New Wood Town, just outside Baron Duval's Castle.
After emerging from the Twilight Mountain Range, Murphy trekked for half a day and finally reached the market town built against the Baron's Castle.
The sun hung low, its lingering rays coating the muddy streets in a layer of dark gold. Even the simple wooden huts were steeped in the dim, yellow glow.
The air was a mix of woodsmoke, the stench of livestock, and the musty reek of rotting garbage.
After realizing he hadn't encountered any of Baron Duval's men on the road, Murphy didn't return to the Baron's Castle immediately.
He knew well that his status as a survivor was a sensitive one, especially given the involvement of Miss Douglas—the Duke's daughter and an enemy of Baron Duval.
If the situation inside the castle was unclear, there was no telling what those important figures might do.
Murphy tore off the hem of his clothes and wrapped it crudely around his head. He messed up his hair and hunched his back even more.
Although he didn't know any advanced Disguise Technique, no one would recognize him unless they knew him well.
Even better, he reversed a breath-regulating technique from his [Breathing and Guiding]. By deliberately altering his breathing rhythm, his originally steady disposition became hurried and frantic, and his eyes looked weary and unsettled.
After completing his Disguise, he found a sheltered spot outside of town to spend the night.
Only the next morning did he blend into the crowds of New Wood Town.
Although people were coming and going on the streets, every face bore a look of lingering sorrow.
The market stalls were sparse, their owners' cries listless. It was a world away from the bustling scene Murphy remembered from before the war, when he came here with his parents and little sister.
Murphy went to the "Broken Spear" tavern at the town entrance.
The tavern was cold and deserted, with only a few regulars drinking the cheapest ale in a corner.
He ordered a cup as well and sat in the most inconspicuous corner.
"These days just keep getting harder," an old, wrinkled farmer complained in a low voice. "They've collected taxes for the next ten years, but this year's land rent can't be a penny short."
"Tell me about it," a blacksmith's apprentice next to him chimed in. "Our shop hasn't paid wages in three months. The masters say the trade route is cut off, so there's no money."
"When will the Northern Trade Route ever reopen?" the old farmer sighed. "Caravans used to come and go, and we could sell our grain and furs for a good price. Now look at us, it's all just rotting in our hands."
The hand Murphy used to hold his cup paused for a moment before he lowered his head and continued to listen.
"I hear they're holding a mass in the castle soon..."
"Must be for those who didn't make it back from the mountains, right? My cousin helps out in the castle stables. He said they lost a lot of Knights."
"I think a few Grooms made it back later?"
"How would we know about things like that... But I did hear that some servants escaped and came back."
The so-called "Knights" were, of course, the followers. In the eyes of an ordinary farmer, however, they were as good as Knights.
And the followers were happy to accept the title, since a Knight's Attendant was already a quasi-Knight.
After that, the conversation gradually returned to the heavy taxes and the severed trade route.
Everyone's tone was filled with oppression.
Seeing there was no new information to be had, Murphy put down his cup and paid his bill.
The bartender sighed as he took the copper plate. "You're a new face, sir. Not many people come to New Wood Town on business these days."
Turning, he went to the market and stopped in front of a stall selling mountain goods.
The stall only had a few poor-quality furs and some bundles of dried herbs.
"Business hasn't been good lately, has it?"
Murphy asked as he examined the furs.
The stall owner was an old, weather-beaten man who shook his head with a bitter smile. "The trade route's been cut for three years. Even good things won't fetch a price. Before, these rabbit pelts would've been snapped up by a caravan long ago. Now? I could leave them out for three days and not get a single inquiry."
Murphy carefully selected the best-quality rabbit pelt and paid with a Silver Coin.
While the stall owner was inspecting the Silver Coin, Murphy asked casually, "I heard something happened in the Twilight Mountain Range a few days ago?"
Seeing that a sale was made, the stall owner's attitude warmed up a bit. "There are some rumors. They say the castle lost some men in the mountains. But how would commoners like us know the details? All we know is that the atmosphere in the castle has been off these past few days."
The stall owner's voice suddenly dropped, and a trace of fear flickered across his face. "They say it was the work of some Witch. May the starlight of Oriane protect us..."
He hastily made a gesture over his chest of a crescent moon cradling a star.
Murphy's heart stirred.
'A Witch?'
In his memories, that word had only ever existed in legends—in stories farmers told by the fireside to scare children.
But since the followers and Knights truly possessed power beyond that of ordinary people, perhaps supernatural beings weren't just fabrications either.
He feigned curiosity and pressed, "Do Witches really exist?"
The stall owner shook his head. "Who knows? But these aren't things for us to be asking about. Just surviving is hard enough."
Murphy chatted with the stall owner for a bit longer. When he could no longer glean any new information, he nonchalantly put away the rabbit pelt and continued to wander through the market.
As he passed the blacksmith's shop, he heard a heated argument from within.
A young apprentice said excitedly, "You're not giving us a single coin for three months of work? Are we supposed to live on air?"
The Old Blacksmith responded wearily, "What's all the shouting about? The lords in the castle still owe us a huge payment for goods. The trade route is blocked, the armor and weapons aren't selling. What am I supposed to pay you with?"
"But the tax collector came by again yesterday, demanding payment! He said if I don't pay the head tax, he's going to take my house!"
"Then let them take it!" the Old Blacksmith's voice was tinged with despair. "This shop is about to go under anyway..."
Murphy walked away in silence.
By the river, he saw the washerwomen using the cheapest wood ash; they couldn't even afford a decent bar of soap.
A long line formed outside the bakery, but most people were buying black bread mixed with bran.
Even more shocking were the beggars on the street corners.
There were men and women, old and young, all sallow-faced and emaciated, dressed in rags.
Their outstretched hands trembled in the cold wind, but passersby hurried to avoid them.
The war tax and the severed Northern Trade Route were like two nooses, strangling the life out of the entire domain.
Even if he left the Baron's Domain, things wouldn't necessarily be better elsewhere.
The various and sundry taxes from the Lords and the tithe from the Church Court were all inescapable.
Furthermore, his identity remained a huge problem. Without a sponsor, he was destined to never get a good job.
In comparison, returning to the Baron's Castle to be a Groom was a low-status position, but at least it provided a stable income and a relatively safe environment.
Moreover, he could use this identity to secretly cultivate [Breathing and Guiding].
Besides, its low status was only relative to that of followers, Knights, and nobles.
Compared to the townspeople and farmers struggling to survive under heavy taxes, Murphy's position as a castle insider already made him a man above others.
Just as he was about to leave, he saw an old man pushing a hay cart stuck in the mire.
The old man wore tattered straw sandals, their edges worn white, revealing his gaunt toes.
Next to him stood an extremely thin little boy, his bare feet in the cold mud, his small ribs clearly visible beneath his thin clothes.
Based on his experience, Murphy judged that they were probably farmers from near the town.
The hay was most likely used to reinforce their house for insulation, or to weave clothing, like the straw sandals on the old man's feet.
As for raising cattle, sheep, or horses—that was an unimaginable luxury for a family in their condition.
The old man pushed the cart with all his might, but the wheels only sank deeper into the mud pit.
The little boy also used all his strength to help, but to no avail.
Finally, both man and cart toppled over at the side of the road, spilling hay everywhere.
The old man struggled to get up, but he seemed to lack the strength.
Although the little boy was anxious, he didn't cry. He just silently used his frail arms to try and help the old man up, but ultimately lacked the strength.
Long-term malnutrition and heavy labor had robbed him of even that little bit of strength.
Murphy strode forward without a word. He silently reloaded the scattered hay onto the cart, then channeled his strength and easily pushed the wheels out of the mud pit.
He helped the old man up, and as he did, he discovered that although the man's arms were gaunt, they had firm muscles forged by long-term labor. Such muscle definition was characteristic of a man in his twenties.
This made Murphy realize that the man wasn't actually old. Years of labor, exposure to the elements, and the hardships of war had simply made him look exceptionally aged, as if he were nearly sixty.
"Thank you, my lord!"
The old man—or rather, the young man in his twenties—bowed deeply in thanks, his voice filled with humble gratitude.
The little boy followed his example, saying in a childish yet respectful voice, "Thank you, my lord, for helping my father."
But those words made Murphy's heart clench.
He immediately lowered his voice. "I'm no lord."
But the man insisted, "Anyone who can push this cart so easily must be a lord."
The little boy nodded repeatedly. "A lord is a lord."
This exchange put Murphy on high alert.
He realized his strength was now far beyond that of an ordinary person. He could reveal his secret unintentionally at any moment.
In this world, an ordinary Groom possessing such strength was bound to arouse unnecessary suspicion.
He hurried away from the scene and found a more hidden thicket outside of town to fix his disguise.
After thinking it over, he decided to stay outside the town for another night and return to the castle after the mass was over tomorrow.
By then, everyone's attention would be on the funeral, and his appearance might not draw too much notice.
'No! No matter what, as a survivor, I'm going to attract attention.'
'I just can't find a good time, so I'm just trying to comfort myself.'
[O Seeker, drifting through the mortal world, fate manifests before you two vastly different paths to the heavens.]
[Option One: Avenge your blood feud and wander afar with your sword for three years. As you dine on wind and dew, you observe the breathing of heaven and earth. As you sleep on snow and frost, you feel the pulse of all creation. Finally, upon a peerless summit, you attain an epiphany into the mystery of embryonic breathing, where your every breath aligns with the way of Nature.]
[Reward: Breathing and Guiding Technique "Slightly Accomplished"]
[Option Two: With your vengeance complete, return to Lingyun Pavilion and willingly become a Named Disciple, continuing your five-year bond with horse-rearing. Day after day, you observe the rhythm of fine steeds grazing, witness the muscular cadence of prized horses galloping, and perceive the long, steady breaths of good colts at rest. Gradually, from the natural life rhythm of the horses, you comprehend a deeper way of taming—not to control their form, but to follow their nature.]
[Reward: Horse Trainer: Ascending the Hall and Entering the Room]
'Hm.'
'Then there's nothing to hesitate about.'
Murphy thought to himself as he looked at the options.
Afterward, he took out the rabbit pelt he had bought from the stall owner and carefully wrapped up the Silver Coins and Gold Coins he had taken from Tommy Han's body.
He chose an inconspicuous spot in the forest outside of town, dug a deep hole with a branch, and buried the tightly wrapped coins in the earth. He then covered the spot with fallen leaves and dead twigs, making sure no trace was left, before nodding in satisfaction.