Chapter 384 - 375: Devouring the Plague

Chapter 384: Chapter 375: Devouring the Plague

The dirt road to the Grey Marsh Territory was a quagmire of mud. A column of several thousand people trudged forward, slithering through the thin mist.

They were artisans from the territories surrounding Sword Tooth Province, traded to this legendary sanctuary by their lords for a piece of paper.

In the column, a young carpenter named Thomas clutched his thin linen clothes tighter around himself. His straw sandals were long soaked through with filth. ’The lords said they were sending us to a "good place,"’ he thought, ’but since when have they ever been so kind?’

Thomas wasn’t alone. Most of the people in the column wore terrified expressions, their hushed whispers filled with speculation about forced labor and the whips of overseers.

But as they neared a place called Shiyan Town, the scenery began to change.

This was Lord Ola’s domain, said to be one of the first places to receive protection, and it was now a picture of order. To everyone’s surprise, spring planting had already begun on both sides of the road!

"My gods, they’re... actually tilling the fields?" someone in the crowd exclaimed in amazement.

The farther they went, the more astonishing the sights became. Expanses of farmland were laid out in neat, orderly plots, filled with farmers who were busy but showed no signs of worry.

Along the way, they even passed merchant caravans flying guild banners and well-equipped patrol squads. The people’s faces still held a nervous tension, but the look of utter despair so common in their hometowns was almost entirely absent.

Just when they thought this was all the White Tower Territory had to offer, a sight appeared that would completely upend their world.

First, a line of light appeared on the horizon.

The line quickly bled outward, becoming a rose-colored halo that stained the underside of the gray clouds with color. As the column continued its advance, a black spire emerged from the center of the glow.

Below the spire stood a colossal tower. It didn’t seem to be built of brick or stone; its surface was covered in a network of interlocking patterns that exuded an inexplicable sense of pressure.

As they drew closer, they could make out black dots clinging to the tower’s surface—they were people. Suspended in mid-air, secured by ropes, they were using brushes to apply white paint to the tower walls. The white covered the black, as if they were draping a coat over some kind of behemoth.

Everyone instinctively halted.

They were craftsmen from all over, men who had seen tall clock towers and grand castles, but the scene before them shattered their very understanding of "architecture."

They looked up at the rose-colored sky, the soaring tower, and their ant-like counterparts on its walls. It was powerful, majestic, and magnificent.

This was Minas Tirith.

But their destination was not inside the city. The carts bypassed the main gate and took them to a newly constructed camp outside the walls. It was situated right next to the fledgling Alchemy Workshop, which was already taking shape nearby. The camp was clearly built for them, the artisans who would soon be joining the production lines.

At the camp’s entrance, they were met by quarantine officers in uniform, wearing face masks. There was no shouting, no shoving. Each person was led through a shallow pool filled with a pungent alchemical solution, then given a metal tag engraved with a number.

"Block A, bed thirty-seven." A clerk checked a list and pressed a brass key into Thomas’s hand.

Thomas walked into his assigned barracks. It was one of a row of longhouses, clean and tidy inside, with double-decker wooden bunks laid with dry straw mattresses and coarse linen blankets. The air didn’t reek of the sour stench of feces and sweat, only the faint smell of limewater. He found his bunk. A thin booklet was placed on it.

The cover of the booklet read: *Employee Handbook*.

Dinner was a steaming hot potato and fish stew with large chunks of fish and salted potatoes. You could eat your fill. Thomas held his wooden bowl and scarfed it down. The warm food slid into his stomach, dispelling the cold and fear of the past several days. He saw the others around him doing the same; many started crying as they ate.

This was better treatment than most of them could expect even at home.

The next day, the artisans were sorted. Thomas and several hundred others were taken to the Alchemy Workshop outside the city. A massive "Morningstar Mark III" alchemical device hummed continuously, pure energy flowing through underground metal pipes. The residual heat that escaped was enough to keep the entire workshop as warm as a spring day.

Their work wasn’t complicated. Thomas was assigned to the washing area, responsible for cleaning recycled crystal test tubes with special brushes and detergents. On the assembly line next to him, some people were responsible for grinding herbal ingredients, while others affixed labels to the sealed potions. Every step had a dedicated instructor to provide training, and huge flowcharts hung on the walls, using pictures and symbols to illustrate the proper procedure for every action.

The work was hard—twelve-hour shifts—but no one complained. Old Sam, the former dock foreman who now managed the entire primary processing workshop, explained the rules to the newcomers in a booming voice.

"See that board on the wall? For every set of twelve standard tasks you complete, you get one merit point. The points are recorded on your tags. After your shift, go to the cafeteria, or to the exchange counter over there. You can trade points for things."

After his shift, Thomas dragged his exhausted body to the exchange counter and used the six merit points he had earned that day to trade for a whole loaf of white bread and a small piece of hard candy. When he popped the candy into his mouth, a long-forgotten sweetness melted on his tongue. ’Maybe life isn’t so bad after all,’ he thought.

At night, the workers’ camp had no curfew; on the contrary, it was bustling with activity.

In the center of the camp, a massive Demon Crystal lamp illuminated an open space as bright as day. A large crowd was gathered there, listening to a young man in a clerk’s uniform read a newspaper aloud.

"This week’s feature in the *Gray Swamp Weekly*: The Spearmen in the Long Night."

"As we celebrate the miracle of the ’Blood Cough Potion,’ we must not forget those who formed the first wall against death for us in our darkest hour—the guards of the border quarantine camps. Our reporter recently interviewed one of them, a former guard from the Third Quarantine Camp, Mark..."

A murmur of envy and emotion rippled through the crowd.

Thomas couldn’t squeeze his way in, so he sat down on the ground nearby, close enough to overhear a conversation between a few other newcomers like himself.

"This place is amazing," one man murmured. "They... actually write about guards as heroes."

"Yeah," another agreed, a hint of longing in his voice. "Once I get settled, if the territory is still recruiting guards, I want to try out. I’d feel good, protecting a place like this."

He looked over and saw a brightly lit longhouse that had been converted into a classroom. Inside, a white-haired scholar was at a blackboard, teaching a group of young people around his age how to write.

Thomas watched them clumsily grip their charcoal pencils, painstakingly writing stroke by stroke on wooden boards. Something stirred deep inside him.

One week later, a grand welcoming banquet was held at the Lord’s Mansion.

The attendees were the ones who had led them here: the scions of various noble houses. Most of these young men were second sons or illegitimate children, holding awkward positions in their own families. Now, however, they had become the crucial links between their families and the Grey Marsh Territory.

In the banquet hall, crystal chandeliers glittered brilliantly. The long tables were laden with dishes they had never even heard of. Roasted seabirds were stuffed with herbs and nuts, and crabs from the deep sea were steamed to a bright red.

"Gods, I never thought I’d eat seafood this fresh in my life." A young man from an inland barony clumsily picked at his crab meat with a small silver fork, his face a mask of pure bliss.

"The food is nothing," his shrewder-looking companion said in a low voice. "Haven’t you noticed? This place... it’s safe. On my entire journey here, I didn’t see a single corpse or hear a single cough. At night, I even dare to walk the streets."

This remark brought a sudden chill to the table. They remembered the homes they had left behind, where the thick smoke from burning bodies hung in the air day and night, and a nauseating stench filled every breath.

Compared to that, Minas Tirith was practically heaven.

The highlight of the banquet was a performance by a small opera troupe invited by Caroline. The play was a new work titled *Conquest of the Raging Waves*. It told the story of a self-made Pioneer Knight who fought back against "pirates"—symbols of chaos and destruction—on the Barbaric Islands. After a bloody struggle, he successfully defended the home he had built with his own hands for his countless followers.

The plot was stirring, the music moving, and the sets magnificent. When the lead actor sang an aria praising "order and hope," several of the noble scions’ eyes grew red.

Velin sat at the head of the table, quietly cutting the roasted meat on his plate. He didn’t give any passionate speeches. He simply raised his glass to the crowd at the end of the banquet.

"Welcome to Minas Tirith. Here, your labor will be rewarded, and your safety will be guaranteed. I wish you all a valuable time here."

The noble scions responded to his toast with near-fanatical reverence. They were desperate to cooperate, terrified that the Count who held their families’ fates in his hands would send them back to that plague-ridden hell.

In the days that followed, everything went as expected. With the influx of new labor, production at the Alchemy Workshop surged once more, reaching an astonishing figure.

Tristan walked into Velin’s study with the latest production report, a spring in his step.

"My lord, this week’s production of ’Blood Cough Potion’ has surpassed three thousand vials. After deducting all the shares for our agreements and our own internal consumption, we have a weekly surplus of over fifteen hundred vials."

Hearing this staggering report, Caroline and Tristan, who had been in the middle of some debate, both fell silent. The spacious study was plunged into a moment of silence as they both instinctively turned their gaze to Velin, seated at the head of the room.

Fifteen hundred vials. The wealth, power, and possibilities represented by that number far exceeded their wildest imaginings.

Now, the only one who could decide the course of this torrent was Velin.

"Velin," Caroline spoke first, her voice tinged with anticipation and nervousness. "What’s our next move?"

Tristan also stared intently at Velin, adding, "My lord, according to our plan, almost all the noble territories in central and southern Sword Tooth Province, with the exception of Count Storm Cape, have sent representatives to negotiate with us. Should we... continue to send envoys?"

Velin rose from his seat and walked slowly to the massive map of the Duchy. His gaze, however, did not fall on the region of Sword Tooth Province, but instead moved slowly along the winding coastline.

"Sword Tooth Province is just the beginning. Our sights shouldn’t be limited to the land. Along Gray Bay, every port and coastal territory can be a target."

He turned around, looked at the two of them, who were slightly taken aback by his words, and gave a faint smile.

"Don’t forget, we established the ’Pan-Gray Sea Alliance,’ not the ’Sword Tooth Province Alliance.’"

At these words, a flash of understanding crossed Tristan’s eyes, quickly replaced by admiration.

’The lord clearly intends to use this plague sweeping the Duchy to consolidate all the powers along the Gray Bay coast under his wing.’

’He’s... using a plague that could destroy the Duchy as a stepping stone to expand his own power!’