Chương 380: 380：The Destitute Duke's Son

Evelyn fought back her tears, her voice trembling violently.

"He died. And every last shred of hope I had for a normal life was destroyed on that exact day."

"And so, you took your revenge," Soren finished for her, his voice utterly calm.

"Yes. I took my revenge." Evelyn's tone turned absolute, laced with a chilling resolve.

"I managed to get my hands on some cheap rouge and powder. I knew I couldn't beat him in a straight fight, but I also knew exactly where a man's weaknesses lay."

"I hid my identity and tracked that noble beast for an entire month. Finally, I disguised myself as an innocent, lost girl and used this body to intentionally get close to him."

"The moment he pinned me to the bed—the exact moment his guard was completely down and he was consumed by lust..." Evelyn raised her hand, dragging a finger across her own throat in a vicious slicing motion. She sneered coldly.

"I took a jagged piece of scrap iron and plunged it ruthlessly into his pulsing carotid artery!"

"And then I twisted it! I twisted it with everything I had! His blood gushed out like a fountain, spraying all over my face and body. And it wasn't just him. I slipped poison I traded for on the black market into the wine of every single guard who was at the market that day."

"They all died. My vengeance was complete." Having recounted the bloody climax, Evelyn's hand dropped weakly to her side. Her shoulders slumped.

"After doing all that, I only felt a suffocating emptiness. A city-wide bounty was placed on my head. Stripped of all hope, I wandered aimlessly through the deep forests."

"Later, I heard some passing mercenaries bragging. They said that here, in the Misty Swamp, a Lord named Soren had achieved a miraculous military victory. They said this place enforced absolute equality, that there was no oppression here."

"Equality? I didn't believe such a fairy tale."

"But I truly had nowhere else to go. I didn't even know if I should continue dragging this numb body through the world, or just find a sturdy rope and hang myself from a tree. So, I hid my blood debt, slipped into the stream of refugees alone, and ended up here." Standing guard by the door, Lyra's habitually cold eyes softened. For the first time, she showed a rare glimmer of genuine sympathy. Soren, however, simply watched Evelyn in silence.

He offered no hypocritical pity typical of the nobility, nor did he issue any harsh condemnation toward a self-confessed murderer. Suddenly, Soren stood up and walked right up to Evelyn. Just as Evelyn braced herself, fully expecting to be dragged outside and hanged, Soren raised his hand and clapped her heavily on the shoulder!

"By the laws of the old world, assassinating a noble is an unforgivable crime punishable by death." Soren's voice rang out, loud and resonant:"But here, in my Greywater Town! I outright declare your actions innocent! You used your own two hands to slaughter an oppressor and avenge your love. That is nothing short of undisputed justice!" Evelyn's head snapped up. She stared at him in sheer disbelief.

She simply couldn't fathom that a supreme military commander, a Lord with thousands of lives in his grasp, would actually validate a commoner killing a noble as justice.

"However," Soren continued, his tone shifting, "did you say you wanted to take a sword and charge the front lines to throw your life away? Evelyn, that is a criminal waste of precious talent! It is a blasphemy against your extraordinary, innate gifts for infiltration!" Soren pointed emphatically at the sprawling map of the prosperous human empires on his wall.

"That man is dead, and a part of your heart died with him. But you can still use this numb body of yours to save countless others! To save the millions of bottom-tier people who are oppressed, exploited, and dying without a shred of dignity, just like you were!"

"I need you alive!"

"Greywater Town doesn't just need heavy infantry to slaughter Orcs on the front lines. Right now, my intelligence department desperately needs a natural-born spy—someone with an unbreakable psyche, someone who has seen the darkest depths of human nature, and someone who has mastered the art of disguise!" Soren extended his hand toward her.

"I want you to become my Infiltrator. I want you to slip into the Royal Capital of Halycon! I want you to penetrate the Parliament of Silvermoon! Before those corrupt nobles can launch their attacks against me, I need you to dig up every single dirty secret they have!" Faced with Soren's grand vision, and validated as someone of immense, irreplaceable value, the deadened heart in Evelyn's chest finally sparked with a renewed will to live. She reached out stiffly.

Though her demeanor remained numb and cold, her fingers wrapped tightly around Soren's hand. She gripped it with every ounce of strength she had left.

"If slaughtering oppressors is considered justice in Greywater Town..." Evelyn said, her voice eerily calm yet resolute.

"Then, My Lord, so long as you give the order, I will eradicate any target for you." After arranging for Evelyn's new assignment, Soren didn't stop to rest. He pulled the hood of his black cloak back up and, accompanied by his personal guard Lyra, stepped out of the command post and plunged right back into the noisy recruit camp. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. At this moment, the camp was a hive of frantic labor.

No one here could afford to slack off. Under the oppressive gaze and strict military discipline of the knight Felix, every single refugee had to trade back-breaking physical labor for their ration of food. For these wanderers who had struggled at the absolute bottom of society for years, suffering endless torment, the labor was grueling, but it finally gave them something they hadn't had in a long time: hope.

However, amidst this sea of dirt-smeared faces, coarse linen, and rotting leather armor, one individual stood out like a sore thumb. His ridiculously lavish attire clashed so violently with the squalid surroundings that it instantly caught Soren's attention. It was a young man, appearing to be in his early twenties. He clearly possessed a head of well-groomed, brilliant blonde hair. Though it was currently plastered to his forehead with snow and mud, its premium luster couldn't be completely hidden.

But what was truly absurd was his outfit. He was wearing a custom-tailored formal suit crafted from astronomically expensive lake-blue silk! Though the collar was stained with muck, the intricate iris motifs—hand-stitched with pure silver threads—were still faintly visible. Right now, this young man, who looked completely alienated from his environment, was furiously swinging an iron-banded pickaxe. His technique was incredibly clumsy.

With one forceful swing, he barely chipped the stone beneath him; instead, the violent recoil knocked him completely off balance, sending him crashing backward into a puddle of freezing sludge. His priceless suit was instantly plastered with foul-smelling mud. [Ding!] [Target locked by Talent 'Eye for Talent': Name - Lucian. Location: Southeast dirt pit of the recruit camp.] [Background Info: Second son of a Grand Duke's family from the Aethel Empire.] Soren narrowed his eyes slightly. The Aethel Empire...

Intelligence regarding the southern territories of the continent rapidly flashed through his mind. Among the alliance of over thirty nations that comprised the human faction, the Aethel Empire was a unique outlier. Situated deep within the human heartland, it was completely buffered by military powerhouses like the Silvermoon Kingdom and the Holy Halycon Empire. As a result, it had almost never shared a direct border with the Northern Orc Alliance.

Without the constant threat of annihilation, there was no martial spirit. Unlike the Holy Halycon Empire, which worshipped heavy-armored legions and the glory of knightly charges, Aethel was a commercial empire built entirely upon coin and commerce. Its noble class controlled staggering amounts of wealth, but they only cared about one thing: the profit margins of transnational bulk trade. Wherever there was a grain shortage, they were there to scalp prices.

Wherever weapons were in high demand, they were there to speculate and profiteer. Aethel's elites feared war, viewing it as nothing more than a meaningless loss of capital. They would rather pay exorbitant annual "military aid" tributes to the Halycon Empire than step half a foot onto a real battlefield. The son of a Grand Duke from a commercial empire that pursues nothing but profit and treats cowardice as the norm...

actually ran all the way to the most dangerous frontline on the continent to dig mud in Greywater Town? Soren found it almost comical, but his sharp mind instantly recognized the massive opportunity hiding beneath the absurdity. Quietly, Soren approached Lucian. Lucian had just scrambled out of the mud puddle. Several blood blisters had already burst on his pale, delicate hands. A few wandering mercenaries nearby were loudly mocking his soft skin, but Lucian didn't snap back.

Instead, he stubbornly gritted his teeth and raised the heavy pickaxe once more.

"Your form is wrong. If you keep swinging like that, your lumbar spine will snap before the sun goes down, and you won't even earn half a Swamp Tuber for your efforts today." A calm voice suddenly spoke from behind him. Lucian snapped his head around. Instantly, a hyper-vigilant glare—one far too intense for his apparent age—flared in his eyes. He stared warily at the tall, cloaked figure before him, his guard raised to the absolute maximum.

Because he had fled all the way to the frontlines, he harbored a deep-seated paranoia toward anyone attempting to probe into his identity.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Lucian demanded in a low voice. Even covered head-to-toe in mud, the ingrained demeanor of a high-ranking noble—the innate arrogance born from a lifetime of commanding others—unconsciously bled into his tone.

"I am a properly registered volunteer on the official ledger! I'm warning you, even if you are a drill instructor of this camp, you have no right to subject me to extra interrogations!" Faced with the overly sensitive, defensive rich boy, Soren didn't get angry. Nor did he bother revealing his true identity in the middle of a crowded camp. Instead, he spoke in a low, commanding tone: "Put the pickaxe down. This isn't the place to talk. Follow me somewhere quiet."

Without even waiting for Lucian to reply, Soren turned his back and walked straight toward the exit of the recruit camp.