[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations":3,"chapter-the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-6":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","The Nation of Ten Thousand Nations",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2332974,4562,"Chapter 6: Jealousy","the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-6",6,"\u003Cp>Cesar saw a not entirely unfamiliar shadow by the kitchen stove.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The castle’s stove was nowhere near as refined as later generations imagined; its only distinction from peasant hearths was its size.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A rectangular hearth stretched nearly thirty paces along the wall, deliberately divided into three zones: a roaring fire, a low flame, and embers. A cauldron hung over the roaring fire, a spit rested above the low flame, and acorns and pine logs smoldered on the embers, where smoked poultry and game meats emerged faintly through the rising smoke.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The small water-carrier squatted by the low flame, pretending to work diligently, but every few moments he would remove the spit, slice off a small piece of meat, eat it, then purse his lips and shake his head as if savoring the flavor. Several others glared at him in disgust; he either pretended not to notice or flashed a malicious smirk.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He knew the kitchen staff wanted to beat him with sticks and forks, ideally shove him straight into the hearth—but what could they do? He was a knight’s son, Prince Baldwin’s servant, and might one day become a squire. They dared not even approach him, for he spat in their faces—and this was the saliva of the man closest to a leper!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kram’s expression darkened instantly. He strode toward the small servant, yanked him up, slapped him, kicked his buttocks, and drove him out of the kitchen. Yet the servant showed no fear, grinning and hopping like a clown.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Still proud, are you?!” Kram snarled. “You’re getting kicked out—do you know that?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The servant’s grin froze. His eyes widened, teeth bared, like a rat cornered. “What are you talking about, Uncle?” he cried. “What do you mean I’m getting kicked out? Who has the authority to do that?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Too many people,” Kram said. “Who do you think you are, Wit? You’re nothing but my brother’s bastard, a fool born from an Isaac woman’s belly. I went to great lengths to get you into this castle—yet you repaid my kindness with indifference, wasting my favor and my money!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You’re lying!” Wit shouted. “I’ve always been a good servant, a loyal slave. I’ve never stopped thinking of my master, serving him faithfully, working hard for him!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kram actually laughed. He grabbed the leather pouch hanging from Wit’s belt and shook it—silver coins clattered out onto the floor. As Wit scrambled to pick them up, Kram no longer bothered to hide his disappointment: “Do you think I don’t know where these coins came from?” He pointed inside the kitchen. “See that pretty boy beside me? He’s the new squire chosen by His Majesty for Prince Baldwin.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wit’s hand froze. “New squire?” he asked. “Is he a count’s son? Or a duke’s?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Neither,” Kram said with disgust. “He was once a slave to an Isaac merchant. Look—this position was meant for you. Yet you fixated on a few coins. Now the prince has a new companion. He no longer needs any of you. All of you must leave!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That’s unfair!” Wit lifted his head, eyes blazing with fury. “The emperor said—”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Yes,” Kram cut in. “The emperor said that if any of you won Prince Baldwin’s favor, he would grant you the privilege of becoming his squire. But did you? No! The prince dislikes all of you—every single one! Yet he met that boy just once, and already lets him sleep beside him, lets him wear his own clothes.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wit glanced quickly toward the kitchen. Though far away and blurry, he still remembered the fleeting glimpse from the tower—when he’d thought the new servant looked like a woman… “Is it him?” he hissed. “He’s going to drive us all out, isn’t he?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Whether it’s him or not doesn’t matter,” Kram said. “Once I’ve chosen new servants, all of you will leave the castle—go back to being farmers, craftsmen, or cooks. I won’t bother with you anymore, Wit. You’re as useless as your father and your Isaac mother.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He roared the last words, then turned and walked away without looking back.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>——————————\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Boiling water spurted from the narrow spout of the kettle into a wooden tub lined with silk, steam rising in swirling clouds, making the air hot and damp.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Church discouraged bathing for many reasons, one of which was that bathing was undeniably luxurious—directly contradicting the Church’s demand for simplicity.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even the tubs used by princes and kings, lacking tools for fine polishing, still bore countless tiny splinters. To avoid injury, each bath required a layer of silk lining. But these expensive silks, after being soaked in boiling water and trampled, lost all their value.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar weighed out a pound of dried Saint John’s herb and dropped it into the water.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Saint John’s herb was commonly used by monks and commoners to treat sunburn, scalds, and cuts, relieve muscle pain, and ease gout and rheumatism—but its effect on leprosy was negligible, merely slowing early symptoms like blisters and numbness. Baldwin’s condition improved only slightly, allowing him to sleep a little more soundly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Baldwin soaked, someone knocked again—this time more politely. Cesar opened the door to find a tray stacked neatly with clean clothes.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Who?” Baldwin asked.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Someone brought washed clothes,” Cesar replied. While commoners still passed garments down as treasured heirlooms for generations, the King of Arasal only changed his linen shirt daily. But Baldwin, afflicted with leprosy, required absolute cleanliness: every day, his soiled clothes were taken by servants, washed, and returned.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The clothes on the large wooden tray were not only clean but also fluffy, still carrying a faint warmth from the sun. Deep purple lavender flowers were woven between the fabrics, releasing a pleasant scent. On top lay long stockings, beneath them a shirt, beneath that a black coat, beside them gloves and a gauze veil.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Cesar?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I’ll find you another coat, Your Highness,” Cesar said. “This one was touched by bird droppings.” He pulled the black coat off the tray and tossed it to the floor, then retrieved a cream-colored wool coat from the wardrobe. He carried the “soiled” coat out the door and returned to the tower before Baldwin finished bathing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The coat’s problem wasn’t bird droppings. Precisely speaking, it wasn’t a coat at all—it was a long robe. Nobles often wore black coats, tight breeches, or cloaks, but black robes were restricted to funerals, reserved for the dead and their closest kin.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Or perhaps, if Baldwin were healthy, the black robe wouldn’t have been so sensitive.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But when Cesar was still at the Monastery of Saint John the Baptist, the monks had told him that lepers, before being expelled from city and home, if granted mercy by the Church, would receive a “premature” last rites ceremony.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The patient, dressed in a black robe, would stand in a freshly dug grave surrounded by family, while a priest anointed him with holy oil, sprinkled holy water, heard his confession, recited prayers, and then monks would shovel handfuls of dirt onto him, saying as they did: “You have died in this world, but are reborn before God.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It was equivalent to a funeral.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If Cesar had been even slightly careless—or unaware of this custom—and handed Baldwin the black robe, those people would assume the prince, even if he didn’t fly into immediate rage, would harbor resentment. Or if Amalric I learned of it, he would immediately dismiss Cesar as either reckless or foolish.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar’s sharpness clearly disappointed some people. Before evening prayers began, the small servant himself came to invite Cesar to a feast. According to him, they had sincerely prepared fine wine and pork pies, and planned to share with the new servant the secrets of serving nobles.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Whether they were sincere, Cesar wasn’t sure—but Wit and his cronies had indeed gone to great lengths.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wine was not something servants normally touched; they drank only bland beer. Pork pies required pork—which was rare in Arasal, since the Saracens refused to eat pork, and the climate was unsuitable for raising pigs—and fine wheat flour to make the dough, which was then fermented and baked in the oven.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“We mustn’t disturb His Highness’s rest,” Wit said cheerfully. They hosted Cesar in one of the twelve defensive towers, the one closest to the left tower. Besides generous amounts of wine and pies, they even brought courtesans—each bare-chested and alluring. The men, in the stifling little room, were already dizzy before even drinking.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Nothing more needed saying. They drank, ate, laughed loudly, showing no sign they’d heard the grim news. Wit sat beside Cesar, a courtesan on his other side. Wit leaned close to Cesar’s ear, whispering “secrets”—nothing truly useful, just tempting vices, precisely the kind a boy Cesar’s age found irresistible. The courtesan kept offering him wine and pies.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They caroused until late night. “We should go back,” Wit said. “Before we go, shouldn’t we pray?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The men and women burst into laughter. Wit’s “prayer” wasn’t literal—it meant the latrine. Castles typically had latrines built high on the walls, appearing like small protruding rooms. Nobles euphemistically called them “wardrobes” or “prayer rooms.” Wit’s phrasing was ironic.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You go first,” Wit said. “Squire Lord, I had it cleaned just now—it’s spotless.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Alright,” Cesar said slowly. He seemed alert, but his sluggish steps and the hand he pressed against the wall betrayed his near-intoxication.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The tower’s latrine was Roman-style—no, the entire castle’s latrines were all like this. Imagine a stone platform with a wooden board large enough for two men to sit on, pierced by a hole. Beneath it ran a vertical shaft twenty or thirty feet deep, ending in a deep pit filled with human waste.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A foul, icy wind surged up from the dark hole, nauseating—but amid this revolting stench, a strange sweet fragrance lingered. For a moment, Cesar couldn’t place it. He brushed the wall, searching for candle stubs or flint in the recesses, but found none. Only a small ventilation opening high above existed—perhaps too narrow for defense—and at night, he could see nothing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He thought for only a few seconds, then turned to leave—when a dark figure lunged at him, shoving him toward the stone platform. Cesar’s knee slammed hard into the stone; he lost balance and toppled forward—but in that instant, he curled his body and slipped, rolled through the narrow gap between the board and the attacker’s torso—escaping. He’d survived beneath hundreds of horse hooves and dozens of hunting dogs’ claws; this was easy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His shoulder crashed into the wall next, but he felt no pain. In one swift motion, he drew his short dagger. It had once belonged to Baldwin—its blade only a palm’s length, meant for carving meat and bone at table, but perfectly suited for a man.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A thin man charged forward. Cesar’s dagger slashed upward, biting into the man’s thigh, tearing through thin linen. As the fabric ripped with a crisp sound, the unique elasticity and softness of human skin and muscle traveled up the blade to Cesar’s palm. He held his breath, drove deeper, upward—until he reached the most vital part of a man.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The iron tang of blood mixed with the fresh, hot stench of feces and urine.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The third attacker recoiled. Without hesitation, he abandoned his companion and fled into darkness—but Cesar recognized him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar rose. Now he could see slightly better. The first attacker had been trapped—no wonder he hadn’t joined the others.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He was a large man, jammed headfirst into the board, stuck up to his shoulders. He thrashed wildly, legs kicking uselessly, unable to free himself. But the hole—if Cesar hadn’t misjudged—was far too small to allow an adult man’s head and shoulders to pass through.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He sidestepped, touched the broken edge of the board. Part of the fracture was jagged; another part was unnaturally smooth, like a straight cut.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cesar remembered where the sweet scent came from. Most people wouldn’t think of it—but in the monastery, carving was a skill monks excelled in. That was the smell of fresh wood being cut, releasing scattered sawdust.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Someone had carefully sawn through this board—just enough to keep it from fully breaking—and placed it loosely on top. Had Cesar, full and drowsy, lowered himself without caution, he would have fallen into the pit below—dying in a grotesque, humiliating way.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>To ensure success, the man had hidden two others outside. If Cesar hadn’t fallen into the trap, they would have seized him and thrown him down anyway.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Cesar slid his dagger into the crack, he considered warning Baldwin, or Kram, or threatening the man to expose the mastermind behind him. But in the end, he only gave a bitter smile.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“This damned world!” he muttered, then twisted the dagger. Baldwin’s blade was thick and sturdy—it groaned under the strain. The trapped man screamed in terror, but upside-down, he couldn’t shout as loudly as when standing; all Cesar heard was a muffled, unintelligible rumbling.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>For the man, those moments must have felt endless. For Cesar, they lasted only a minute or two. When he lifted the man’s legs and dropped him into the pit, he hesitated not at all.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>(End of Chapter)\u003C\u002Fp>",2184,"2026-06-20T20:58:34.857Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","f1b50fc480874ea0fefe306672dd6c897ee687e0d88724793a9e584316f0edbc","the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-7","the-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-chapter-5",168,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fthe-nation-of-ten-thousand-nations-cover.jpg"]