“Jon, he’s spouting nonsense. Don’t believe him.”
Yuna’s right hand was hidden in her sleeve, clenched tightly, her neatly trimmed nails digging unconsciously into her skin.
In her heart, she cursed Lord Rossi thousands, tens of thousands of times.
Jon looked back at Yuna suspiciously, then turned back to stare at Lord Rossi.
“Keep talking.”
Lord Rossi laughed heartily, his voice loud enough that every word reached the audience below, drilling into their ears.
“In the eyes of all the Dustfolk, the Demon Race is humanity’s greatest threat. But do you know— the Empire has never regarded the Demon Race as important?”
Jon’s expression grew darker.
“Keep talking.”
“Heh, a group still stuck in tribal stages, possessing only brute strength, fighting separately— humanoid beasts.
Even if the Demon Race occasionally eats some people or slaughters a few villages, what does it matter to the Empire? Does the Empire lack anything?”
Lord Rossi, like an actor in a play, used an exaggerated tone to peel open that festering scab inch by inch.
“Then let me ask, why does the Empire send out Heroes like you and your predecessors, mobilizing millions of soldiers to crusade against that barren land every ten or twenty years?”
“Hero, as your logistics officer during the Demon Hunt, I managed the accounts and read those left by our predecessors. To be honest, except for this war against Demon King Riya— every Demon Hunt has been a total loss for the Empire.”
“Even if there was a small gain this time, the resources plundered from the Demon Race and the gold seized from their homes all went into His Majesty’s Royal Treasury.”
“Tell me, why is that?”
Lord Rossi asked the Hero again.
Jon had gradually grown accustomed to this stench of greed.
“For money?”
He guessed.
“Half right!”
Lord Rossi laughed.
“Whether it’s the Demon Hunt, the Northern Expedition, or the Eastern Crusade— with an enemy, you can extract money from everyone in the Empire.”
“The nobles donate first. Once the nobles are done, the Dustfolk continue to donate. When they’ve given all they can, two more national protection taxes are added.
Vast sums of gold pour into the Empire’s War Machine, redistributed with its roar. In the end… the nobles get all their money back, the Dustfolk’s is split seventy-thirty.”
He paused, savoring the words.
“The Southern Frontier: Thousand Rivers Domain is the Empire’s Front Line against the Demon Race. Rossi City is the Front Line of the Front Line, the last domestic supply hub before entering the Abyss.
In just four months, do you know how much money and grain passed through my hands?”
“Nine million gold kuren.”
“Last year, the Empire’s total annual tax revenue was only twenty-six million gold kuren.”
“You call me a corrupt official. I admit it. But you’ve seen my property— is it a lot? As for the rest of the money, every coin, every sum—do you want me to read out who it went to?”
“And besides that, there’s… disaster relief.”
“That’s an even more profitable business.”
The twilight suddenly brightened, a brief aurora flashing and dazzling.
The townspeople below, breathless with fear, instinctively closed their eyes.
Taking advantage of the moment, a giant spear of light suddenly descended from the sky, aimed to take Lord Rossi’s life.
Yet Lord Rossi showed no fear.
Instead, he sneered.
Because he knew he couldn’t die yet.
As expected, in the next second, the spear of light above his head shattered inch by inch.
Jon, who had somehow teleported over, shook the light fragments from his hand, turned expressionlessly, and warned Yuna:
“Let him speak.”
“Jon!”
Yuna’s face was pale.
For the first time, she lost her composure before the Hero, even gasping in frustration.
“He’s trying to harm you! He’s provoking you to fight the whole Empire!”
“Is what he’s saying true?”
Jon asked Yuna.
Yuna choked, but quickly explained hesitantly:
“It’s just one-sided talk. There are many ways to view things. Jon, don’t let him sway you.”
“Then I’ll listen to your side later.”
Jon replied to the Saintess, then turned back to Lord Rossi.
“Keep talking.”
“Where was I? Oh, disaster relief. Hero, do you know what’s most valuable about these refugees?”
Lord Rossi chuckled.
“Land?”
“It’s valuable, but not enough.”
“Then what?”
Jon truly couldn’t guess.
Lord Rossi gave the answer with a smile.
“People, Hero. It’s the people themselves.”
He spoke at length.
“When people are starving, nothing matters anymore. Even if it’s hell, they’ll step in for a mouthful of food. At first, they sell land cheaply. When the land is gone, they sell their young children.”
“The lucky ones are sold to noble families, raised as deathsworn servants with boundless prospects. The ordinary ones end up in the Flower Gate as child prostitutes and male courtesans—considered elegant in their own way.
The unlucky… they’re shipped north, or bought by some noble as ‘Living Pearls’ to be sacrificed in Black Magic Rituals.”
“When all the children are gone and hunger remains, what then? Sell yourself! But grown Dustfolk have their own will, too rebellious— harder to control. Children fetch a better price.”
“Women and frail men are sold into prostitution, though their market value is short-lived. Strong men are branded with red-hot irons on their foreheads, a small part of their brain destroyed, then healed with Light Magic, making them tamer than cattle—
sold off as labor. For mining, salt-drying, better than magic puppets—puppets require magic to run, and magic is expensive.”
“Oh, right. Hero, did you know that orphan girls with the right temperament are all sold to the Church? Those with talent for divine arts go to church schools to become future Priests of Charity Home or Nuns, loyal to the local Order of Light.
The less talented serve the faith as well, but they’re called ‘Sacred Prostitutes’…”
“Jon!”
Yuna cried out anxiously.
“Don’t listen to his one-sided stories! Those are just individual actions by certain bishops! We’re investigating! We only encourage adopting orphaned girls!”
Lord Rossi snorted.
“Orphans are so sought after that if you spend less, all you get are broken goods. And you think you can adopt good ones for free?
If you don’t buy, how do you fulfill the adoption quotas the Church assigns each year? Don’t tell me you really go and adopt the unwanted disabled orphans?”
“‘Strict investigation,’ you say? Has any bishop ever been demoted for this? In the end, it’s always ‘Priest of Charity Home personal conduct.’ Remember this, Hero— if the law doesn’t punish harshly, then it’s mere encouragement!”
“Oh, and Hero, there’s another thing you might not know. These churches, using Empire funds to build dams, bridges, and relief houses, always make them a little fragile on purpose.
That way, every few years they need repairs, and every few decades a rebuild. Their funding flows endlessly.”
“Baseless slander!”
Yuna’s pretty face turned red.
She pointed at Lord Rossi, her slender hand trembling.
“Who would deliberately build shoddy bridges and houses? We just didn’t build well! Our technology is limited!”
“Save it. The Order of Light in Rossi City has stood for four hundred years without ever collapsing.”
“That shows our church people are responsible and care for the buildings!”
“Ah, yes, yes, only your people are responsible. The most responsible of all.”
“What else can you do besides suspect us with conspiracy theories? Do you think everyone is as filthy as you dog-officials from the National Mage faction?”
Yuna deliberately started bickering with Lord Rossi, forcibly derailing the topic.
At this moment, Jon stood frozen, the chaotic argument loud in his ears yet seeming to float, distant and close.
Inside, a piece seemed missing.
The palace buried deep in his consciousness began to collapse.
He suddenly thought of his father, who died in battle, and his mother, who, injured during the escape, died in childbirth.
Faces long forgotten from childhood floated in Jon’s mind, those of his father and mother shifting endlessly, replaced by countless others from his memories.
Why?
The glory and courage of warriors had become tools for corrupt officials and warlords to amass wealth.
The suffering forged by blood and tears had become sweet delicacies for gluttonous monsters to fight over.
His fist clenched.
The armguard creaked.
Shock transformed into tense anger.
Grief condensed into surging magic.
After a long time, only one thought remained in Jon’s heart—
He was the Hero.
He would personally defeat every Demon King, whether it was Riya, or those so-called “Eagle,” “Deer,” “Bear”!
Shattered to pieces?
Then let it be shattered!