Chapter Title: Damn Middle Ages
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Plip, plop!
Splash!
The sky had been overcast since morning, and now the raindrops were growing thicker by the minute.
Little rivulets formed in the road, carrying along all sorts of filth from the surroundings. If he hadn't been on horseback, Jeron would have had to slog through that rotten muck himself.
Mid-June.
The season already made it hard to stay clear-headed amid the stench of decay. And on days when it rained? That smell permeated the entire territory.
Jeron grimaced at the wretched sight and urged his horse onward.
"Damn Middle Ages."
He swept back his hair, soaked from the rain.
Along the road stretching all the way to the walls, the territory's people—dressed in threadbare clothes—prostrated themselves flat, bowing their heads.
Ragged, torn, patched together.
Adults, children, elders—everyone prayed for Jeron simply to pass by.
It was a scene he'd witnessed hundreds of times since birth, yet Jeron thought the same thing every time.
*What a truly irrational business.*
A worthless notion, born of being nobility.
This was a barbaric society where uttering even the first syllable of "noble" wrong could get your head lopped off.
What if Jeron hadn't been born a noble?
He wouldn't be looking down at them from horseback. He'd be the one groveling in the rotten, filthy mud.
Was that happiness enough?
"Young Lord."
"What."
Sir Garcia's wet hair strands swayed as he rode alongside. His adjutant had earned his knighthood young and was known as the territory's top handsome man.
They said no young women were left in the territory because of him. The glimpse of undergarment peeking out was oddly irritating.
"It's been three days since contact with the Lord was cut off, hasn't it? I don't know what's going on. This has never happened before. If something's happened to him..."
Thud!
Splat!
Sir Garcia tumbled from Jeron's kick.
Rolling in the rain-soaked shit-water on a day like this? The stench would linger for two days at least.
That might cut down on the territory girls clutching their skirts and sniffling.
"You little shit, how many times have I told you to watch your mouth? There's a proverb from the distant East: words are seeds. When a knight like you starts flapping his gums, the soldiers get rattled. I've told you that a hundred times. And with all these people around, do I have to do this?"
"I-I'm sorry. But I'm just so worried. What do we do? He's never done this before."
"Until today. If there's still no word by tonight, send out scouts."
"Yes, Young Lord!"
"And you, if I hear one more whisper about your dick steering you wrong, I'll cut it off."
"Ahem, it's my ironclad principle that all women in the world deserve happiness."
"You gonna scram or not?"
"Yes, sir!"
Garcia, embarrassed, dashed off through the pouring rain, bellowing at the top of his lungs.
As if yelling would absolve his sins.
"The Young Lord's procession! Everyone, on your knees!"
As they neared the walls—their destination—the mud started flowing in earnest, turning everything to sludge. But priorities were priorities: dropping to their knees before a noble trumped any work at hand. Folks abandoned their tasks and flung themselves down in a flash.
When Jeron was a boy, he'd once asked his father, Baron Ark Pellow.
*Father, do we really have to do it this way? It's the height of inefficiency. Every time we pass, the people kneel and bow—it's even a hygiene issue.*
*You come up with the strangest ideas. Hygiene? More importantly, the people kneeling is just basic courtesy to a noble. It's enshrined in noble law, and the moment discipline slips, governance falls apart.*
*So it's all to make ruling easier, keeping the masses dumbed down?*
*What insight! It's not just our kingdom—every nation runs on keeping the rabble ignorant. Why would we need the lower classes smart?*
That was when Jeron realized.
Maintaining a territory of thirty thousand with fewer than a thousand soldiers was nonsense.
Smarten up the populace, and headaches followed. It got harder to hold the land with so few troops.
Boosting the ranks meant massive upkeep—pay, gear, and more. So to manage with minimal forces, a policy of enforced ignorance was essential.
Jeron swallowed a curse bubbling up from his gut and called for the construction overseer.
"Sir Jenald!"
"Loyalty! Greetings, Young Lord!"
The veteran knight Jenald charged over, lips pressed tight, and dropped to one knee without hesitation in the muck where shit and mud mingled.
Loyalty, in its own way.
He traipsed in and out of the lord's castle looking like that, so ideally he'd skip the formalities. But with noble law this and gossip that, Jeron just endured it.
"Why the delays? Mud's spilling everywhere."
"Kill me, please! The rain's relentless—work's been hell."
"Speed it up. Father's due back any day now, and the work has to be done. You haven't forgotten last year."
"As if!"
Jenald's under-eyes were blackened from exhaustion, no doubt.
Already near-bald, rain like this made you worry his remaining hair would fall out. He looked like a drowned rat—did the man even grasp hair loss?
But noble commands overruled baldness.
This by-the-book old knight flushed red and started hounding the foremen.
"You idiots! The Young Lord has issued a special order. Move it!"
"Yes!"
Prodded, the foremen cracked down on the laborers. The laborers, in turn, lashed the slave workers mercilessly.
It worked.
A good thrashing boosted productivity.
No helping it.
Barbarian stragglers crossed the walls now and then, and undead hordes occasionally pushed south. They had to finish before month's end, come hell or high water.
If trouble hit the Pellow Territory—ennobled as a barony by the king—no neighboring lords would lift a finger.
This was the harsh Middle Ages.
Fail to build survival strength, and the whole territory crumbled.
Jeron patrolled the walls.
Eighteen years in this savage world had taught him how vital these rickety defenses were.
About twenty meters from the gate, a landslide had gouged a six-meter hole.
Barbarians or undead pushing south? Disaster.
"Sir Jenald, this hole's too damn big. If rain made it impossible to fill, you should've reinforced with a palisade at least."
"My deepest apologies. Gate repairs aren't done, so pulling carpenters has been tough..."
"That's why Father joined the wars to snag slaves. The finance officer will foam at the mouth over the cost... but you get my drift."
"I'll make it happen!"
Even as Young Lord, browbeating a loyal veteran knight who'd served three generations wasn't pleasant.
But what choice?
No teeth? Bite with gums.
Out of thirty thousand souls, three thousand were slaves.
War captives, all. A harsh hand caused no fuss.
No—harsh was mandatory.
Skimp on labor, and they'd have energy left to plot revolt.
The society was primitive, not the people clueless.
In Jeron's and Jenald's stead, the folk worked the slaves even harder. Progress picked up.
Jeron was satisfied at last.
He'd circled the full walls when the rain stopped.
Sunshine blazed through.
"Damn, perfect weather for killing."
Murmurs rippled.
The central square doubled as the execution ground.
Countless had been hacked down here; even rain couldn't wash the blood caked beneath the scaffold.
Fresh off the downpour, a metallic tang hung heavy.
Folk hauled out bread and claimed spots.
Scuffles broke out over prime views.
Dip your bread in convict blood, and your sins washed away—you got healthier too. Baseless superstition, but it packed the square to bursting come execution time.
Medieval customs fit the era; tampering sparked backlash.
Mess up governance over it? Jeron left it be, distasteful or not.
He flicked his hand. Sir Garcia—reeking of shit from his mud-roll—barked sternly.
"Bring out the prisoner!"
"Yes!"
Soldiers in patched-up armor—better than the peasants', barely—dragged a bloodied man.
As they hauled him, the crowd parted left and right.
The convict's path was thorns.
Splatters of roadside filth were routine; stones cracked skulls.
By scaffold time, he was half-corpse.
Let him go now? He'd live crippled. Ending it mercifully seemed kinder.
"Sir Garcia, what's his crime?"
"Yes! To the Young Lord: this abomination stands accused of theft and robbery, assault and murder of women. He also habitually insulted nobles, the gravest offense shaking society's foundations."
"Is that so?"
"Full confession."
Jeron didn't trust interrogations, naturally.
Mock a noble, get every crime pinned on you till death. Human rights? Nonexistent.
"Interrogation" meant breaking the perp—daily routine.
Anyway.
Rumors and Jeron's own digging confirmed: the bastard raped and assaulted women.
Victim suicided.
Guards nabbed him, piled on charges.
Jeron approved.
Rape warranting death? Middle Ages.
Sir Garcia leaned in with advice.
"Uh... Young Lord? The people are pumped. See the bread?"
"I ain't blind."
"Clean hanging'll rile them up."
"..."
Absurd, but true.
They craved blood-soaked bread. Deny it, and tongues wagged for weeks.
"Tear him limb from limb?"
"If you wish, drawing and quartering works, but beheading's fitting. One clean chop, blood gushes. Quartering? Messy cleanup."
Jeron's noble mindset had evolved for survival in this savage land, but he wasn't a sadistic psycho relishing pain.
Decision made, he sentenced flatly.
"Immediate beheading."
"Raaah!"
The crowd roared like it was a gift.
Twisted myths, blind faith, ignorance policy's rot.
Filth, impurity, societal ills everywhere birthing this.
And Jeron had to survive as noble amid it.
Thunk!
Blade fell. Head rolled.
Blood pooled; folk mobbed for bread-dipping chaos.
Jeron turned and moved to the next task.
Sky clear as if no rain ever.
Blinding sun on his face, he sighed.
"Ha... Damn Middle Ages."