Thorne was riding on horseback, the hooves sinking into the wet, soft black mud, making a dull sound.
Ahead was a low-lying area known as Black Swamp Town.
The gray-black water surface glead with an oily sheen, scattered dead trees tilted in the mire, and the air was filled with the stench of rotting at, causing one to instinctively hold their breath.
Thorne’s gaze lingered on that swamp for a long ti.
He used to be a knight.
He used to wear orderly armor, wield a clean sword, recite oaths, and believe in those words of honor and guardianship.
Later, Duke Raymond gave the order for a militaristic campaign that persecuted the vassals, and Thorne refused to sign the command.
After that, his title as a knight was stripped, his military pay stopped, and even his steed was nearly taken away for debt repaynt.
He didn’t starve to death only because the Red Tide army quickly moved south, saving him.
It was because of this event that he appeared here.
In the files submitted by the Inspection Departnt, the evaluation of him was just one sentence: "The forr knight who starves himself yet doesn’t rob the vassals."
Chief Steward Green signed the docunt.
Thorne was transferred to Red Tide and beca a probationary official.
In Thorne’s view, this felt more like a position to while away ti.
He didn’t expect any changes, just a change of flag and rhetoric, too many tis seen in Gray Rock Province.
No matter how eloquent the barbarians from the Northern Territory spoke, it was just another form of managent, another thod of exploitation.
This ti, he only hoped to survive, as for saving the poor, he no longer harbored such illusions.
The horse team continued forward, the swamp’s color growing ever darker, Black Swamp Town had arrived.
Almost no intact houses could be seen here.
Shacks made of rotten boards and mud were cramd together, resembling a pile of wreckage that could collapse at any mont.
Sewage flowed down the low points, carrying away excrent, and also the last bit of dignity.
Thorne reined in the horse, whispered to Pete beside him: "This is the garbage dump of the province."
Pete didn’t respond.
"Raymond took all the young and strong here," Thorne continued, "They were sent to the front lines as logistics troops, or converted to labor slaves for money. Only the elderly and children remain."
He raised a hand to point at those figures crouched in the muddy water: "The farm tools have all been lted into soldiers, no land can be fard, so they lie in the swamp catching bugs to eat."
Thorne paused, then added: "They aren’t people, they are living ghosts."
Pete remained silent.
Behind him followed twenty young Red Tide junior officials, all quite young, and their uniforms were still new.
Faced with such a decayed place, they didn’t show expressions of disgust, even seed a bit eager to try.
Thorne didn’t understand, didn’t know what these people were thinking.
The convoy slowly drove into the town, no begging voices, nor curses.
Silhouettes huddled behind broken walls and mud huts like frightened mice, only showing pairs of hollow and vigilant eyes.
Pete jumped off the carriage.
The mud ca over the tops of his boots, quickly soaking his trouser legs, he didn’t mind, instead looked up at the half-collapsed stone tower at the entrance of the town.
"Here it is." Pete took the flagpole, stepping on rubble and rotten wood, he climbed up.
The bright red Red Tide flag was forcefully planted into the cracked stone seam.
Wind blew from the depths of the swamp, the flag flapping loudly.
That red color was exceptionally striking in the gray-black world.
Thorne involuntarily squinted his eyes.
At that mont, a beggar covered in sores rushed out from the shadows, mouth emitting unintelligible screeches.
Thorne’s body reacted before his thoughts, with a clang, the longsword was drawn.
This was the instinct he learned as a knight, any act colliding with an official ant a threat, needed to be cleared imdiately.
Before his sword raised, a hand pressed down on the hilt, it was Pete.
Thorne was stunned, while Pete had already taken a step forward.
He reached out both hands, firmly holding the tottering beggar.
The worn gloves instantly stained to dark by pus and mud, the stinking sll pressed close.
Pete didn’t even furrow his brow, only quietly said: "Slow down, don’t fall."
Thorne stood in place, the sword in his hand had sohow already lowered.
This didn’t bring him relief, but made him more puzzled.
In his understanding, officials’ hands were ant for signing orders, ant for commanding across tables.
Shouldn’t touch such things, nor needed.
He looked at Pete’s gloves dirtied by mud and pus, but a thought not quite fitting erged: What is this? A show for whom?
The Red Tide flag flapped loudly in the wind, excessively bright red.
Soon the water in the large pot quickly boiled.
Iron pot set on temporarily built stone stove, flas licking at the pot’s base.
Diced salted at, dehydrated vegetables from Red Tide, finely ground oats were spooned into the pot, rolling in the boiling water.
White steam rose, quickly enveloping the whole open area.
The sll of at spread in the air.
In this swamp perpetually filled with the sll of rot, that aroma felt out of place, even sowhat pungent.
It wasn’t a festive fragrance, but a long-missed aura of life.
Thorne stood behind Pete, watching the rolling large pot, his brows furrowing tighter.
He finally spoke, with unusual seriousness: "Sir Pete. With all due respect, the at in this pot of congee, could buy all the lives in this town."
Pete didn’t raise his head.
Thorne continued: "You feed them at today, what about tomorrow? The day after? No matter how full Red Tide’s granary is, it can’t fill a place like this."
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