Chương 374: 374：A Sanctuary for the Broken and Damned

And it didn't stop there. This massive tidal wave of hope even surged into the darkest, most agonizing depths of suffering. Deep within the fallen territories occupied by the Orc Alliance. Inside a completely lightless, hidden cellar beneath the ruins. Several human resistance fighters, their skin brutally burned with humiliating slave brands, huddled around a copy of the human Daily Gazette smuggled in through unknown channels.

For years, they had lived underground, suffocating in the constant, visceral terror that at any second, Orcs might drag them from their sanctuary to be eaten alive as blood-food. But when the only literate brother among them broke down in tears, reading aloud the exact words: "Warchief Blackstone assassinated, his heart pierced by a single arrow..." Inside that damp cellar, these hardened men of iron—warriors who bled freely but never cried—suddenly buried their faces in their hands and wept openly.

"He's dead... That monster who casually butchered our entire families... Warchief Blackstone was effortlessly slaughtered by a human hero!"

"Lord Soren has completely shattered the myth of Orc invincibility!" The resistance leader, a man covered head-to-toe in brutal scars, violently snatched up a chipped bone-cleaver from the dirt, radiating the bloodthirsty resolve of a man willing to die for his cause.

"If the forces commanded by Lord Soren can shatter a thirty-thousand-strong Orc main army, it absolutely proves his defensive line is unshakeable!"

"Right now, Greywater Town is the absolute safest, most secure sanctuary in the entire human faction of the Erythian Continent!" The leader hoisted the bone-cleaver high, declaring in a fierce, low growl to his sworn brothers:"We are done cowering in the dark waiting to die like pathetic rats!"

"As long as we can break through the outer blockade, even if we have to traverse half the continent, we are going to the land where the Warchief was executed!" In this freezing, blizzard-swept winter... A desperate, burning yearning that completely bypassed national borders, shattered class divides, and ignored impossibly vast distances was rapidly colliding, merging, and swelling into an unstoppable force across the thirty-plus nations of the continent.

Among them were refugees whose homes had been violently reduced to ash. There were warriors who refused to be broken into slaves, retaining a fierce, bloodthirsty defiance in their very marrow. It even included standard human commoners who were utterly sick of the aristocrats' hypocritical lies, fully convinced that the Empire's defensive lines were inevitably going to collapse.

In the hearts of these people—souls absolutely ravaged by war and who saw right through the sickening corruption and oppression of the noble class—the opulent luxury of the Capitals and the towering walls of the great Empires were nothing but pathetic, unreliable illusions!

"We don't ask for a life of luxury and wealth!"

"We just want a place without nobles whipping us like beasts! A place that treats us as actual human beings! A place with an impregnable wall capable of stopping the Orcs' butcher blades, where we can stand with our spines straight and live our lives with absolute security and dignity!" This desperate, humble, yet soul-piercing cry became the unified, burning wish of tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, and eventually millions of bottom-tier commoners.

And the bastion of absolute equality Soren had forged in this apocalyptic era infinitely exceeded every single expectation they had for surviving in this hellish world! The toxic miasma of the Misty Swamp, a fog that seemed eternally immune to the wind, felt even more bone-chillingly cold in the winter aftermath of the blizzard. In this absolute death zone—choked with highly acidic muck and concealing lethal Two-Headed Demon Crocodiles—every single inch of progress violently drained a man's stamina.

Yet, despite how ruthlessly hostile the environment was, over the course of the next fifteen days, the outer fringes of the swamp completely lost their former dead silence.

"Keep up! Do not fall behind! Cross that acid bog ahead and we're there!" Trudging through the muck, a wandering mercenary completely caked in foul-smelling mud leaned heavily on a dead branch to keep his collapsing body upright. He unleashed a hoarse roar at the bankrupt serfs violently gasping for air behind him. They had been slogging through the miasma for exactly seven days. Their rations were entirely depleted, forcing them to survive by chewing on mildly toxic swamp bark just to stave off starvation.

But when they finally pushed past the final veil of dense, sickly-green miasma... When they laid eyes on the towering watchtowers in the distance and the banner of Greywater Town snapping fiercely in the wind... This group of hardened bottom-tier men—men who had seen through the brutal exploitation of the human nations and had absolutely all avenues of retreat severed—instantly teared up.

Some couldn't even hold themselves up, dropping to their knees right in the freezing mud, unleashing agonizing, euphoric wails of having finally escaped the absolute clutches of death. This was merely one microscopic snapshot of the countless streams of humanity converging upon Greywater Town over the past half-month!

Driven by the massive, continent-wide distribution of the Daily Gazette by the Holy Halycon Empire, Soren's legendary prestige of executing the enemy commander with a single arrow and slaughtering Orc elites with zero casualties—combined with Greywater Town's system of abolishing class oppression and guaranteeing lifetime disability pensions—had officially become the absolute beacon of hope guiding the masses through this Dark Age! If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen.

Please report the violation. Over the following fifteen days, arriving in twos and threes, a relentless tide flowed in. From the hidden trails of the Broken Blade Mountains, from the barren wastelands of the Sunset Hills, from the border defenses of the Silvermoon Kingdom... Batch after batch of desperate survivors bypassed obstacles ordinary men could barely comprehend, continuously throwing themselves before the defensive lines of Greywater Town! These people formed a highly unique demographic structure.

Inside the Greywater Town command post, Chief Financial Officer Fina Hawthorne respectfully placed a massive, newly bound population ledger directly onto Soren's desk.

"My Lord, it is absolutely unbelievable. In just half a month, a literal death zone like the Misty Swamp has received an astronomical influx of people!" Fina flipped to the very end of the ledger, pointing at a number boldly highlighted in crimson ink.

"Over these past fifteen days, the total number of defectors who successfully bypassed thousands of miles of blockades to arrive here alive... is exactly 1, 126!"

"This violently pushes the total population of Greywater Town from our original 2, 952 directly past the four-thousand mark, reaching exactly 4, 078 people!" Soren leaned back in his chair, staring at the digits. He knew with absolute, terrifying clarity exactly what kind of person could survive a trek through the Misty Swamp.

"Read me the exact demographic breakdown of these 1, 126 people," Soren commanded.

"Yes, my Lord!" Fina immediately flipped to the subdivision roster. Her [Arithmetic Mastery] talent had played a flawless role in sorting the data.

"Because the toxic insects and acidic mud acted as an absolutely ruthless, natural meat-grinder, the demographic of these 1, 126 arrivals is heavily skewed."

"Among them, robust laborers with abundant stamina, veteran mercenaries possessing actual lethal combat experience, and physically strong serfs make up the overwhelming majority. There are exactly 915 of them!"

"Following your absolute ironclad laws, all 915 of these men have already been integrated into the recruit camp. Once they pass their evaluation period, they will be drafted into the second-line army!" Fina respectfully recited Soren's absolute will: "In Greywater Town, we do not feed idlers! Every single able-bodied man must become a soldier! But they will not merely be ruthless warriors sent to butcher Orcs; they are the absolute core builders of this territory!"

"During peacetime, they will shoulder hoes to cultivate the acid-resistant [Swamp Tubers], and they will swing pickaxes to quarry stone for our towering stone walls."

"During wartime, they must strap on their Padded Cotton Armor and [Dark Silver Armor], hoist their [Heavy Repeating Crossbows], and lock into the [Macedonian Phalanx] to violently annihilate any invading enemy!"

"Equal parts labor and warfare. Every single man must shoulder the burden of defense. This is the absolute duty and glory these 915 men must fulfill!" Soren gave a slow nod. The macro-expansion of Greywater Town demanded a literal ocean of laborers and combat power. The sudden arrival of this massive influx of high-quality, able-bodied men perfectly plugged the critical manpower vacuum his territory so desperately needed.

"And the remainder?" Fina turned the page, her voice softening with pity.

"The remainder are entirely family members who only managed to survive the swamp through the desperate, suicidal protection of those able-bodied men."

"Among them, 180 are independent elderly, women capable of moderate labor, and older youths. Following protocol, they have all been drafted into the fourth-line logistics battalion."

"The workload for the fourth line is relatively light. They are not required to face Orc battleaxes head-on. Their primary duties are washing linen bandages, re-oiling arrows, brewing rations, and transporting grain within absolutely safe zones."

"And finally..." Fina sucked in a deep breath, continuing, "The final 31 people are those who have completely lost all capacity for labor—individuals entirely incapable of caring for themselves, who were physically carried here on the bloody backs of their families!" The existence of these 31 people—individuals who, in any other territory, would be tossed into a ditch to starve as worthless trash—were violently granted a new lease on life right here.

"These 31 severely disabled, elderly, and frail individuals have already been settled into the warm, insulated cabins in the absolute rear! The territory's treasury will fully subsidize them! They are supplied with ample bone broth daily, and the territory will provide them with lifetime care!" Listening to this demographic breakdown precise to the single digit—2, 952 plus 915 plus 180 plus 31 equaling exactly 4, 078—Soren's mind finally settled.

A massive baseline population of over four thousand people meant that Greywater Town was finally, permanently shedding the status of a solitary military encampment. It now officially possessed the absolute foundation of a true Fortress City of War! However, Soren knew better than anyone: explosive population growth brought immense prosperity, but it was inextricably linked to hidden, lethal threats.

If the screening process wasn't absolutely airtight, and human traitors bought off by Orc high command with heavy gold managed to infiltrate Greywater Town... the resulting sabotage would trigger a catastrophic, irreversible disaster.