Has The Lord’s Career Chart Been Filled Today? – Chapter 122
This winter felt like an endlessly cruel execution for the slaves barely clinging to life in Albury City.
Every day they opened their eyes to the tragic sight of dead companions; every night before closing them, they sank into the deep dread that “tomorrow it might be our turn not to wake up.”
While the ruffians in the castle indulged in fine wine and delicacies, the slaves survived by sharing meager wild vegetables and gathering damp, snow-covered deadwood—the only “benefit” they gained after the lord’s violent death—huddling together weakly like sheep to keep warm.
When the snow finally began to lessen, the ground’s cover grew thinner, the sunlight on their bodies warmer, and wild grass started sprouting green in the fields…
The slaves who survived this catastrophe were still dazed, unable to believe it was over.
They looked at each other, hoping to find some encouragement in one another’s faces.
Yet before this torturous winter ended, they had all come to understand one thing clearly:
The people in the castle cared even less about their lives than the previous lord had, and they certainly wouldn’t concern themselves with the harvest from the fields.
Even that brutal and miserly Viscount Butor would at least have the stewards reward them with a bowl of thin bean soup after a full day’s labor.
In good harvest years, he’d even give a small handful of wheat or beans to take home and cook for their families.
Now, there was nothing.
The slaves gazed in despair at the fields, now unrecognizable mixtures of ash and weeds, and fell into a hopeless silence.
The most fearsome steward was like a vicious sheepdog.
Without the sheepdog to lead them, the flock—accustomed to being driven and whipped—only felt lost and terrified.
What were they to do?
“Maybe we should escape now.”
Someone suddenly spoke.
The person beside him jolted, looking at him in disbelief. “Simmot!”
The speaker was Simmot[mfn]斯玛特 (Sīmǎtè) – Meant to sound like ‘Smart'[/mfn]. Though only in his early thirties, hardship had aged him like a man in his fifties.
Most had forgotten that this gaunt, impoverished old man—who struggled with his work due to frailty and was often beaten—had once been a freeman.
Simmot licked his chapped lower lip, gazing wistfully toward Laina City, and continued as if to himself, “The snow has melted, the roads have thawed—we can finally leave. Will you follow? I don’t want to stay here waiting to die.”
His luck had been terribly poor: just days before the uprising, he’d worked too slowly and was caught by a steward in a foul mood.
His already weak body was brutally whipped, nearly killing him on the spot.
If not for his neighbor Naef[mfn]奈伊夫 (Nàiyīfū) – I think is meant to sound like ‘knife'[/mfn] ‘s kindness—dragging his unconscious form into his own hut after the steward left and risking danger to find herbs to treat him—even with the best luck, he wouldn’t have survived till now.
In a way, the uprising had been fortunate for him: the steward who whipped him out of random anger thought he was dead, so he never accounted for his absence those days.
And before anyone noticed, that steward—who always oppressed the slaves—had been among the first to lose his head to the rebels’ axes.
Of course, Simmot’s luck ended there: for the next half a month, his body was too weak to take advantage of the chaos of war to escape.
By the time he had recovered somewhat, winter had already arrived—without adequate clothing or food, unless one had a death wish, no one would embark on such a hopeless journey.
Surviving this nightmare-like winter was nothing short of a divine miracle for him.
“You… you’re insane?”
Naef stared in disbelief at his neighbor, who had spoken so casually, stammering, “We’re not commoners; we have no money and no food. No city would take us in.”
“Yeah,” someone else quickly chimed in, murmuring in agreement, “And why go to Laina? I’ve heard that more slaves die there each winter than here.”
“It’s a cursed, terrible place.”
“I… I don’t want to go.”
In reality, slaves bound to the land for life rarely risked fleeing to other cities, even when pushed to the brink of suffocation, just to endure a painful year and legally become slaves of that city.
This wasn’t just due to their lack of commoners’ perspective and courage, but also because they knew all too well that no matter where they went, their fate would likely remain the same.
“I advise you not to think about it, Simmot,” someone kindly urged. “You can’t even handle the simplest tasks. Even if you go to Laina, no one will take you in! And who knows, maybe if we wait a bit longer, they’ll remember to give us the spring seeds?”
Simmot looked at them with a mix of pity and helplessness, smiling faintly, but didn’t expose their thin shred of hope.
If the rebels inside had any sense, or any intention of holding this place long-term, they wouldn’t have burned the farmland to ashes when the castle’s defenders hadn’t put up a decent fight.
The autumn harvest had been completely seized, and the results of autumn planting were reduced to ashes.
They had already missed an entire winter of farming.
Now, to reclaim the abandoned wasteland, replant crops, and wait for them to mature… most of their people would likely starve to death again long before then.
“I can’t explain it to them.”
In the end, Simmot chose to pack his belongings and head toward the city he saw as his best hope—Laina.
On this still-chilly spring day, before leaving, he went to speak one last time with Naef, who lived next door: “Naef, you saved my life, so I sincerely advise you again—don’t pin your hopes on those people anymore. Once spring fully warms up, those inside will only abandon this plundered city before the army arrives to crush them, turning into roving bands of bandits.”
Naef looked at Simmot with melancholy, forcing a bitter smile. “Thank you for telling me this, Simmot. I want to believe you, but I have family who can’t travel. You… you go ahead.”
Simmot frowned, took one last look at Naef, nodded, and truly left.
Those who had been reveling day and night in the castle naturally failed to notice the departure of an insignificant old slave.
After a whole winter of extravagant indulgence, this group of people who had grown up steeped in hardship seemed to have become delicate and spoiled.
Even though their leader Lieder repeatedly reminded them that “it’s time to leave,” some kept making excuses while staring at the unfinished rice vats and dozens of remaining barrels of fine wine.
After all, the supplies weren’t fully consumed, and the wine hadn’t been finished—it would be such a waste to leave just like that!
Even the dullest among them understood clearly that such luxurious enjoyment would be hard to come by once they left this castle.
No matter how brutal a bandit group might be, none would be mad enough to attack a solid fortress: bandits couldn’t possibly be wealthy enough to possess siege equipment. Thus, unless the castle fell from within, any external enemy forces would disperse long before those inside ran out of provisions…
Lieder saw through their thoughts and grew intensely frustrated.
But too many of his subordinates had been intoxicated by the winter-long revelry; only a handful remained clear-headed and willing to follow him.
If he ventured out with just that small group, they could never become a true bandit force—instead, they would soon be captured by the army sent to suppress them and end up on the gallows.
He had to wait for more people to come to their senses, ensure sufficient manpower, and then depart quickly.
Lieder continued to persuade and urge them.
However, unlike the slaves who had been easily incited back when they watched helplessly as the lord sold off the last of the grain and fell into despair, they now only wanted to indulge themselves in drunken oblivion.
Despite Lieder’s considerable efforts, the results were minimal.
In the end, he could only patiently wait until mid-spring approached, when the castle’s food reserves dwindled and the wine was finally exhausted. Only then were these people forced to sober up, and increasingly more expressed willingness to follow him away.
Lieder immediately decided that at first light the next day, they would take the remaining provisions and all the weapons from the armory and leave this place.
For some reason, though it should have been a joyous occasion, that night he tossed and turned in bed, utterly unable to sleep.
A very, very bad premonition lingered in his mind.
What was it?
—This ominous foreboding was mercilessly fulfilled shortly after dawn the next day.
Lieder had previously assigned sentries to keep watch from the lookout towers to guard against any approaching suppression forces.
But thinking that they would depart the next day and everyone needed to rest as much as possible, he had taken a chance and made last night the sole exception.
It was precisely because of this that when the enemy forces from Laina City silently breached the dilapidated outer gate and entered the town area now inhabited by slaves, everyone in the castle was still asleep.
Only the slaves, whose light sleep was plagued by persistent hunger, stared wide-eyed at the arrival of these strangers.
Especially the blond young man riding that extraordinarily divine white steed, dressed in understated yet luxurious riding attire, with unbelievably beautiful features….
The gentle morning sun spilled over him, softened by the faint mist, tracing the contours of his figure to form a hazy, almost divine golden halo.
“God…” someone murmured, “So beautiful…”
It was like the subtly folded golden wings behind a majestic and beautiful angel.
Everyone fell into a state of mesmerized fascination, unable to tear their eyes away from him.
It was only when the two figures flanking him stepped forward in unison, blocking most of the view with their bodies, that they abruptly snapped back to reality.
Oliver had long grown accustomed to being stared at with fervent gazes, and he paid little mind to these slaves who seemed stunned by their arrival.
His eyes swept across the surroundings, and far from showing dissatisfaction with the overgrown fields, he soon broke into an eager, anticipatory smile.
It had been so, so long… since he had last cultivated such wild, untamed land with his own hands!
Oliver turned slightly and nodded to Butler Fosse on his right. “We may begin as planned.”
The people of Albury City stared at him blankly, utterly bewildered.
They had no idea that this breathtakingly beautiful young man, from whom they couldn’t look away, was the legendary Lord Laina.
Lord Laina had arrived.
—With his army, his Cat God, and a game backpack full of various crop seeds.
