Chapter 610: Whose Blood Will Dry First

Campbell Fortress dungeon.

Hearing the commotion outside the cell gate, Count Derek opened his eyes to see the cold-faced jailer bringing tonight's dinner.

It was stew and bread, along with fried pork cutlets.

But there were no knives, forks, or spoons—only a napkin and a bowl.

It seemed the Duke wanted him to eat with his hands.

Unbothered by this childish humiliation, Derek curled his dry lips and tossed a taunt at the jailer as he set down the plate.

"Is there a banquet outside?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Looks like they didn't catch anything today, huh."

Picking up the plate, Derek grabbed the greasy fried pork cutlet with his fingers and said, as if indifferent, "Give my regards to your Duke. Tell him Count Derek wishes him luck catching his first rabbit tomorrow—don't let some peasant steal the prize."

"His Majesty only just arrived at Gransston Fortress today—I'm afraid I can't carry your message, sir. Perhaps in a few days." The jailer, amused by the count's jest, replied with polite mockery.

"Oh?"

Derek's hand paused mid-bite. He raised an eyebrow, his cloudy eyes fixed on the young man beyond the cell bars.

"Summer hunt at my castle? When did he set out?"

Unthinkable—he hadn't expected Edward to have this much nerve. The entire North Creek Valley was under Gransston family control.

"His Majesty departed this morning, accompanied by guests from Lei Ming City."

Departed this morning…

Derek's pupils shrank slightly. For the first time, a faint flicker of fear crossed his composed face.

They're already here!

…

Roland City in June was unbearably hot—even the Flowing River remained warm at night. Newcastle couldn't help but think optimistically: perhaps this winter would be mild.

In a downtown apartment, a polished kerosene lamp dispelled the room's gloom; the clock had just passed seven-thirty.

At the very moment guests at Gransston Fortress raised their glasses to celebrate the first railway of the Royal Railway Company, Newcastle finally ended his evening engagements and sat alone at the table to enjoy his dinner.

Compared to the Duke's banquet, this "first-class" meal from Campbell was undeniably meager.

Yet compared to other middle-class gentlemen in Roland City, a rich stew and a basket of warm, buttered bread already counted as a luxurious feast.

And Newcastle's means extended further still: two fried sausages, their skins crisp and sizzling with oil, and the kerosene lamp in the corner—these were luxuries only the most affluent gentlemen could afford.

Newcastle speared a sausage and chewed slowly, savoring its comforting warmth, yet couldn't help thinking of home.

In Lei Ming City, a single silver pound could hire an adventurer to fetch a wild rabbit from Silver Pine Forest.

If you went to Silver Pine Town, farmers would serve you until you couldn't eat another bite—for just one silver pound.

"... Praise be to Baron Wickton. Thank goodness fire extinguishers aren't paid for in copper coins—otherwise, I wouldn't have earned enough last month to afford tonight's meal."

He muttered under his breath, reaching for a second slice of bread—when a sharp knock came from outside.

"Tap-tap—"

Newcastle wiped his mouth and hands with the napkin, sighed, signaled the servant emerging from the kitchen to hand him the item, then rose from his chair and walked to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's me! Sir, your assistant! Ren!"

Confirming the voice, he opened the door—and a damp, hot wind rushed in.

"Why so late?"

"Sir, the Royal Guard delivered documents regarding next quarter's fire extinguisher procurement and the list of maintenance parts! I thought I'd just drop them off on my way…"

The young man at the door shook the leather pouch in his hand, dusty and sweat-drenched, his bangs stuck to his forehead.

Mid-sentence, he fell silent. His gaze, as if glued, locked onto the table behind Newcastle.

"Gulp—"

A faint, awkward sound echoed in the apartment's entrance, flushing the boy's sallow cheeks.

As a profit-driven merchant, Newcastle's heart was usually hard.

But perhaps that bite of sausage had reminded him of home—or perhaps the lamplight was too warm—he felt a pang of pity.

"Haven't eaten yet?"

Taking the file pouch from Ren, he patted the boy's shoulder, forced a smile, and shut the door behind him.

"I'm just having dinner… come in, have some."

His intention was to have Ren sit down, then call the servant to bring another meal—but hunger had already burned away the boy's reason and dignity.

He didn't even say thank you, forgot all manners, and stormed into the dining room like a gust of wind.

By the time Newcastle snapped back to reality, Ren had already pulled the half-eaten sausage and bread onto his own plate.

In another blink, the sausage was gone—and half the stew had vanished.

Newcastle's hand, raised to call the servant, froze awkwardly in midair. He silently lowered it, unable to interrupt the boy's ravenous eating.

In two minutes, the plates were cleaner than a dog's lick.

Perhaps full, Ren finally slowed down.

He gripped the last slice of toasted bread, scraping the plate for every drop of meat juice, his mouth stuffed, mumbling:

"Sir… um… you're a good man."

"Thank… the compliment?" Newcastle replied uncertainly, pouring him a cup of hot water.

After all, he didn't consider himself a good man.

"I'm not flattering you—I'm serious! There's no bread this good in the whole city anymore. All the bakers are rotten—they're mixing sawdust into the bread! Saint Sis above, they're all going to hell!"

Ren bit into the bread soaked in meat juice as if chewing on an enemy.

"And those Campbell people—the King's soldiers say on the streets that our grain has been stolen by greedy Campbell merchants! They tricked us with worthless paper for our grain and meat, corrupted our bakers… but you're different. You're a true good man. No one has ever treated me so politely."

How novel—on one hand, worthless paper; on the other, stolen grain and meat… it had the dark humor of a man wrestling with his own hand.

If Newcastle remembered correctly, the kingdom's estates all belonged to nobles—he didn't recall being clever or bold enough to steal those things from Ma Rui herself.

Newcastle placed the cup before Ren.

"Drink some water. Don't choke."

"Th-thank you…"

The boy cupped the glass with both hands, blowing gently on it. Now full, he remembered some dignity.

Newcastle stared into his clear eyes, his heart a tangle of emotions.

Campbell Duchy had its underclass too—Gransston Fortress's serfs had just eaten their fill, and perhaps some in the remote Spinor Earldom still starved—but his sympathy didn't run so wide as to rage for strangers in a neighboring country.

What truly stirred him was that even those around him had lost their minds.

For instance, his assistant had clearly studied at a church school—he possessed knowledge and holy light, was clearly a middle-class man of Leyn Kingdom—and yet he'd become this foolish.

Newcastle admitted his thoughts were selfish, but he couldn't help wondering: Professor Ferguson's "Encyclopedia" might be dooming them.

After all, hating Campbell people posed no problem—it didn't stop him, a Campbell man, from selling fire extinguishers, since Wickton Baron held shares in them.

But once these people lost in the fog got matches and realized the source of their suffering… before they set fire to the King's robe, they'd burn themselves first.

"Actually, your King isn't entirely wrong."

Newcastle sighed softly, slipped the fire safety procurement list into his drawer, and closed it gently.

Facing Ren's confused gaze, he felt a pang of guilt—his conscience and ambition clashed within him.

"But you're my assistant, so I must tell you: the problem isn't with the Campbell people, nor with the Leyn people… the blood flowing in our veins is no different. We are all knights of the Knight's Land, all faithful to Saint Sis, even our honor is the same."

"Then… where's the problem?" The boy stared blankly, asking instinctively. His clear pupils were full of confusion—but beneath it, a sliver of unwilling clarity.

Newcastle looked at his young face, then thought of the stonemason named Ba'er. His inner struggle deepened.

The true answer was too cruel—he could only speak it as a joke, something he'd never say in earnest—

Because you're too cheap.

That's all.

Leyn Kingdom isn't short of grain—the farmlands aren't in Dusk Province, but the Golden Plains irrigated by the Flowing River.

Yet they, like the shoddy copper coins, are firmly held by the nobles.

These gentlemen have no reason to sell good food to bakers for those worthless copper coins—it's unprofitable and pointless.

They can simply load grain onto ships, sell it downstream in Lei Ming City for fine crafts—or send it upstream to the Kingdom of Luo De for advanced magic devices and minerals.

Nobles complain that citizens are greedy, craftsmen lazy, peasants foolish—but never mention that they themselves, bathed in holy light, are the very source of all these flaws.

Newcastle couldn't help thinking of Ma Rui—she was almost the exact opposite of the "Aloyse" she idolized.

His thoughts drifted back to last night.

On the soft, lavender-scented bed, Ma Rui Langbaine, his current lover, curled against him like a clingy cat, revealing everything she knew without reservation.

She hadn't come to Lei Ming City to play—she'd followed his father, the shrewd Baron Langbaine, to do shopping.

And they hadn't just bought novelty toilets and spring mattresses—they'd purchased prime real estate in Lei Ming City's busiest district.

Because Ma Rui loved theater, her father had bought a large plot of land to build a theater grander than the Colin Opera House.

That was merely the tip of the Langbaine family's investments.

As for the rest of the money—they couldn't spend it, so they deposited it in the Queen Street Bank, buying shares in the Colin Group and Royal Railway Company, waiting for dividends.

Though relations between the Campbell and Devalu families had hit rock bottom, Newcastle wouldn't be so naive as to think Edward would glare at these lavish Leyn nobles.

After all, Lei Ming City's merchants were stingy to the extreme—even donating a steam engine to a school required endless haggling. But these noble Leyn investors didn't care about profit or loss—only long-term gain.

They slapped down money for a theater beside the new industrial zone, regardless of whether Ma Rui would ever go there—yet it benefited Lei Ming City's poor.

Meanwhile, Baron Wickton was still in his office, frantically trying to squeeze the last drop of oil from the bakers—just as he'd once seized the cake from the Stonemasons' Guild with the Royal Guard.

The baker who willingly mixed sawdust into bread was, in fact, the most conscientious good person in Roland City. At least those true gentlemen hadn't stolen or robbed, and the chance of being choked by sawdust was low—far better than this locksmith who helped thieves pick locks.

Newcas did not tell the young man before him this sorrowful truth, nor could he bear to shatter his dream by revealing that he, too, was an accomplice in this shared crime, unlikely to escape final reckoning.

He silently reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a banknote, placing it gently on one corner of the dining table.

It was a one-silver-pound banknote; months earlier, he had suggested using it to pay Ren's salary, but the man had laughed at him.

Now, as that feather-light scrap lay on the table, the young man's eyes—Ren of Lain—were fixed upon it, as if pulled by a magnet, unable to look away.

"Take it."

Newcas gently pushed the banknote toward him.

"Go stroll along the banks of the Flowing River—any dock will do."

Along the Flowing River lay Roland City's largest black market, especially the slum district burned down by the winter fire—the only place in all of Roland City where one could still buy conscience. At first, it accepted only gold coins, but rumors now said it also took silver coins from the Rod Kingdom and silver pounds from the Campbell Duchy.

This secret had been shared with him by Sir Skedgin of the Royal Guard, because Skedgin needed to eat too.

In the past, Newcas's manservant would take silver pounds there to purchase daily necessities. But since he formed a connection with Miss Marui Langbaine, he had not sent his servant there in a long time.

Rare, priceless goods arrived at his home every few days, and he rarely ate meals in his own house.

"You'll find the flour you want… and the bread…"

"And the answer you seek."

Clutching the scorching banknote, Ren wandered out of his boss's apartment in a daze, unable to recall how he returned home.

Perhaps because he had eaten too much, he collapsed into bed and slept straight through until dawn, nearly missing work.

Fortunately, Newcas's company was not busy—they did not deal with ordinary people. Baron Wickton, though driven to white hair by worries over the Royal Treasury, had no trouble quietly slipping his hand into His Majesty's coffers to take his share.

After all, Roland City could not do without fire extinguishers, and the oil leaking from those barrels was meant to cultivate his own loyalists—ultimately serving His Majesty.

As Baron Wickton comforted himself, the young man from Lain named Ren was comforting himself too—after work, clutching the scorching banknote, he arrived at the banks of the Flowing River.

Boats came and went on the Flowing River, but few stopped at the docks. And most of those breadmakers whom Mr. Newcas called good men had already closed shop, vanished somewhere.