Chapter Forty-Five: Kindness

"This is not the Stevenson family’s fiefdom. We’ve simply been exiled here; the old king never granted a territory charter," Maurice said, his head slightly lowered, glancing upward with cautious humility.

He was still at a loss as to why the famously hot-tempered General Flint had appeared in this place. But that didn’t matter now. The cunning Baron Maurice had a new idea, and Carlos could almost see the words ‘taking advantage’ written on his father’s back as he watched him.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. As descendants of pioneers, how could you be without a fief? From what I know, all the land in East Cyprus is unclaimed; it’s the duty of the pioneers to defend it,” Flint said quietly.

Maurice hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face.

The old man rolled his eyes without restraint. “If this were brought before the central provinces, it would be the same. Pioneers have the right to everything—that’s what our ancestors decreed.”

Satisfied with this answer, Maurice turned to the stunned Carlos. “Carlos, come and pay your respects.”

Hearing his father’s persistent, hinting coughs, Carlos realized he must be seizing some advantage. Damn it—since his old man was benefiting, as his son, he’d have to play along. Seeing his father’s increasingly exaggerated winks, Carlos put on an innocent face and stepped forward.

One had to admit, Carlos was blessed with good looks. It wasn’t that old General Flint particularly favored Carlos’s innocent demeanor at that moment, but before Carlos could even speak, the old man affectionately patted his head.

It was because Carlos bore a striking resemblance to his grandfather, Barnes Stevenson. Flint, who had once served as Barnes’s deputy, felt an immediate affinity for the boy, and his opinion of Carlos soared.

The old general lavished Carlos with praise, then encouraged him, saying he should inherit the family legacy soon and aim to become a general in the legion.

Finally, with a smile, Flint asked, “Young man, how many stars as a swordsman have you earned? Or are you a ranked warrior yet?”

Carlos looked blankly at his father, who stood by with a forced smile.

Seeing Carlos feign ignorance, Baron Maurice’s expression darkened, his face turning as black as a kettle bottom.

Noticing this, Flint’s expression changed abruptly, and he spat in Maurice’s face as he barked, “Nonsense! Are you trying to ruin the boy? He’s in his teens and hasn’t even begun martial training! In the central provinces, even the less talented noble children are third-level warriors by now, or they’ve enrolled in the Academy of Black Magic.”

Realizing the old general was truly angry, Carlos quickly tried to diffuse the situation, feigning bravado. “Grandpa Flint, don’t be upset. It’s just that becoming a warrior or swordsman doesn’t appeal to me. As a pioneer’s descendant, I want to inherit the family’s greatest ability. After this year, I’ll head to the central province. Puppet summoning is my true goal, and I’m also studying alchemy right now.”

Flint’s expression brightened at once.

He rubbed Carlos’s head, his gaze inadvertently catching sight of the crimson mark beneath Carlos’s fringe, and nodded in satisfaction. “Good, good—such ambition! You’ll make something of yourself, a true descendant of pioneers, a worthy grandson of General Barnes. When you reach the central provinces, if you run into any trouble, seek out your cousin Jeffrey for help—don’t be a stranger.”

The flood of compliments left Carlos, whose skin was not particularly thick, at a loss for how to respond.

Even High Priestess Jeffrey, standing nearby, was astonished. She knew her grandfather’s temperament better than anyone—always stern and quick to scold, sparing only herself, his most cherished granddaughter, from his relentless lectures. For him to be so effusive today was as rare as the sun rising in the west.

This made Jeffrey give Carlos several more curious glances.

In terms of age, Carlos could almost call her ‘Aunt,’ but in seniority, they were of the same generation. Besides, she was remarkably beautiful, and the High Priestess of the Holy Light Church, no less.

Carlos blinked, flashing a bright white smile. “So you must be High Priestess Jeffrey, my cousin?”

Jeffrey was thoroughly amused by his address, her lips curling in a radiant smile, her face blooming like a rosy dawn.

After a moment, she replied, “Just call me cousin—‘High Priestess Cousin’ would be laughable. Carlos, isn’t it? When you’re in the central province, if you have time, come visit me at the church. If anyone bullies you, just let me know—I’ll sort them out.”

Carlos could sense the confidence and pride that came so naturally to this beautiful cousin, and figured her status in the central province must be considerable. His bright eyes sparkled with delight.

After a few more pleasantries, the battle outside was nearing its end.

Just as expected, after Laurent and his servant were killed, most of the bounty hunters lost their will to fight. Once their firearms had fired their volley and were cooling down, they quickly collapsed under the combined assault from both swordsmen, Grant and Derecht, as well as the newly arrived patrols.

Unlike the regular army, these bounty hunters—accustomed to roaming the wilds—had been hastily gathered to raid Saltwell Town, but had never undergone any proper collective training.

Usually, bounty hunters worked alone; when faced with tougher opponents, they might form ad hoc squads. Rarely did they engage in direct head-on combat, as their most common prey were not formidable swordsmen, but rather beasts lured into traps.

The strongest among them were merely Abyss Hunters, specialized in hunting solitary demons.

For most ordinary hunters, who weren’t ranked warriors, even meeting a swordsman in the wild would send them fleeing—let alone facing them head-on in Saltwell’s narrow streets.

When Derecht charged through the ranks of hunters several times with his greatsword, the more cowardly bounty hunters on the outskirts couldn’t suppress their terror any longer and fled wildly on horseback.

The rest were trapped in the streets, unable to advance or retreat, fighting desperately for their lives.

When the patrols began shouting in the streets that Lord Maurice had decreed a ten-silver reward for every bandit’s head, all of Saltwell was thrown into an uproar.

For the miners, who toiled underground for less than two silver coins a month, such a bounty was unheard of. These sturdy men, after peeking out and seeing the situation, plucked up their courage, seized their mining hammers or shovels, and struck at every hunter’s head they saw.

The raw avarice of these honest miners terrified the bounty hunters who had no connection to the Star Chart Guild, making them quake in their boots.

“Never mind where I’m from—give me that hunter’s head and I’ll split the reward with you.”

“What? If you’re dead, the bounty is useless? Then forget it!”

A lone bounty hunter, surrounded by several miners wielding sharp axes, pointed his gun at them—he only had one shot left and was pleading desperately. Was it just because he’d snatched a goose a few days ago, and threatened them a bit when caught? Was that really grounds for such a grudge?

With a tearful face, the isolated hunter pleaded, “Twelve silver coins—all I have. Two are for the goose. Spare me, please! If you waste time on me, the others will kill all those Star Chart bastards and take the rewards!”

The lead miner glanced aside.

Those bastards had even called out their wives, dragging the corpses of Star Chart bounty hunters off the streets. Panicked, he abandoned the terrified man before him and rushed home to call out his own wife, who was hiding under the bed, praying for divine protection, to come and make their fortune.

Heavens—this was the chance of a lifetime.

Never had he seen the stingy noble mayor show such generous spirit.