Chapter 157: The Logging Site

"The logging site is almost here; only this stretch of road still allows horseback riding." The old steward rode ahead on a draft horse from the manor, frequently turning back to watch the procession.

The result of dividing his attention was a birch branch whipping his forehead, leaving a tangled, ownerless spiderweb draped over his face, dripping with dew and clinging two curled, dried leaves.

"Ah!" He lowered his head, shaking off water droplets that hadn't yet soaked into his clothes, brushing aside the silk threads, "Not many people ride here normally, so no one cleans these up. Watch out for your heads, those 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 low branch.

Martin was just about to warn them, when a handful of leaves slapped against his helmet, spraying him with water droplets.

Choosing to ride in 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 thick underbrush, 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, further in, where no path existed at all, riding deep into the forest was pure fantasy—there was simply no room to display horsemanship. At best, they could bring a few packhorses to carry equipment, tents, and other heavy loads.

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After a stretch requiring them to hunch their heads, they arrived at a cleared patch beside the riverbank. A few wooden huts and a simple fence constituted the entire logging site.

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

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

One of the older men stepped forward to meet the steward, his mouth opening as if to speak, then closing as he realized he still held an axe—he quickly set it down and restrained the young loggers who were gawking curiously.

"Xiao En, 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 showed 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, that possibility had been considered: in the worst case, they'd imagined entering the forest only to be ambushed like Diego, and they'd planned to show these heretics what professionalism meant.

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

But so far, the forest along their route had been perfectly normal. Martin scanned the men holding tools, bewildered and motionless—none displayed any unusual behavior; they looked like ordinary loggers.

"We haven't seen anyone. People from town rarely come here—only we venture inward," Xiao En replied without hesitation, "Besides, the forest is 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 the men, hoping for even a single clue—or perhaps 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 heretics here might not even need to hide deliberately. Without direction, searching aimlessly would be useless—even three hundred men scattered here would find nothing.

Yet the loggers' faces showed only confusion and fear of armed authority; none could answer. Finally, the elder Xiao En stepped forward tentatively: "We're just woodcutters—we're not hunters. We don't understand these things…"

"What about other odd 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, taking Kup with him as he strolled around the yard-sized logging site.

Conditions here were indeed crude: when clearing the land, they hadn't dug out the tree stumps, leaving them in place 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 area 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 a greenish bark, with moss growing in the damp shade beneath, and small branches still left untrimmed.

The process seemed to be: first, small axes would trim residual branches, stacking them neatly aside; then strip and clean the bark, and push the logs into the river to float away.

"This timber's quality is quite good," Kraft patted the rough, splintered wood through his gloves. With such abundant resources, construction here would surely be much easier. "But aren't these mostly small trees?"

"All forests and everything within them—animals, products—belong by right to the Duke," the manor steward joined him at the timber pile, selecting pieces to mark, "But His Grace is exceptionally generous—he permits the use of 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 direct property—then from this perspective, it truly was generous, since many Northerners were like Grinches who taxed even firewood gathering.

He walked toward the river and kicked something cylindrical underfoot. It rolled a few steps, then lodged against a stone on the riverbank—it was a short cut section of date wood, its side showing fine grain, suitable for crossbow components, abandoned on the ground for some reason.

Several such discarded logs lay scattered randomly across the ground.

"Hmm?" Out of curiosity—mostly boredom—Kraft kicked one aside, flipped it upright with his foot, and 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 load—as if some disease had spread from the core, rotting the interior. Perhaps the loggers initially thought it a minor flaw, but after cutting away one section after another, they realized no part of the entire log remained intact.

Kraft crouched to examine closely, noticing the pale brown was a blend of white and the wood fibers' natural texture, producing this hue.

Other discarded logs scattered on the ground, from different trees, all shared this same defect—cut into pieces and abandoned.

"Where did these logs come from?"

"Huh? These are useless scrap wood, Your Lordship—don't be fooled by their color; they're spongy, completely unusable…" Xiao En, 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, Xiao En froze for a few seconds, then whispered, "Cut from the forest."

Seeing Kraft's expression darken, he hurriedly recalled, "The manor needed better timber, so we went a bit deeper—none of this was illegally harvested!"

"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 cut surface revealed continuous bands of discoloration running end to end, threaded with fine, web-like veins. "I promise you, the reward will be generous."