political compromise that the Fishmen reached the capital?

Now, the Fishmen waged war only against the Church Nation. The principality’s remnants faced only Dark Creatures once held back by a border marquis.

And yet, here, even with the gathered Corlay Family, many nobles, and knights, they were suppressed by these Dark Creatures. Was this truly the nobility of the Corlay Principality?

And the north? There was no barrier there. Even if the Northern Kingdom was not safe, one could still go through it to trade with the outside world. Yet the nobles could not even protect a single merchant caravan.

Raymond was not ignorant, only inexperienced in politics. He saw the strangeness within the principality but could not pinpoint its cause.

However, before the Church Nation woman was bound to the cross, she had secretly slipped him a copy of the Church Nation’s Sacred Scriptures. Then he understood.

Every noble in this land bore sin.

…

Lever Town. Founded by George, along with those who had drunk his blood.

But calling it a town was only because of the population.

There were no walls here, only square huts of packed earth. Even George’s own residence was merely a slightly larger hut.

In contrast, the harbor was lively.

The Senate’s appointed tax official worked here, collecting taxes.

Merchants often joked among themselves, “A village or town may do without an administrator, or a captain of guards—but never without a tax official.”

Yet in truth, this harbor’s tax official had little to collect. Most of the ships docking here carried food supplies granted by the Senate.

Naturally so. These lands had for years survived only through the lifeblood of the York Territory. They produced nothing of their own.

But in the past year, business of a certain kind had begun to grow here.

“Mother of Freedom—what an insulting title,” Melia could not help saying.

She was in George’s dwelling. George had already gone to rest, and so she was speaking instead with Bev, the captain of the women warriors who served as the settlement’s guard and the town’s second-in-command.

Bev replied, “How is it an insult? To be a mother is a thing of pride. It means bringing forth new life.”

Melia said, “But they treat you like prostitutes. And worse—prostitutes meant for bearing children.”

Bev said, “If you call it prostitution to accept coin in exchange for bearing children, then perhaps it is not wrong.”

Melia’s face flushed crimson.

This land could not yet yield crops. The surrounding waters were polluted, with little fish. They could not live by fishing, yet the town had over a thousand mouths to feed.

The Senate’s supplies still arrived, but only enough to keep them from hunger. What of clothing? Pottery, woodcraft, iron tools?

They were like newborns. Unlike infants, they matured quickly, yet they had no foundation in farming or crafts. They could only purchase such goods.

But to purchase, they needed gold. And they had no way of earning it—until one sailor, unable to resist, proposed such a transaction. From then, it became Lever Town’s main trade.

All the women here were full-bodied, of prime childbearing age. They were simple, pure of heart, without schemes. Each could recite the Sacred Scriptures and lived by them. They did not seek to cheat clients. Prices were fixed. They strove only to give guests the greatest ease and comfort.

When they conceived, they left the trade, devoting themselves to child-rearing. When the client returned, they would tell him, “This is your child,” and even let him name it. They raised the children well, regardless of whether the father was a homeless mercenary. They gladly bore and nurtured his bloodline.

Such purity left visitors conflicted.

The life here was peaceful, without rowdiness. Some men came simply to spend coin talking with the women, even without procreation.

Bev said, “Reproduction is the cycle of life set by the Lord, and childbirth is what the Lord blesses. Since we accept their coins, it is right that we give them the rest they seek.”

Seeing Melia still flushed, at a loss for words, Bev continued, “Of course, I understand. You may ask whether it is by choice, or forced. That is why we formed the women warriors—to guard against anyone trying to force those unwilling to bear children.”

At last, Melia forced out, “I recall there were men who came here as well.”

Bev replied, “They labor hard. They carry the coins we earn, follow the ships to York Territory, and bring back what we need. While there, they try to learn crafts to teach the children here.”

“As you suspect, most of the girls are willing, but some are not. We hope to give them skills, so they have another path.”

“Both men and women here strive together. We believe one day we will have our own ships, our own wealth.”

“The lords may give us food, but that is only pity. If we truly wish to live well, it must come from ourselves.”

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