Forty-Nine: Fortune

Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop…

Perhaps it was the sight of the crowd gathered by the communal land that prompted the steward of agricultural affairs and his attendants to gently pull the reins, slowing their horses as they approached. In the fading light, the villagers could make out four newly arrived guests atop their tall steeds—parched lips, dust-covered faces, robes marked with mud and water stains, all bearing the signs of a long and arduous journey. The last attendant was half-drenched in mud, his outer robe torn at the right arm, while the horses, just halted, exhaled great clouds of mist and dripped water from their necks, chests, and bellies.

When Ifrit had dispatched the village messenger, he had anticipated that the lord’s castle would respond swiftly and decisively to the calamity at Eclite Village—the sudden injury of dozens of oxen, an event of great consequence. Yet, as the attendant who had fallen from his horse, the sweat-soaked mounts, and the stern-faced agricultural officer—John Ackford, the esteemed Lord Barres, kin of the baron himself—stood before him, Ifrit realized he was utterly unprepared.

He forced down the rising dread in his heart, struggled to steady his trembling legs, and, as the horses halted, stepped forward, bowed low, and offered a deep salute. “Lord John Ackford, noble Lord Barres, welcome to Eclite Village. You have traveled far…”

“Hmph…”

With a sidelong glance at the steward, Lord John Ackford, noble Lord Barres—the agricultural officer and baron’s kin—remained silent, his face dark. He flicked his riding crop, and Ifrit, feeling as if he’d received a pardon, hastily moved aside, swallowing the rest of his prepared flattery.

The officer guided his horse a short distance to the edge of the muddy ground, his gaze falling upon the three collapsed men. He studied them from left to right and back again, repeated several times, before raising his crop once more. Ifrit quickly hurried forward.

“Ifrit…” It was the first time most villagers had heard the officer’s voice, surprisingly gentle, almost soft.

“These three here—are they Brown, Beck, and Green? The Rodriguezes mentioned in the letter?”

“Yes, my lord,” Ifrit nodded quickly.

“These three—are they the Rodriguezes responsible for injuring thirty-seven oxen?”

“Yes…my lord…” Ifrit swallowed hard.

“These three—are they the Rodriguezes responsible for five oxen unable to stand?”

“Yes…my lord…” Ifrit began to sweat.

“These three—are they the Rodriguezes who halted the summer’s work entirely?”

“Yes…my lord…” Ifrit’s voice began to tremble.

With each question, Ifrit’s responses grew softer, nearly inaudible by the end. The officer’s once gentle tone grew harsher, his face darker, his voice thunderous—like bolts of lightning unleashed.

“These three—are they the Rodriguezes who caused you, me, all the villagers—even the baron himself—to face hunger next year?”

“Yes…yes…yes…” Ifrit was now trembling all over, barely able to speak.

But the officer did not need his answer.

“Basther, Markul, Sima!”

“At your command, my lord,” the three attendants replied at once.

“Listen well!” Without turning, the officer pointed his crop directly at the collapsed Rodriguezes.

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“First: reclaim all livestock!”

“Second: reclaim all allotted land!”

“Third: seal their house and seize all farming tools!”

“Fourth: drag them away and await the manor court!”

“No…please…” “My lord, have mercy…” “My lord, grant us your kindness…you cannot…”

Hearing these four merciless orders, the eldest and second sons of the oxherd, now awake, and the oxherd’s wife, still collapsed, turned pale as death. They struggled to their knees, pleading desperately, their beseeching eyes moving from the officer, attendants, steward, police, and finally to the watching villagers—only to be met with countless spits, angry glares, and venomous curses.

As for Latiz and Sikal, the oxherd’s brothers and nearest neighbors, they had long since hidden deep among the villagers, hands clamped over their mouths, wishing even their heartbeats would cease, lest any trace of their presence betray them.

The agricultural officer paid them no heed. With a final, forceful sweep of his crop, he shouted, “Did you all hear?”

“Yes, my lord!” The three attendants immediately dismounted and bowed.

“Take them away!”

At once, the attendants, village police, and several strong villagers rushed forward. The oxherd’s family was swiftly removed from sight, their cries for mercy echoing faintly, while four dragged furrows marked the mud—two streaked with blood.

Sitting quietly atop his horse, the officer’s expression was grim as he gazed westward, unmoving, until the cries faded into silence. Only then did he turn abruptly to the village steward.

Having endured the officer’s storm of questions and witnessed his handling of the oxherd’s family, the poor steward, Ifrit, was nearly faint with fear—preferring the blades of bandits to the officer’s cold gaze.

Standing in the mud, Ifrit’s legs trembled, his head buzzed, his heart racing so fast it seemed ready to leap from his throat. He fought to keep his muscles from quaking, ears straining to catch every syllable, yet fearing another order of punishment.

It was likely, for the injury of most of the village’s oxen was a grave dereliction. From the officer’s ruthless punishment, Ifrit understood both his authority and the baron’s fury.

“Ifrit…”

“Yes…” Ifrit replied, fighting the urge to faint.

“Describe the oxen’s injuries in detail—the letter was brief. And tell me what actions you took.”

Thank heavens, thank the Lord.

As he described the injuries and his responses, Ifrit pressed his heart, barely holding back tears of gratitude.

He was, indeed, fortunate.

---

Half an hour later, in a crude wooden hut on the village’s east side, at Wu Qingchen’s home.

After listening to Old William’s lament over the injured oxen…

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After hearing Grace’s account of the officer’s commanding presence and just decisions…

After hearing Idra’s gleeful, perhaps schadenfreudian retelling of the oxherd family’s fate…

Wu Qingchen let out a long sigh.

Fortunately… the oxherd’s family was lucky, in a sense…

Indeed, their livestock, land, and tools were seized, their house sealed, and they awaited judgment at the manor court. Such a family had lost all hope.

There are no beggars in the medieval world because its natives are beggars already. The oxherd’s family had but one path—becoming serfs, never again masters of their own fate.

This was the objective shared by all the Earth advisory committees: to eliminate any possibility that the oxherd family might regain control of the village’s herd.

The reasons were many. Beyond the deep-seated hatred of Earth’s seventy billion people, there were two practical concerns:

First, with so many oxen injured, the oxherd family would suffer losses—at minimum, their interests harmed. In both worlds, those who lose out tend to recoup their loss by taking from the easiest source of profit—which, for the oxherd, was the village herd. After the near-disaster before the emergency intervention, the Earth world could not allow the oxherd to double down, risking another uncontrollable incident.

Second, the village’s dozens of oxen represented the medieval world’s most advanced productive force, a measure of its people’s living standard, and the fundamental interest of the villagers. Whether it was elevating Wu Qingchen’s status, protecting his safety, or improving his quality of life, the countless schemes devised by the Earth advisory committees placed immense value on these assets. Such vital interests could not be monopolized by any one person or family, nor could their optimal use be compromised.

Thus, by receiving the officer’s harsh punishment and being doomed to serfdom, the oxherd’s family was, paradoxically, fortunate—for they would avoid countless unimaginable, bizarre misfortunes.

After all, being a serf is not entirely a curse.

On the other hand, as serfs, their lives would be monotonous, dull, and mediocre—but they would never fear for tomorrow, never abruptly lose their work (only a master beset by madness would dismiss a slave), always have a roof over their heads (though every rain, no matter how small, would leak a bit), and always be fed by the master—never starve (of course, if the food was too foul or tough to eat, or if one needed to see the “Rolling Department” doctor for food-borne ailments, that was nobody’s fault).

All right, all right…

All right, all right!

It was too miserable, and too disgusting; Wu Qingchen abandoned further imagination and gave up trying to comfort himself.

No matter what, he himself was lucky… Regardless, the fate of the oxherd’s family was now sealed. With that, he would not need to set any more cruel traps, nor rely on the assistance of dozens of top psychologists and negotiators to steel his resolve.

During the second emergency training, those experts had taught Wu Qingchen countless truths, yet for some reason, what struck him most were two simple sentences:

On one side, the whole world; on the other, a family far from innocent…

Seventy billion lives—there is no room for compassion…

Recalling these words, Wu Qingchen lay on his straw bed, patted his chest, and gently closed his eyes.

Sleep, sleep early…

If the committee’s predictions were correct, it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to rise—busy for a very long time…