Chapter 157: The Logging Site

"The logging site is almost here; we can still ride horses on the road leading to it." The old steward rode ahead on a draft horse from the manor, frequently glancing back to watch the procession.

The result of dividing his attention was a birch branch whipping his forehead. A face-sized, ownerless spiderweb, dripping with dew, clung to him, along with two curled, dry leaves.

"Ah!" He lowered his head, shaking off water droplets that hadn't yet soaked into his clothes, and brushed away the silk threads. "Usually few people ride here, so no one clears these things. Watch out for your heads behind!"

"Bang!"

No sooner had he spoken than a metallic clang echoed through the column, followed by the crack of snapping branches and falling leaves, quickly drowned by hoofbeats. Someone's helmet had simply smashed through the obstructing branch.

Martin was about to warn them, when a handful of leaves slapped against his helmet, splashing water across his face.

Choosing to ride for speed was truly not a good idea. This path was likely a trail worn by loggers over years, and the portion above an adult's head remained wild.

Compared to the relatively "clean" forests of the north, Westmin's forests mirrored the intricate, ornate style of the local nobility and architecture, packed with thickets, tall grasses, overhanging branches, and their draping vines. This cleared path resembled a narrow underwater tunnel cutting through a sea of leaves.

Theoretically, their route should follow the river, but they could only occasionally glimpse dark, shadowed waters beneath the dense canopy, where fallen leaves and trimmed driftwood drifted slowly.

At this density of vegetation, venturing deeper into the forest where no path existed, riding horses was pure fantasy—there was no room to even display horsemanship. At best, they could bring a few packhorses to carry equipment, tents, and other heavy gear.

【The problem of slow chapter updates has finally been solved on apps that support source switching—download huanyuanapp to switch sources and view the latest chapters of this book across multiple sites.】

After a stretch requiring them to duck their heads, they reached a clearing cut into the riverbank. A few wooden huts and a simple fence comprised all the facilities of this forest logging site.

Inside the fence lay freshly felled logs and those already roughly processed; branches had been chopped short and stacked beside the huts.

Hearing hoofbeats, the men trimming bark and preparing logs for the river looked up in shock to see a large group of riders emerging from the forest, filling the small clearing with men and horses.

One older man stepped forward to meet the steward. He stared at the extravagant display, lips moving as if to speak, then thought better of it—realizing he still held an axe, he quickly set it down and restrained the young loggers who were gawking.

"Shawn, these are… knights from the city." The steward dismounted and climbed over the fence, calling the man by name with familiarity. "Don't be nervous. They're not here for you. Just answer whatever they ask truthfully."

Kraft tied up his horse and entered the logging site, just catching this exchange. A strange sense of déjà vu stirred in him, as if he'd seen this scene in some literary work.

"Have you seen any strangers moving about in the forest?" Martin's attire today revealed no trace of "don't be nervous" or "just asking casually." His fully equipped armor radiated oppressive authority—more like he'd come to hunt someone down.

In fact, they'd considered this possibility: worst-case, they imagined entering the forest and being ambushed like Diego, just to teach these heathens what professionalism meant.

He'd even suspected a heathen outpost might be hidden within the logging site, hoping to bluff out one or two.

But so far, the forest along the way had been perfectly normal. Martin scanned the men holding tools, bewildered and motionless—none showed any abnormal behavior. They looked like ordinary loggers.

"We haven't seen anyone. People from town rarely come here—we're the only ones who go deeper." Shawn thought for a moment, then gave a firm negative. "Besides, the forest's so vast—someone could be here and you'd never run into them."

"What about traces? Crushed grass, shrubs, remnants of campsites?" Martin's gaze swept over them, hoping for a clue—or that one of them was the clue.

This wasn't the small woodland outside Diego's death site—it was a true sea of trees. The heathens here might not even need to hide deliberately. Without direction, searching aimlessly would be useless—even three hundred men scattered here would find nothing.

But the loggers' faces showed only confusion and fear of armed authority. None could answer. Finally, the older Shawn stepped forward, tentatively explaining: "We're just woodcutters—we're not hunters. We don't understand these things…"

"What about other strange things? Like unusually vigorous mushrooms, for example?"

They likely hadn't seen anything—only shook their heads, passively responding to one incomprehensible question after another.

After listening to several rounds of unproductive dialogue, Kraft lost interest and wandered off, accompanied by Kup, strolling around the yard-sized logging site.

Conditions here were indeed crude. When clearing the ground, they hadn't dug out the tree stumps—they left them in place, serving as natural benches or parts of the fence. The trees themselves may have already become part of the huts.

Aside from a small patch of ground used to dry fruit, every other space was piled high with unprocessed timber.

Kraft recognized and could name only birch and pine—mostly as thick as a calf's leg, covered in green bark, with moss growing in the damp shade beneath, and small branches still clinging to them.

The process seemed to be: first, use a small axe to trim residual branches, stacking them neatly nearby; then strip and smooth the bark, then push the logs into the river to float away.

"This timber's quite good quality." Kraft tapped a finished log, still prickly with splinters, through his glove. With such abundant resources, construction here would be much easier. "But aren't these mostly small trees?"

"All forests and their animals and products within the lordship legally belong to the Duke," the manor steward joined him at the timber pile, selecting pieces to mark. "But His Grace is exceptionally generous—he permits us to use trees no wider than a palm. Anything thicker remains vital property of Westmin Castle."

"I see." Kraft understood. So this wasn't the Duke's private enterprise. From this perspective, it truly was generous—many a Northerner like Grinch would tax even firewood collection from the woods.

He walked toward the river and kicked something cylindrical at his feet. It rolled a few steps, then lodged against a stone on the riverbank—a short, cut section of jujube wood. Its side showed fine grain, suitable for crossbow components. No one knew why it had been discarded on the ground.

Several other discarded log segments lay scattered around.

"Hmm?" Curiosity—more than boredom—prompted Kraft to kick one aside, then flip it upright with his foot. He discovered why it had been unused.

A pale brown stain spread from the tree's core, severing concentric rings, occupying roughly a quarter of the cross-section.

The wood within the stain differed markedly from the rest—softer, unable to bear weight—as if some disease had spread from the core, rotting the interior. Perhaps the loggers initially thought it was just a small defect, but after cutting away one section after another, they realized no part of the entire log remained intact.

Kraft crouched to examine it closely, noticing the pale brown color arose from a mixture of white fibers and the wood's natural texture.

Other discarded log segments scattered on the ground, from different trees, all shared this same defect—rendering them unusable and cut into waste.

"Where did these logs come from?"

"Huh? These are useless scrap wood. Don't be fooled by their color—they're spongy, completely unusable…" Shawn, who had been struggling with Martin's questions, felt as if rescued—he finally knew something.

"No. I asked where they came from!"

Startled by the sudden raised voice, Shawn froze for a few seconds, then whispered, "Cut from the forest."

Seeing Kraft's expression darken, he hurried to recall, "The manor needed better timber, so we went a bit deeper—no, we didn't steal them!"

"Take us there."

"But it's still far—we'd have to walk."

"Then prepare to depart." Kraft seized an axe and swung it down on the upright log. The cross-section showed continuous bands of discoloration running end to end, threaded with fine, web-like veins. "I promise you, the reward will be generous."