Seeking Talent

The woman lazily swayed her delicate arms.

"That would be perfect. Didn't he deposit some gold coins with us? The dead aren't protected by imperial law. With no witness left, we can simply swallow it whole. Still, I'd hate to see this clever, sensible boy die—at least not before I've tasted his flavor."

After speaking, the woman shackled her own feet, an unnatural flush spreading across her face. "Inject the frenzy potion into the orcs in the basement and bring them here. I've restrained myself—promise I won't crush them with runaway divine power."

Simon wiped cold sweat from his brow, voicing his concern. "Take it easy. Don't drain all the orcs to death again. These sturdy creatures are hard to come by now. Ever since the Northern Province was destroyed by the gray mist, orc slave prices have skyrocketed. Do you know how much I paid for them?"

"This is the price for making me wait, Simon. Just a small price."

Feld emerged from Maple Leaf Manor, sunlight soothing his nerves.

"Hah, the money issue is settled. Now for supplies—this time, more food and livestock."

Due to Nightfall Territory's harsh environment, even after decontamination, the land remained infertile with minimal agricultural output. Feld planned to establish a ranch for poultry and livestock—chickens, ducks, pigs, and cattle—whose manure could gradually enrich the soil.

Notably, prices varied across the empire's cities. A copper coin could buy a loaf of bread in Golden Eagle City, while in the impoverished western mountains, it would only buy the bread's aroma—shopkeepers would let you take a whiff.

As a service-oriented hub, Maple Leaf City had little interest in war. Slaves were scarce—mostly women and children, with able-bodied men costing triple the price of females.

Food and fodder were major purchases. Nightfall Territory produced nothing, leaving Feld to support the entire domain. Currently, it wasn't Feld exploiting his subjects—it was his subjects exploiting him.

Only Feld's modern perspective made this possible. Any other noble would deem it a losing venture.

"Before shopping, I need to recruit administrative talent." Feld rubbed his temples. "The entire territory has only two literate people, and Cao's management skills are mediocre. Also lacking are craftsmen—the grand winery needs repairs."

After organizing his thoughts, Feld addressed his guard Hammer: "First, return the gold coins to the post station. Then join me at the tavern."

Taverns served as medieval job markets and intelligence hubs.

Upon entering Maple Leaf City's tavern after his tasks, Feld was met with roaring clamor. Patrons of all builds huddled together, boasting of glories or playing cards and drinking games. Though laughter filled the air, every smile was but a mask. Who knew how despondent they'd be when sober?

Dressed in black noble robes with a steel longsword at his waist, Feld entered with three guards. The crowd fell silent, eyeing him warily as if expecting an arrest.

"Three ales." Feld produced silver coins like a magician. "Keep the change."

Realizing Feld wasn't there for arrests, the tavern's clamor resumed instantly.

"Milord, your generosity honors us." The bartender set down wooden mugs, grinning like a chrysanthemum as he scooped up the coins—three ales cost merely fifteen coppers; Feld had overpaid.

"Not so fast. I need information—start with the empire's recent affairs."

Feld gave the ale to Hammer and his men, having no taste for the coarse, sour brew.

"Heard of the Bull Territory's stolen arms? Count Nibelungen is investigating. Poor Baron Bull faces harsh punishment—though I wonder who could spirit away two thousand suits of armor unnoticed. Only devils could manage that."

"Two thousand?" Feld frowned. He'd only found five hundred.

Likely the old scoundrel Nibelungen inflated figures to balance accounts. A fortunate sign—had the count reported truthfully, he'd be hellbent on finding the culprit. Exaggeration meant profiteering; he'd probably pin it on executed bandits.

Noble schemes always revolved around self-interest.

Feld smiled faintly. "Good. Anything else?"

"Major news: the imperial family lost a tier-five divine artifact—Wishful Gaze, looted from vile heretics. It's said to corrupt minds, turning people into puppets. Their boldness stems from their western campaign—the Purple Gold Empire's capital, gateway to the Inner Sea, has been besieged for a month. All its other cities have fallen."

"More?"

Feld found this irrelevant. Nightfall Territory was unaffected, and a tier-five artifact lay beyond his reach anyway.

The bartender wiped a mug. "Nothing else. If unsatisfied, I'll offer you an ale."

"I seek men for service. Any leads?" Feld declined the drink.

The bartender feigned understanding, whispering: "Pockface—a true desperado. Twenty silvers, he'd slay his own parents. Or Mad Dog Mercenaries—complete lunatics who feast on enemies' hearts. They demand thirty gold coins minimum, but rumor says they murder employers. Watch yourself."

"Not assassins or mercenaries." Feld waved dismissively. "I need capable men—those with practical skills: administration, architecture, herbology, craftsmanship."

"Eh? Rare request. Why not approach other nobles' sons?"

Nobles typically appointed knights or squires for management. Don't underestimate "squires"—they're nobles' head start. Usually a family's second son, they'd learn combat and knowledge at another lord's estate while assisting, building connections.

"Let me think... There's a jailer, Tate—literate and skilled. But he's a rigid fool. Refused bribes, insisted on justice." The bartender chuckled. "Hopelessly stupid. Framed by subordinates, now jobless, drowning his sorrows alone."

This sounded promising. Feld nodded.