Northreach Village Square (Below the Castle). Morning – The First Job Fair.
The sun had only just begun to crest the eastern horizon, yet the village square—usually a desolate place inhabited only by stray pheasants or elders drying wheat—had been transformed into a sea of people. News of House Sudrath's resounding victory at Mist Valley had spread like wildfire. However, another rumor had stoked the people's spirits even further: "Duke Lucian pays his soldiers two gold coins a month and provides meat three times a day."
For commoners who for years had survived on watery gruel and were paid with hollow words of gratitude, this was a glimmer of hope from the heavens.
More than five hundred people jostled in the cobblestone square. The sharp tang of human sweat, the scent of mud from caked boots, and the musk of livestock mingled in the crisp morning air.
"Form a line! Back up, all of you! Stop pushing!"
Sir Riven's roar thundered, amplified by a crude megaphone fashioned from a roll of tin—one of Rianor's makeshift inventions. Riven stood tall on a makeshift wooden stage, hands on his hips, his light armor gleaming. To his left and right, Captain Thorne and Garrick stood like stone pillars, keeping the peace with intimidating glares.
Riven surveyed the mass of humanity before him with mixed emotions. God, this is insane, he thought, wiping his brow. Back in Jakarta, finding a job was a nightmare. Now, I'm the one getting a headache from thousands of applicants.
"Listen to the rules!" Riven shouted again, his voice firm yet maintaining a tone of approachability for the common folk. "House Sudrath has no room for slackers! We don't care who your father is; we only care about what you can do!"
Riven pointed to three stations marked with wooden signs.
"Station One: Physical Fitness! Lift a thirty-kilogram stone and run five laps around the square. If you pass out before the third lap, go home!"
"Station Two: Skilled Labor! Blacksmiths, carpenters, cooks—head over there!"
"Station Three: Literacy! Anyone who can read and write, report directly to Sir Roland!"
The crowd erupted into a frenzy as people began surging toward their respective stations.
At Station One (Physical Fitness).
Riven rubbed his temples as he watched a scrawny man attempt to lift a massive boulder. The man strained so hard that... pffft! He let out a loud, accidental blast of gas from the sheer effort.
"Fail! Go home and eat something first!" Garrick barked, his tone harsh but honest.
Riven turned to Thorne. "Thorne, if we rely solely on natural selection like this, it'll take too long. We need a faster method."
Riven grabbed a wooden training spear from a rack and stepped to the front of the stage.
"Anyone with the guts to attack me right now gets accepted instantly, no questions asked!" he challenged.
Silence fell. The villagers held their breath. Everyone knew who this "Giant of Sudrath" was—the man who had toppled General Kael with his bare hands. No one dared move.
Suddenly, a village girl in tattered clothes with hair roughly shorn short stepped forward. Her hands trembled as she gripped an old mop handle, but her eyes blazed with desperate resolve.
"I... I need the money for my mother's medicine," her voice shook, but she didn't retreat an inch.
Riven offered a thin, knowing smile. "Attack me."
The girl let out a piercing cry, lunging with movements that were utterly raw. Naturally, Riven only needed to flick the tip of her staff aside with one finger. She fell, rolling in the dirt, but she scrambled back up immediately—even attempting to bite Riven's steel boot in her desperation.
"Enough!" Riven let out a short laugh and hauled the girl to her feet. "Incredible courage. You're in! Report to the Logistics Division!"
The Industrial Zone (Formerly the Grain Warehouse). Midday.
While Riven was drowning in the scent of sweat, Sir Rianor and Lady Rumina were grappling with the acrid sting of chemicals. The massive, derelict warehouse had been repurposed into a makeshift manufacturing hub. Three divisions were already busy at work: the Paper Division, mass-printing sheets; the Glass Division, producing premium pocket mirrors; and the newest addition: Soap.
"Rianor, the mixture is starting to thicken!" Rumina called out, stirring a massive vat of animal fats and alkaline lye.
"Add the scent extracts now, Rumi!" Rianor commanded while checking the wooden molds.
Rumina poured in a clear liquid—an essence of jasmine and lavender extracted from the castle gardens. Instantly, a floral aroma flooded the room, banishing the heavy scent of fat.
"Scented bar soap," Rianor murmured, looking at the hardening blocks. "In this world, people wash with plain water or harsh lye that makes their skin itch. If we sell soap that leaves the skin smooth and fragrant..."
"...The noble ladies in the Capital will be trampling each other to buy it," Rumina finished with a wide grin. "You really have the soul of a capitalist, don't you?"
"Hmm, let's just say it's for the greater good," Rianor deflected, adjusting his glasses. "Besides, I can't stand the smell of the soldiers during our coordination meetings."
The warehouse door swung open. Sir Roland entered, fanning his face with a scrap of paper. "Rianor, Rumina. I just found the most interesting candidate from the Literacy Station."
Roland brought in a hunched old man with thick, cracked spectacles. His clothes were in tatters, but his fingertips were stained with dried ink.
"This is Silas," Roland introduced him. "He's a former senior scribe at the Capital Library. Fired because... well, he had the audacity to correct the King's spelling in an official letter."
Rianor's eyes sparkled. A perfectionist linguist? This was a priceless asset.
"Master Silas," Rianor greeted him politely. "I need someone to operate this."
Rianor pointed to a corner of the room housing a wooden press with rows of hand-carved, reversed lead-type blocks. It was the First Prototype Printing Press.
Silas froze. He approached with trembling hands, stroking the blocks with genuine affection. "This... this is a tool for writing without a hand? A single press produces a full page instantly? No more manual copying for hours on end?"
"Exactly," Rianor said. "I want you to be the Editor-in-Chief for our printed media. Ten gold coins a month. And here, you're free to correct anyone's spelling—including mine."
Silas fell to his knees, tears of joy streaming down his wrinkled face. To a lover of literacy, this machine was a miracle that surpassed any mana-based magic.
"I will serve you with all my soul, Young Lord! I will print the knowledge that lights this world!"
Rianor looked at Roland and Rumina. A cunning smirk, the signature of the Sudrath family, danced on his lips. The mass propaganda machine was now ready for ignition.
The Castle Dining Hall (Family Mode: ON). Night.
Dinner tonight was significantly more cheerful. The aroma of soy-glazed roasted chicken filled the room—the result of Martha's hard work extracting local soybeans after being taught a secret technique by Aurelia.
"How was the recruitment progress today?" Rianor asked, chewing on a chicken leg.
Riven dropped his head onto the table with a heavy sigh. "A disaster, Rianor. Out of five hundred people, only a hundred and twenty passed the basic standards. The rest are so weak from chronic malnutrition. I have to put them on a bulking program before I can even teach them how to hold a spear properly."
"It's alright, Riven," Aurelia comforted him with a gentle, motherly tone. "Investing in people takes time. What matters is their loyalty."
"But there was one interesting find," Riven looked up. "There was this kid, absolutely filthy. But when I tested him, he was incredibly agile—reminded me of a street pickpocket. Name's Flick. I put him in the intelligence division to help Rhea."
"Good," Lucian nodded with calm authority. "We need eyes and ears in every corner."
"And how's the factory, Rianor?" Riven asked back.
Rumina proudly held up a light purple soap bar. "The debut edition of Lavender Soap! I tested it on Veena, and look, she smells like a fresh baby now."
Raveena grinned wide, showing off her white teeth. "The soap is amazing! The bubbles are everywhere! It doesn't sting like the rough lye we used to use."
"Tomorrow, Roland will take these samples to the traveling merchants," Rianor instructed. "Don't sell them for too high a price yet. Give them out for free as a trial. Let them get addicted first. We're using a modern FMCG marketing strategy."
"You got it, Boss," Roland said, giving a playful salute.
Suddenly, a rhythmic but urgent knock sounded at the door. Grimm entered with an unnervingly serious expression. He carried a small black box sealed with dark red wax.
"My apologies for disturbing the family dinner, my Lord," Grimm said in a low voice. "But this package was found at the main gate. No one saw who delivered it."
The warmth in the dining hall vanished instantly, replaced by a stifling tension. Lucian stood straight. "Riven, take the children to their rooms. Now."
Aurelia immediately gathered Raveena and Raphael, ushering them out quickly. Rianor approached, eyeing the box warily. "Careful, Grimm. It could be a magic trap or poison."
Rianor examined the seal. There was no noble crest. Only a single image: A Weeping Eye Shedding Blood.
"The mark of 'The Silent Step' Assassin Guild," Rhea whispered, suddenly appearing from the shadows of a corner—she had just returned from a secret patrol. "They are the most expensive and lethal contract killers on the continent."
Grimm carefully pried open the box with the tip of his scalpel. Inside, there were no explosives. Only a broken dagger and a scrap of tattered paper.
Rianor took the paper, his brow furrowing as he read. The message was brief, written in ink that resembled dried blood:
"You have drawn the Great Master's attention. Hand over 'That Item' within seven days, or we shall retrieve it ourselves from your cold corpses."
"'That Item'?" Roland asked, confused. "Do they mean the mirrors or the soap?"
"No," Lucian shook his head slowly, his gaze piercing the stone floor as if staring into the very depths of the Northreach earth. "They know about the Mithril. Morvath has lost his patience. He has hired professionals to wipe us out."
Rianor crumpled the paper in his fist. "We barely had one day to breathe, and now another threat. Are we truly not allowed a moment of peace?"
"Welcome to the cruel world, brother," Riven patted Rianor's shoulder, then casually reached for another chicken leg. "Eat up. We're going to need the extra energy to slaughter those assassins tomorrow."