Chương 51: 51：The Warlord's Logistics

"Lord Soren has brought us crop seeds immune to the acidic rot!"

"They mature in just sixty days! A single acre will yield thousands of pounds!"

"As long as we plant these, everyone in the village—this winter, next year, the year after that! For generations to come, we will be able to stuff our bellies full!" Food! The carts of flour and dried meat Lord Soren had brought back could indeed help them survive the upcoming winter. But if they just sat around eating through their stockpiles, what would happen when winter passed? Only crops planted in the earth, capable of growing endlessly, could provide the true, long-term security of a full stomach!

"Clear the wasteland! Plant the fields! This is our lifeblood!" Kyle roared until his voice grew hoarse. There was no need for whips to drive them; everyone's eyes burned with a ravenous, feral light. Soon, under the command of Kyle and the veterans, an explosion of strictly divided, highly organized labor unfolded in the acidic mud swamps just outside Graywater Village. To combat the problem of the acidic mud corroding their feet, the humans showcased their unique ingenuity.

The men used newly captured iron saws to cut trees into wide, thick wooden planks. Tearing strips from their tattered linen clothes, they strapped these planks to the soles of their shoes, creating makeshift swamp treads. Much like wearing snowshoes in a blizzard, this not only dispersed their weight to prevent them from sinking into the muck, but it also perfectly isolated their feet from the corrosive mud.

Fifty Blackstone giant direwolves, each the size of a bull, were forcibly harnessed by the soldiers to wooden plows hastily crafted by the goblins. These brutal mounts, which had once torn humans to shreds on the battlefield, would now receive a merciless lashing from a halberd the moment they dared to turn and bare their fangs.

"Roar!" The giant wolves let out low, humiliating growls as their four limbs pushed against the mire. The sharp wooden plows sliced through the grayish-black acidic mud effortlessly, instantly turning up row after row of straight furrows. Meanwhile, the eighty newly integrated goblins thoroughly demonstrated their racial advantages. Goblin skin was naturally rough, thick, and completely immune to this level of swamp acidity.

Requiring no protection whatsoever, they jumped directly into the knee-deep muck barefoot, without a single care.

"Squee! Hurry up! The Master is watching us!" Carrying baskets filled with Swamp Tuber seeds, the goblins followed behind the furrows, precisely pressing each tuber deep into the sludge that reeked of rotting acid. The human exiles with wooden planks bound to their feet, along with the original villagers of Graywater Village, followed closely behind.

Wielding makeshift iron rakes with elongated wooden handles, they stood on the slightly drier ridges of the fields—or rode on long trailing boards pulled by the direwolves—rapidly covering the tubers with the overturned acidic mud. Orc direwolves acting as oxen to pull the plows; acid-immune goblins wading into the water to sow the seeds; human exiles wearing anti-corrosion wooden treads handling the burial and soil packing. The three groups coordinated flawlessly.

An incredibly high speed of land reclamation erupted within this swamp. The fallen noble girl, who had disguised herself as a mud-caked urchin, had wrapped pieces of bark around her calves using vines. Gripping a wooden shovel, she desperately pushed the acidic mud into the furrows. Her arms ached and trembled from days of continuous labor, but her eyes were fixed on the vast expanse of newly plowed farmland. Her mind was rapidly calculating using the arithmetic her father had taught her.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The swamp is endless. They mature in sixty days. If they expand at this rate, His Lordship's food production will be beyond imagination. With such terrifying logistical support, combined with a blacksmith shop capable of forging heavy armor, and Lord Soren, who wielded troops like a god of war... Just what kind of monster would this gradually forming private army grow into?

The girl couldn't help but swallow hard. Dropping her wooden shovel, she walked straight toward a secluded pool of cold water. Seeing no one around, she cupped the piercingly cold water in her hands and splashed it over her face without hesitation. The foul, black mud was scrubbed away bit by bit, revealing the pale skin beneath that had been smothered for days. In the reflection on the water's surface, the girl stared intently into her own eyes.

She knew that if she relied on farming, even if she worked herself to death in this swamp, she would only earn a full stomach. She would absolutely never be able to kill Viscount Blake, the man who had framed her entire family. But in this man, Soren, she saw an immeasurable ambition. She decided to meet with Soren. To display her value, without reservation, before this decisive and ruthless commander. At that moment, inside the largest stilted wooden cabin in Graywater Village.

Soren was leaning against a beast-skin map with one hand, holding a piece of charred wood in the other, circling the locations of the blacksmith shop and the farmlands. Beside him were several stone tablets recording timber consumption and flour reserves. Annoyance flickered in Soren's eyes. Fighting, killing, training troops, tactical simulations—these were the instincts of a special forces operative, and he could execute them to perfection.

But with the influx of hundreds of people, tracking the daily consumption of wood, iron nails, dried meat rations, and the future conversion rates needed for trading with the outside world was becoming a tangled mess. Kyle was a man of action with incredibly strong execution skills, but he was far better suited for direct command. Asking him to calculate the precise logistical accounts of hundreds of people would be worse than killing him.

Just then, the faint sound of climbing came from the vine ladder outside the treehouse. Meyer, who was on guard duty, flipped onto the wooden veranda as nimbly as a cat and reported in a low voice from the doorway:"My Lord, one of the exiles below has requested an audience. They claim they can ease your burden regarding logistics. It's a... girl." Meyer's tone held a rare caution. In the brutal Misty Swamps, a commoner daring to actively ask for a meeting with the Lord was highly unusual.

"Send her up." Soren didn't look up, his charcoal pencil still estimating the iron ingot production. The door flap was lifted, and the girl walked in. Soren looked up, his gaze narrowing slightly. Just moments ago, she was a refugee covered head-to-toe in foul, black mud. Now, with the grime washed away, the girl revealed an astonishing, pristine beauty. She was still draped in the same tattered, modified pieces of linen, but she stood perfectly straight.

There was no cowering, no hunched shoulders typical of the lowest commoners. Her chin was slightly tucked, her hands gracefully folded in front of her—it was a noble bearing etched into her very bones.

"My Lord." The girl did not kneel. Instead, she performed a flawless noble curtsy. Her voice was crisp and held not a trace of sycophancy:"My name is Fina, born of the Frontier Merchant Guild of the Silvermoon Kingdom, House Hawthorne."

"I humbly request to remain in your Graywater Village and offer you my services." Soren looked at her coldly, not a single ripple of emotion stirred by her beauty. In his eyes right now, there were only two types of people: soldiers and laborers. To confirm her value, a faint light flashed in the depths of Soren's eyes. [Talent Insight] was instantly activated.

In his vision, the color drained from the world, and glowing lines of a system panel belonging solely to Fina floated above her head: [Target Talents Detected]: [Talent 1: Arithmetic Mastery (Possesses a keen intuition for numbers, resource allocation, and consumption rates)] [Talent 2: Business Acumen (Can accurately judge price differences and smuggling routes in various environments; possesses a dominant presence in trade negotiations)] Soren was slightly shaken inwardly.

Graywater Village was indeed isolated at the moment, but that was only temporary. Once the Swamp Tubers matured on a massive scale, and batch after batch of black iron heavy armor was forged in the blast furnaces, Graywater Village would inevitably face a surplus of materials. Yet, his army and territory lacked the materials needed to craft bows and arrows, as well as the magic crystals required to counter shadow magic.

These things did not exist in the Misty Swamps; they had to be acquired through commercial trade with other factions. This noble girl before him, Fina Hawthorne, with her professional abilities of [Business Acumen] and [Arithmetic Mastery], filled a crucial missing link in his territory's development.

"I accept your request." Soren stood up straight. He walked step by step until he was right in front of Fina, looking down at her from an imposing height.

"But this place is not a noble manor in the Silvermoon Kingdom."

"This place is filled with severed Orc limbs, festering toxic waters, and war that could break out at any moment."

"Your work will be agonizingly grueling. You will inventory black iron armor plates that reek of stench, you will calculate the yield of tubers grown in sour mud, and you will eat the same coarse rations as the soldiers!"

"If you miscalculate a single ledger that leads to a food shortage on the front lines, I will invoke martial law and personally hang you from the watchtower."

"There is no noble privilege here. You—can you do this?" A suffocating aura of slaughter washed over her. But Fina didn't retreat a single step. Meeting Soren's cold gaze, she suddenly raised her right hand, drew the sharp stone shard she kept for self-defense, and decisively slashed it across her left palm. Warm blood welled up, dripping steadily onto the wooden floorboards.