Three days later, the convoy rolled through the gates of Grain Base No. 19. The trucks hissed to a stop, and the back doors swung open. Rathord and his nine companions stepped down with the rest of the refugees. Soldiers guided everyone to long rows of simple prefab houses, neat and solid, with clean mattresses and shared washrooms. To people who had slept in ditches and burned-out barns, these small rooms felt like palaces.
Outside, the plains spread wide and rich. Newly tilled fields shone with damp soil, and farming machines rumbled back and forth like iron oxen—plows, seeders, water wagons. The engines coughed and growled; the fields answered with steady furrows and perfect lines of seed. The whole place moved with purpose.
For the displaced and homeless, this was heaven: a roof, hot meals, clean water, safe beds. For Rathord and the noble heirs, it was also a stage—a place to hide in plain sight while they planned their return.
That evening, in a quiet dorm room, Rathord gathered the Nord Restoration Council. They were fewer than ten, but they sat as if they were a full court, backs straight, pride shining behind tired eyes.
One of them groaned and flopped onto a bunk. "These people make us work from morning to night. It's killing me."
Another rubbed his shoulders. "I'm more tired here than I ever was at the academy. If I had known it would be like this, I would have stayed in class."
Their complaints built like steam. They were pampered sons of nobles who had never pulled a plow or carried water. Three days of field labor felt like a punishment sent by the gods.
But the other refugees were different. They laughed as they learned to use the tools. They traded recipes in the canteen. Some sang while moving sacks of grain. Even the old men kept up, because the machines did the heavy work and the tools were smartly made. The overseers did not whip or shout; they taught. There were breaks, hot soup, and pay chits handed out at sundown. If you worked well, the foreman told them, you could earn a small plot of your own within the year.
In that whole base, the only people who did not fit were Rathord's group—their mouths bitter, their hands soft, their pride stung by the sight of peasants smiling.
Rathord slammed his palm against the table. "If you cannot bear a little hardship, how will you revive Nord?" His voice cut through the room. The others lowered their eyes.
He took a breath and made his tone firm but calm. "Report your gains from these three days. Not food. Not games. What have you learned that helps our cause?"
Silence. Then, awkwardly, someone raised a hand. "The canteen food is… actually very good," he said, shrinking under Rathord's stare. "Better than what I ate in the capital of the Tongsley Empire."
Another spoke up, eager. "There's a market near the south gate. The barbecue there is the best I've ever had. And they sell these little carved stone tiles—mahjong—it's a game. Very fun."
Rathord's temple throbbed. He gripped the table to stop himself from shouting, then failed. "Gains! I asked for gains that matter! Not your stomach, not your games!"
Everyone froze. A long, stiff silence. Then a timid voice from the back: "I… met a man at the card tables. He's from Nord like us. He talks a lot about the old days, how his family used to be minor nobles. I think I can bring him in."
Rathord's anger cooled. "Good. That is useful. Is he reliable?"
"I don't know," the young man admitted. "He drinks. But he talks like he misses the old order. I think there's something there."
"Invite him tomorrow," Rathord said. "If he's truly one of us, we will bring him into the Council."
The next afternoon, a middle-aged man in plain clothes stepped into their dorm. He had sun-dark skin, careful eyes, and a smile that came and went like a stray thought. He sat when offered a chair, hands folded politely.
Rathord studied him. "You're from Nord?"
"Yes," the man said. "My family… was once noble." His face tightened slightly on the word noble, then relaxed again. "We lost everything long ago."
Rathord leaned forward. "We are reviving Nord. We are the last true heirs. Will you join us?"
The man's eyes widened. "Rebellion?" he blurted before clapping a hand over his mouth.
"Quiet!" Rathord hissed, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him close. "You'll get us all killed."
He lowered his voice. "Yes. We are Nord. Our kingdom was crushed, our lines hunted. We cannot let Nord die. We will rise again."
The man's mind raced. He wasn't a noble. His family had been farmers for generations. Maybe once, hundreds of years ago, a great-grandfather held a title—but that was a story told to children by candlelight. He had lied about being a noble to win face at the card table. And now here he sat, with nine young men who clearly believed it and wanted him in a conspiracy.
If he told the truth, they might kill him. If he played along, he might survive—and maybe profit.
He put on a solemn face. "Reviving Nord is the duty of every Nord," he said, stealing words from a poster he'd seen. "To tell the truth… I am part of a group. All Nord people. We work in secret. We plan to rise when the time is right."
The nine nobles straightened, eyes bright. "Fellow countrymen!"
Rathord gripped the man's hand. "Where is your group?"
"In Tino City," the man said smoothly. "The old capital. If you wish, I can take you there tomorrow. You can meet our leader. With your guidance, Prince Rathord, we will be stronger."
The room erupted in relief and joy. At last, an ally. At last, a path. They clasped the man's shoulders, thanked him, promised him honor when Nord returned.
He nodded, bowed, and left the room. Only when the door shut did he let out a long breath. He shook his head and smirked. Rebel? Not in this lifetime. Here, life was good—lighter work with machines, good food, regular pay, card games at night, and a promise of land if he kept at it. Only a fool would throw that away.
He remembered a notice posted at the gate: "Report spies and saboteurs—1,000 gold coins per head." He did a quick count on his fingers and nearly laughed aloud. Nine heads. That's 9,000—no, wait, the flyer said from 1,000, more for leaders… this could be 10,000 or more. He whistled a happy little tune all the way back to his bunk.
At dawn, the man met them at the base gate, cheerful and punctual. They caught a work bus into Tino City. The road ran straight and smooth, lined with new grain fields, workshops, and warehouses marked with the crest of the Kingdom of Ross. Everywhere they looked, there were signs of order: irrigation ditches, grain silos, watchtowers, telegraph lines that hummed in the wind. Farmers waved as the bus rolled past; children chased each other along the fences.
Rathord pressed a hand to the window and stared. "All this used to be ours," he thought bitterly. "Tino City, heart of Nord—our crown, our pride." He pictured a different morning, years from now, when his army would march down this same road, banners snapping, people cheering, the crown set upon his head by the will of the nation.
The bus drew closer to the city. Tino's walls rose clean and white where they had been patched and rebuilt. New gates of iron replaced the old wooden doors. Watchlights hung from tall poles even though it was day, each wired to a box with switches and glass fuses. The guards at the checkpoint wore crisp uniforms. Their rifles were polished. Their boots matched.
The middle-aged guide glanced at the nine young men and hid a smile. He could almost hear their thoughts crack; the sight of Tino thriving under Ross rule cut deeper than any insult. The city lived. It did not need them.
The bus stopped at a square with a fountain shaped like a wheat stalk. A market thrived around it—bread sellers, smiths, herbalists, tailors, and a stall with the same barbecue one noble had raved about. Children laughed. A violin sang. A pair of half-orc girls in blue overalls carried a crate of tools between them and joked about a harvest dance.
Rathord's men stared, caught between envy and wonder. It made them angry, and it made them ache. Their memories of Nord had been gilded by distance; in truth, the old nobles had not built much for common folk. Ross had. The evidence stood on every street.
They turned down a side road, then another. At last the middle-aged man pointed across the street. "There," he said. "Our office." He led them toward a sturdy stone building with a plain sign and a flag hanging from a pole. The flag showed a golden grain sheaf on blue.
Rathord's steps quickened. His heart beat faster. At last, allies. At last, organization.
They climbed the steps. The door opened from within.
On the threshold stood two officers in dark uniforms with silver piping, and a clerk with a ledger. The clerk smiled brightly. "Welcome to the Tino City Police Station."
For a second, no one moved. Then the middle-aged man bowed. "Good morning, officers. I'm here to report spies. There are nine." He gestured politely to Rathord and the others. "They asked me to take them to their 'organization.' I chose yours."
Everything happened at once. The officers stepped forward—calm, practiced, not cruel. One spoke gently: "No sudden moves, please." Another collected the nobles' names while a third opened a drawer and handed the clerk a sealed coin pouch. It clinked heavy.
Rathord flushed hot, then cold. His men reached for mana by reflex but found no fight in them; they were students, not killers. The police offered water, chairs, and a chance to speak in private rooms. The whole process felt like checking in at a post office, not a battlefield.
As they sat, hands shaking, Rathord stared at the floor. He expected chains, beatings, mockery. Instead he heard paperwork, soft voices, a kettle hissing. This system did not roar or boast. It worked.
Through the open window, he heard the city breathe: wheels on stone, boots in step, merchants calling prices, a child laughing. It sounded less like an enemy and more like a future he had never learned to imagine.
He remembered the soldier at the border: Work hard and you'll have land. From today, we are family.
His throat tightened. He had come to light a spark. All he had found was rain—clean, steady, and good for crops.
He shut his eyes and whispered to himself, "That is really a bright future." He did not know whether he meant it with hope or with fear.
Outside, the fountain kept singing, and the city kept moving. The road ahead was very long—for him, for his nine companions, for Nord, and for Ross. But out there, under the sun, people were already walking it.
— End of Chapter 96 —
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