The first few days after Black Iron City fell were even quieter than the night of the battle.
It rained three tis, with low-lying dark clouds.
Occasionally, the echo of iron boots could be heard from deep within the streets, but it quickly vanished at the corner of the alley.
Hungry residents huddled inside their crumbling houses, window latches deadbolted, door cracks stuffed with cloth.
When a child cried, the mother would cover their mouth, and the elderly recited prayers to the Dragon Ancestor, yet dared not make a sound.
They waited for the "man-eating demons of the Northern Territory" to start looting, kidnapping, burning, waiting for the streets to be littered with corpses and their doors to be kicked open.
But nothing happened.
Two more days passed. When hunger beca unbearable, soone cautiously pushed open the door crack a sliver.
They thought they would see streets filled with blood and chaotic looting scenes.
Yet what greeted them was the sll of wet earth and rain.
The streets were unusually clean.
The bloodstains from the fierce battle days ago had been washed away by the rain, not a corpse in sight, only the leveled soil marked what had happened here.
In the distance, a few soldiers in black raincoats patrolled the street corners.
They wore conspicuous red sun-patterned armbands, walked in unison, their gazes straight.
Passing shops, they even sidestepped to avoid knocking over the dilapidated shelves at the doors, afraid their toes might hit sothing.
"Are those... Northern People?" soone whispered behind their door.
No one answered, but more door cracks quietly opened a bit.
Until the first wisp of cooking smoke rose from the square.
In the Central Square of Black Iron City, a dozen large military iron pots lined up, their fires kept low but steady.
Steam rose from the pot edges, carrying the fragrance of salted at and dried vegetables simring, drifting into every alley.
This year, to prepare for war, Raymond had levied taxes early.
Many hos in Gray Rock Province had long exhausted what was edible, even rats were hard to catch.
Now this thick porridge mixed with salted at bits, dried vegetables, and finely milled flour was more precious than gold to many.
So children couldn’t help but lean against the windowsill, drooling.
At this mont, a sound of a gong rang out from the square, piercing the city’s dead silence.
"Dong—dong—dong—!"
A Red Tide Soldier stood before the pots, holding a gong, shouting loudly: "By order of Count Louis of the Northern Territory! Open the granaries for food distribution! Residents of this city, line up to receive—children one ladle, adults two!"
The voice was loud, every word clear, audible even at the furthest alley entrances.
The silence inside the houses began to loosen.
"Is this... a trap?"
"If they really wanted to kill us, why go to such lengths to cook porridge?"
Soone swallowed hard, mustered the courage, and cautiously moved with their family towards the square.
At first, only a few dozen ventured, but once they saw the line of actual iron pots, their feet wouldn’t budge any further.
Hunger emboldened them, dispelling their last shred of doubt.
People picked up wooden bowls, their hands shaking like leaves in the wind, yet they still reached out.
The soldier scooped a ladle of thick porridge, the hot aroma wafting onto their faces brought several children to tears on the spot.
With the first bite, many were stunned.
It had been too long since they had tasted sothing so flavorful—not just watery gruel, but real food that could warm the stomach.
So didn’t care about the heat, gulping it down with the edge of the spoon, while others, midway through eating, suddenly covered their faces, shoulders shaking—unsure if they were crying or laughing.
A boy, thin as a skeleton, lay in his mother’s arms, with a piece of unchewable dried vegetable in his mouth, muttering, "Is this... for us?"
His mother didn’t answer, just held him tighter.
At this mont, the aroma of the porridge seed to light up the whole Black Iron City.
Moreover, there was an after-al event; a temporary wooden platform was erected beside the porridge stalls.
Several people, bound with ropes, knelt on the stage, mouths stuffed with rags, eyes filled with fear.
Soone recognized them as tax officials of Count Doron, Peacekeeping Knights of the city, and a few notorious bullies of the streets.
The crowd in the square fell silent.
They didn’t know what would happen next.
A Red Tide Knight stepped onto the platform, unrolled a scroll, and scanned the crowd below.
"First up." He pointed at the tax official, "Tax official Jimmy raised taxes by twenty percent without authorization last month, and the surplus went to your private storeroom. When Blacksmith Old John’s family in the west of the city couldn’t pay, his son was driven to hang himself by you. Is this true?"
The tax official shook his head vigorously, letting out muffled sobs from his throat.
The Red Tide Knight was not in a hurry, "Where is the person?"
In the back of the crowd, soone received a gentle push.
Old John, with white hair, trembled as he moved forward. He should have died under the noose, but it was the Red Tide who removed the beam in ti.
He looked up, and upon seeing the face on the platform, his entire body shuddered, "It’s him."
"That day, he ca to ransack our ho with soldiers and drove my son to his death!" Old John’s eyes were bloodshot, "I said I couldn’t pay, and he said every missing copper coin was a missing life..."
Murmurs of suppressed whispers rose in the square—the public evidently knew the story was true.
The Red Tide Knight then pointed to the Peacekeeping Knight, "Peacekeeping Knight O’Neil forcibly took the miller’s daughter. Afterward, he broke the miller’s leg. The witness is here below."
The crowd automatically parted to make way.
A middle-aged man on crutches was helped up, his leg not properly set, every step causing him to grimace in pain.
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