Chương 169: 169：Welcome to Greywater Village

Eight towering wooden watchtowers stood majestically amidst the howling wind and freezing rain, forming an imposing defensive perimeter around the camp. Just as the Half-Elves were exchanging uncertain, apprehensive glances, a figure materialized atop the watchtower guarding the northern gate. It was Greywater Village's Chief Mage, Victor. The Silver-tier Mage raised both hands. The sapphire crystal atop his staff pulsed with a faint, arcane light.

Instantly, the [Concealment Array] that completely shrouded the airspace above the camp rippled violently. Like an invisible curtain, the magical barrier slowly parted to the sides, granting them a safe, unhindered passage.

"Unbelievable... an array capable of completely erasing all magical fluctuations, being used to protect a mere village..." A one-eyed elder standing beside Ilya muttered, his face etched with sheer horror and awe. The moment they stepped through the northern gates, a wave of glorious, life-saving warmth washed over them. The rich scent of burning pine, roasting meat, and geothermal sulfur instantly banished the freezing, bone-deep dampness of the swamp. Ilya lifted her gaze.

The entirety of Greywater Village was built upon the broad, elevated plateau of a dormant volcanic crater. It was a heavily fortified, vibrant, and utterly impregnable stronghold.

"The Lord has returned!" A second-line patrol spearman clad in black iron half-plate instantly snapped to attention. He violently slammed his right fist against his breastplate, emitting a crisp, ringing CLANG. Soren offered a slight nod in return before turning to Ilya. He pointed toward a bustling sector of the camp.

"Over there are the human laborers we extracted from the orc mining pits today. One hundred and fifty-six of them."

"Darion and Gary escorted them ahead of our main convoy. They've already been properly settled."

"There is absolutely no racial segregation here. The exact moment you step through the gates of Greywater Village, you become subjects under my absolute protection." Following the glow of the firelight, Ilya's eyes widened. Those same human laborers—who had been numb, broken shells beneath the lashes of the orcs' whips just hours ago—were now sitting closely around dry, roaring braziers. They were wrapped tightly in clean linen cloth.

Some of them were still desperately clutching half-eaten chunks of black bread, openly weeping scalding tears of joy at having survived hell itself. To these people, who just yesterday could have been crushed to death by falling rocks at any given moment, this sulfur-scented village was already a sacred, untouchable, and absolute sanctuary. Soren swept his gaze over the deeply exhausted, mud-caked faces of the Half-Elves. Without another word, he took long strides toward the southern perimeter of the village.

This sector bordered a patch of ancient, primeval forest. Towering, colossal trees pierced straight into the sky, their massive canopies interlocking to completely block out the elements.

"The moisture at the swamp floor is far too heavy. Even in elevated stilted cabins, for descendants of elves accustomed to the winds of nature, I doubt you would sleep comfortably." Soren firmly patted the trunk of a massive ancient tree—one so thick it would take three men linking arms to encircle it. He turned back to Ilya.

"This entire sector is officially allocated to your people."

"Unleash your Talents, Ilya. Build your treehouses high up within the canopies and thick branches. Make it your home."

"In exchange, I want my Half-Elf Ranger Battalion to maintain absolute, round-the-clock overwatch of the entire southern perimeter!" The rims of Ilya's eyes instantly reddened. In the past, whenever they sought refuge within the territories of human nobles, Half-Elves were treated like vermin. They were tossed into moldy stables or rat-infested cellars, subjected to humiliating searches at a moment's notice.

But the supreme commander standing before her wasn't just accommodating their racial biology—he was officially entrusting them with absolute, highly critical garrison authority!

"We thank you for your profound grace, my Lord. The forest shall become our most impenetrable fortress." Ilya took a deep breath. A faint, breathtaking aura of emerald-green mana began to radiate from her slender body. She pressed her palm flat against the ancient bark, activating her [Nature Magic Affinity]. Rustle... Rustle... An incredible, miraculous sight unfolded. Driven by her mana, the massive, thick vines hanging from the canopy began to writhe and slither like living serpents.

They rapidly bent, interweaving and tightly coiling between the massive trunks. In the blink of an eye, they naturally constructed sprawling, sturdy wooden platforms suspended five to six meters above the toxic ground. The Half-Elf warriors instantly understood her intent. Moving with impossible, feather-light agility, they vaulted up into the canopy. Wielding their daggers, they rapidly harvested excess branches and broad leaves, expertly and efficiently weaving weatherproof, dome-shaped roofs over the platforms.

"Fina!" Soren called out, raising a hand without even turning his head.

"Here, my Lord!" A crisp, elegant voice rang out clearly through the rain. The Chief Financial Officer, Fina Hawthorne, jogged briskly toward him. Even with her leather boots heavily caked in mud, she exuded the absolute, sharp competence of a top-tier administrator. Under Fina's flawless coordination, over a dozen logistics personnel rolled two heavy wooden handcarts toward the trees. Piled staggeringly high upon the carts was a massive mountain of supplies.

Fina flipped open her heavy ledger, securely wrapped in waterproof oil-cloth. Her quill scratched rapidly as she reported:"These are four hundred premium, heavy beast-hides, expertly tanned and sterilized using wood ash."

"Swamp Crocodile hide may be tough, but it offers zero insulation. These are all the direwolf and bear pelts Greywater Village has previously captured and stockpiled." Fina looked up, offering a warm smile.

"Lord Soren issued a strict mandate: he ordered that absolutely every single new Half-Elf—especially your elderly and your children—must be issued a thick, bone-dry pelt to fend off the winter chill!" As the incredibly thick, warm, and bone-dry pelts were gently placed into the arms of the Half-Elf women... many mothers—widows who had been desperately raising their children alone in the freezing mud—could no longer hold back.

They buried their faces deep into the soft fur, their shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs of sheer gratitude. Meanwhile, over under a sprawling, elevated wooden pavilion, a scene of "logistical grace" was quietly unfolding—one that would leave Ilya utterly, fundamentally paralyzed with shock. Stolen novel; please report. The air was thick with the incredibly rich, cooling aroma of rare, alchemical herbs.

To any veteran commander who had waded through the blood and mud of the frontlines, this specific scent was intimately familiar... and unfathomably, astronomically luxurious.

"Line up! Those with festering wounds, stand to the left! Those suffering from typhoid and lung coughs, line up on the right!" Quartermaster Kyle, despite his hulking, burly physique, was currently displaying an unprecedented, meticulous level of battlefield triage. A surprisingly gentle smile softened his rugged face. Relying entirely on his [Herb Mastery] Talent, he rapidly and flawlessly triaged the critically ill among the rescued human laborers and the newly arrived Half-Elves.

Inside the pavilion, the Chief Mage, Victor, was actively channeling his mana to levitate a massive alchemical flask. Boiling inside the glass was a vibrant, violently glowing emerald-green liquid. It was the captured batch of [Basic Life Recovery Potions], which Victor had meticulously re-purified using high-tier alchemy.

"Is that... is that [Basic Life Recovery Potion]?!" Ilya had been walking past the pavilion. The absolute second her eyes recognized the glowing liquid being distributed, all the color instantly drained from her stunning face. She was completely, utterly aghast. In the Silvermoon Kingdom, even a "Basic" Life Recovery Potion was considered a priceless, strategic-tier alchemical treasure! It was an absolute last-resort, life-saving elixir.

Only aristocratic lords holding the rank of Knight Commander or higher would ever possess the staggering wealth required to pop a cork and take a sip! By the Gods, even the arrogantly pure-blooded Elven Royalty residing in the World Tree would, at most, consume an Intermediate Life Recovery Potion to cure severe ailments! And yet, right here... right now. Kyle took a massive iron cauldron filled with the diluted recovery potion directly from Victor.

Wielding a massive, long-handled wooden ladle, he was literally mass-distributing it! Human miners on the absolute brink of death from severe tuberculosis. Half-Elf toddlers covered head-to-toe in lethal toxic rashes. Kyle simply scooped up a massive, overflowing bowl for every single one of them and ordered them to chug it! Gulp... gulp... gulp... The sound of frantic swallowing echoed through the pavilion. The miraculous effects were instantaneous.

The sickly, purplish-blue hue faded from the emaciated Half-Elf children. The dark, necrotic spots vanished from their skin. The festering, acid-corroded wounds on the human miners visibly began to knit together, scabbing and closing at a terrifying, visible speed!

"You... you are actually using priceless, strategic-tier alchemical resources to... to treat a bunch of bottom-tier commoners and newly arrived refugees?!" Ilya was so profoundly shocked her voice cracked. She whipped her head around to stare at Soren. In her mind, this young man was an absolute, world-defying lunatic who completely shattered every single rule of common sense! Hearing this, Soren simply cast a calm, approving glance over the bustling, fire-lit triage center.

"In my army, the lives of my people are worth more than absolutely anything else." A faint, cunning smirk touched his lips.

"Besides, we have Warchief Blackstone to thank for this incredibly generous 'sponsorship'." Soren understood perfectly. To firmly establish a foothold in this man-eating, blood-soaked world... to make a group of marginalized outcasts—people who had been abandoned and trampled their entire lives—willingly fight to the absolute bitter end... empty slogans were worse than useless. You had to smash the absolute heaviest, most tangible capital right onto the table.

You had to violently shatter the monopoly of class structure and utterly obliterate the world's standard distribution of wealth. If he did that, they would naturally, inevitably, transform into the most fanatically loyal, death-defying warriors on the continent! Shortly after, Kyle and his logistics team rolled out dozens of massive, steaming iron cauldrons. The Unarmed Combat Instructor, the Monk Renn, stood like a towering wall of muscle by the distribution lines to maintain order.

The horrifying crisscross of scars covering his [Hardened Skin] radiated an intensely oppressive, lethal deterrence.

"MESS HALL IS OPEN!" Renn's booming voice echoed across the camp.

"The elderly, women, and children eat first! Warriors eat last! If I catch a single able-bodied man trying to cut in line, I will personally snap his fucking legs!" Bubbling inside the cauldrons were dozens of freshly butchered Swamp Crocodiles, chopped into thick chunks, slow-stewing alongside hundreds of peeled, starchy [Swamp Tubers].

"Here, have a taste." Fina offered a warm, elegant smile, personally handing a steaming clay bowl to Farness and the other elite Half-Elf warriors.

"This is Greywater Village's exclusive staple crop: the Swamp Tuber."

"Its greatest advantage is its absolute resistance to the swamp's highly acidic and toxic soil. Even if it's only been in the ground for sixty days and hasn't fully matured, we can dig it up and boil it. It might taste slightly astringent, but it will fill your belly!" Farness cradled the scalding clay bowl with both hands. Swallowing hard, he carefully took a bite of the starchy tuber, which had been stewed until it was meltingly soft.

The rich, satisfying sweetness of starchy carbohydrates, completely infused with the heavy, savory grease and juices bursting from the massive chunks of monster meat... That overwhelmingly dense, mouth-watering flavor shot straight to his brain, literally exploding across his tastebuds! For a Half-Elf who had spent the last several months surviving on nothing but bitter, toxic grass roots, this was an absolute, supreme delicacy!

"Gods... it's so good... it's too good..." Even these fiercely proud, adult elite warriors completely threw their dignity out the window. Tears welled in their eyes as they violently wolfed down the food, practically shoving their faces into the bowls. In this exact moment, every single ounce of lingering apprehension and terror within the hearts of Ilya and her two hundred and thirty-seven Half-Elf kin was completely, utterly eradicated.

It was replaced by profound, overwhelming gratitude, cemented by absolute respect, life-saving elixirs, and piping-hot, grease-dripping meat stew.

"We... we came to the right place." Ilya watched her people eating until their bellies were full, safe from the freezing rain.

"Even if Lord Soren orders us to charge the gates of Bloodfang Fortress tomorrow to personally sever Warchief Blackstone's head... I would die with absolutely zero regrets." Ilya silently swore a blood oath in her heart, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her longbow with unbreakable resolve.