The morning sun spread across the open field of Constantia, spilling pale gold over the packed earth and the rows of people gathered beneath it. A thin mist still clung to the edges of the settlement, retreating slowly from the unfinished roads, half-built walls, and stacks of timber waiting near the construction site. The air carried the scent of damp soil, fresh-cut wood, and smoke from breakfast fires that had only recently begun to die down.
At the center of the field stood the new arrivals.
On one side, roughly twenty low-class mercenaries stood in an uneven line. Their armor was mismatched, their boots worn, and their hands kept drifting toward sword hilts and spear shafts out of habit. None of them looked particularly brave at the moment. They glanced at the villagers, at the unfinished buildings, at the armed men nearby, then back at Fragha as if trying to guess whether joining this strange new land had been a blessing or a mistake.
On the other side stood thirty slaves.
They were much quieter.
Most of them kept their heads lowered, their shoulders rounded as though they had grown used to making themselves look smaller. Their clothes were faded, patched, and stiff with old dirt. Some wore sandals that barely deserved the name, while others stood barefoot on the cool ground. Hunger had carved shadows beneath their eyes and sharpened their cheeks. Even under the warmth of the morning sun, several of them trembled faintly, fingers curled against their palms as if they did not dare move without permission.
Fragha stood before them with a calm expression, adjusting the cuff of his shirt as if this were no more than a routine inspection. His coat hung neatly from his shoulders, clean and dignified amid the roughness of the field. To the people watching, he looked composed, almost detached.
Inside, however, his eyes were already measuring everything.
Fragha stood before them calmly.
He adjusted the cuff of his white shirt with one hand while quietly activating God Eye's Level 3. A faint sensation stirred behind his eyes, and the people in front of him began to appear clearer in his vision. Names, stats, talents, and potential waited to be inspected one by one.
Before he could speak, a heavy rhythm of footsteps approached from the direction of the construction site.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound cut through the morning air with enough weight to make several people turn their heads. A few workers near the timber piles stopped what they were doing. One of the mercenaries swallowed hard. Even the slaves, despite their fear of looking around too openly, seemed to sense the pressure coming toward the field.
Albert Harmlet emerged from between two stacks of stone blocks, his face flushed red and his sleeves rolled to the elbows. Dust clung to his trousers and boots, and his thick arms were still marked with traces of mortar. He looked like a man who had left his work in the middle of a task because anger had become more urgent than duty.
He stopped beside Fragha, but his sharp eyes were fixed on the line of slaves.
For a moment, he said nothing. His chest rose and fell heavily. His jaw worked once, as if he were forcing himself not to speak too quickly.
"Lord Fragha," Albert said at last, his voice low and heavy, like thunder trapped behind a closed door. "Can we talk for a moment?"
Fragha turned his head slightly. "Of course, Albert. Is there a problem with the warehouse construction?"
"This isn't about stone or cement." Albert let out a rough breath through his nose. His gaze did not leave the slaves. "It's about them."
Several of the slaves flinched when he pointed his calloused finger toward their line. The motion was not cruel, but they reacted as though any raised hand could become a strike.
Albert noticed. His expression darkened further.
"When we spoke in that dark alley in Balan, before I defected from Leonard," he said, each word controlled with difficulty, "I gave you a very strict condition. Do you remember it?"
Fragha faced him fully now. His expression remained unreadable, neither defensive nor offended. "I remember."
"Then explain this." Albert's voice grew rougher. "Because I told you I would not tolerate forced labor. I told you I would not tolerate slavery."
A faint stir passed through the people around them. Villagers who had come to watch the new arrivals began exchanging uneasy glances. Viktor, who stood a short distance away with his hands folded in front of him, stiffened noticeably. Even some of the mercenaries seemed to realize they were witnessing something more dangerous than a simple disagreement.
Albert stepped closer, lowering his voice, though the anger in it made every syllable carry.
"I resigned from Leonard because he let one of my best men die in the cold," Albert said. "All because he refused to pay him and forced a sick man to keep carrying stone under the rain."
His hands curled into fists at his sides. For a heartbeat, the field seemed to hold its breath with him.
"I still remember the sound of that rain," he continued. "Dripping from the scaffolds. Running through the mud. That man could barely stand, but Leonard ordered him back to work because a wall needed finishing." Albert's eyes hardened. "By morning, he was dead."
The slaves remained still, but the silence around them changed. It became heavier, sharper. A few villagers lowered their eyes. One of the younger mercenaries shifted awkwardly, his earlier nervousness replaced by discomfort.
Albert stared straight into Fragha's eyes, his anger no longer hidden. "Seeing them here, with empty eyes and shaking bodies, reminds me of Leonard's cruelty. And if the purpose of building Constantia is to create a new prison with cheap labor, then our contract ends today."
The last words landed like a hammer.
Thud.
No one moved.
Fragha did not answer immediately. He allowed the silence to spread across the field, not because he lacked a reply, but because he understood the value of letting anger reveal its source. Albert was not being rebellious for the sake of pride. This was a wound speaking. A wound tied to loyalty, dignity, and a dead man who had never received justice.
Fragha's gaze moved briefly over the people watching them. The villagers looked anxious. Viktor's smile had vanished completely. The mercenaries seemed uncertain whether they were about to witness a political dispute, a dismissal, or a fight. The slaves looked the most frightened of all, as if the word "contract" and the anger of powerful men could decide whether they would eat tonight.
Then Fragha spoke.
"Master Albert."
His tone was calm, but it carried across the field clearly.
Albert's brow twitched slightly, perhaps surprised by the title. Fragha did not wait for him to respond. He turned away from Albert and walked toward the line of slaves, his boots pressing into the packed earth with soft, measured steps.
Tap. Tap.
The slaves stiffened as he approached. Stella Leslie lowered her gaze further. Ivan Gregor's fingers tightened until his knuckles went pale.
Fragha stopped a few paces in front of them, close enough to be seen and heard, but not so close that they would feel cornered.
"Everyone, listen carefully," Fragha said.
His voice was not loud enough to be called a shout, but it carried the practiced strength of a man used to speaking before crowds. The field quieted completely.
"In this land, no one will die from exhaustion without wages." He let the words settle, then continued. "I ordered Viktor to purchase them not so they could be chained, but so they could be freed. Not so they could be used as tools, but so they could be given dignity as citizens of Constantia."
The slaves looked up.
Not all at once. Not confidently. But one by one, their eyes lifted toward him, full of disbelief too deep to become hope yet.
Fragha raised his hand and pointed gently toward the line, first to Stella Leslie, then to Ivan Gregor. "They will receive homes, proper food, and fair wages, the same principles you demanded for your crew. I have no need for labor forced by fear. A man who works only because he is afraid will break the moment pressure rises. What I need is loyalty born from gratitude, trust, and a reason to believe this place is worth building."
Viktor's eyes shifted at that. The merchant pressed his lips together, wisely deciding not to interrupt.
Fragha turned slightly so that his next words reached both Albert and the gathered crowd. "Constantia is still young. We lack stone, wood, tools, roads, and more things than I care to list before breakfast. But if the foundation of this place is cruelty, then whatever we build on top of it will rot from the inside. I refuse to inherit Leonard's methods and call them progress."
The words struck differently than Albert's anger. Where Albert had been fire, Fragha was cold iron. Quiet, steady, and difficult to bend.
Albert stared at him for a long moment. The redness in his face had not fully faded, but the sharpest edge of his fury began to dull. His eyes remained narrowed, searching Fragha's expression for lies, weakness, or the kind of polished excuse nobles often used when they wanted to dress exploitation in clean words.
He found none immediately.
Among the slaves, the change was even more visible. Stella's lips parted slightly, though no sound came out. Ivan Gregor looked as if he wanted to speak but had forgotten how. A woman near the back covered her mouth with trembling fingers. Someone else let out a breath so faint it was almost a sob.
Hope did not bloom in them all at once. It arrived cautiously, like a starving animal sniffing at food and fearing a trap.
Albert folded his massive arms across his chest. "Make sure your words become reality, lord," he muttered. "Pretty speeches don't warm cold hands, and promises don't fill empty stomachs."
Fragha gave him a thin smile. "That is precisely why I hired you, Albert. You are not the kind of man who lets pretty speeches pass untested."
"Hired is a generous word," Albert grumbled.
"You accepted the contract."
"I accepted the work. I'm still judging the employer."
A few of the workers nearby coughed into their fists, trying to hide their amusement. The tension in the field loosened by a small degree, though no one fully relaxed.
Fragha turned back to the slaves. His expression softened, not into pity, but something more controlled and respectful. "From this day onward, your status as slaves ends in Constantia. You will be registered, fed, and assigned work only after your condition has been checked. Those too weak to work will rest first. Those with skills will report them honestly. No one will be punished for being sick, injured, or unable to stand."
The words were simple, but to those who had lived without ownership of their own bodies, they sounded almost unreal.
Stella slowly raised her head. "Lord... are we truly allowed to be paid?"
Her voice was hoarse, as if she had not spoken freely in a long time.
Fragha looked at her. "Yes."
"And if we cannot work immediately?"
"Then you recover first."
Ivan Gregor's jaw trembled once before he forced it still. "And if someone tries to take us back?"
A cold glint passed through Fragha's eyes, brief enough that most missed it. "Then they will have to negotiate with Constantia."
The answer was calm, but it carried a weight that made Ivan lower his head again, this time not from fear, but because his face had twisted with an emotion he did not want others to see.
Albert watched the exchange in silence. Slowly, his shoulders lowered. He still looked displeased, but the fury that had driven him across the field was no longer burning out of control.
Fragha clasped his hands behind his back, satisfied that the worst of the confrontation had passed.
Then, after a brief pause, his smile stiffened.
"Of course," he added, his tone becoming just a little too careful, "for the time being, all of you will be staying in tents first."
The hopeful atmosphere froze.
Fragha cleared his throat.
"Our residential construction is not finished yet," he said, the words coming out with the faint awkwardness of a man forced to admit that reality had rudely interrupted his grand declaration. "So while it is true that you will receive homes, those homes are currently... still in the process of becoming homes."
Silence.
The slaves stared at him.
The mercenaries stared at him.
The villagers stared at him.
Even Albert, who had been ready to continue judging him with great seriousness, slowly turned his head and looked at Fragha with a flat expression.
A dry breeze passed over the field.
Somewhere near the construction site, a loose plank shifted and tapped against a wooden frame.
Tap.
No one spoke.
The bright spark of hope that had just risen in everyone's eyes seemed to stop in midair, confused about whether it was allowed to continue existing.
Fragha's smile remained in place through sheer discipline. "Temporary tents," he repeated, as if saying it more confidently would somehow improve the situation. "Clean ones."
Viktor looked away.
Albert closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Then, from somewhere among the gathered workers, a man muttered in the flattest voice imaginable, "'They will receive homes,' he said."
The field remained silent for half a second.
Then several people coughed, looked away, or lowered their heads to hide their expressions. Albert's shoulders shook once, though whether from anger or suppressed laughter was difficult to tell.
Fragha stood very still, his dignity intact only on the surface.
"Yes," he said after a pause, his voice calm but faintly strained. "Homes. Eventually."