Wails, arguments, and curses mingled together, plunging the situation into chaos.
"Shut the fuck up, all of you!"
Barrett's thunderous roar only bought a moment's silence.
Despair is a far more stubborn emotion than fear. It's like the muck in a swamp; once you're caught, any struggle only makes you sink faster.
Before long, the sounds of complaint rose again, eventually coalescing into a single word—"Back."
Barrett's face was ashen. He knew the situation was spiraling out of control.
These pioneers weren't soldiers. They were paupers, a pitiful and detestable lot.
Suppress them with force?
His Mercenaries could cut down enemies five times their number without hesitation, but drawing their blades on these unarmed civilians would only make things worse.
His men also began to shift uneasily, their palms sweating as they gripped their weapons.
They could feel the atmosphere of despair—cold and damp, slowly eating away at their morale.
No one wanted to go down with a sinking ship for a mission doomed to fail.
Just as Barrett was about to make one last attempt, Velin moved.
He walked over to a cargo crate, stood upon it, and calmly gazed down at the distorted faces below.
One minute... five minutes... ten minutes.
The clamor gradually dissolved under his silent gaze until all that remained in the village was the sobbing of the wind.
"I understand your fear."
Velin spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly to everyone's ears.
His tone was flat, as if stating a fact rather than offering comfort.
"I promised to give you enough land to feed yourselves. But did I say I would give it to you now?"
"Open your eyes and look at yourselves. A band of refugees who nearly starved to death on the road, a pack of slaves who should have been collared! What makes you think you deserve to have everything immediately, just for showing up here empty-handed?"
Velin looked them straight in the eye. Wherever his gaze fell, people lowered their heads in shame.
"My promise still stands. Those who want to leave may do so."
A faint stir went through the crowd. A flicker of hope appeared in some people's eyes.
"However," Velin's tone suddenly turned cold, his wine-red pupils growing more vivid, "from this moment on, all food and fresh water will be held and distributed by me alone."
"Anyone who attempts to leave the village will be considered to have automatically renounced their status as a pioneer. They can go back, but they won't be taking so much as a single grain of wheat or a single drop of water."
Velin's voice wasn't loud, but it pierced every heart.
Everyone was stunned by his ruthlessness.
Leave without supplies?
On the edge of this swamp, in the middle of nowhere? How was that any different from suicide?
"Captain Barrett."
"Here, my lord." Barrett subconsciously straightened his back.
"I need your Mercenaries to immediately take inventory of and confiscate all food stores from every family for centralized management. You are authorized to use force against any who resist."
"Also, send two men to dig a cistern right here," Velin drew a circle in the mud with the toe of his boot, "and build a simple filtration device. For the water source... use what we brought on the carriages for now."
"Finally, assign them to the empty houses. No one is to leave without permission. Anyone who disobeys will be dealt with as I've just described."
The orders came one after another—clear, concise, and leaving no room for negotiation.
For the first time, genuine astonishment showed on Barrett's weathered face.
He had seen his share of nobles.
Arrogant ones, foolish ones, those who were all bark and no bite, and the self-righteous ones.
But he had never seen anyone like Velin.
In a situation this chaotic and on the verge of collapse, he showed no panic, made no empty promises, and offered not a single word of comfort.
He chose the most simple and direct method.
Seize their food, and restrict their freedom.
To use absolute power to grasp everyone's lifeline.
When the very right to survive is held in someone else's hands, no amount of despair or anger can be expressed; it can only be suppressed deep down.
"...Yes, Lord Velin." Barrett replied in a low voice. He gave Velin a deep look with his one eye, then spun around and roared at his own stunned men.
"What the fuck are you all standing around for? Didn't you hear the lord's orders?!"
"Rat, Sam! You two, get over there and start digging!"
"The rest of you, with me! In pairs, go house to house and collect all the damn food! If anyone dares to resist, let 'em have a taste of your fists!"
The Gray Wolf Mercenaries snapped out of their daze and sprang into action.
They were Mercenaries; carrying out orders was their duty.
Once their employer gave a clear directive, they had their justification to act.
In an instant, the village was filled with the Mercenaries' rough commands, the weeping of women, the low curses of men, and the sound of sacks being dragged across the ground.
The pioneers dared not resist.
These burly, blade-wielding Mercenaries weren't about to reason with them.
They could only watch helplessly as their pitifully small stores of food—some black bread, a few bags of oats, several pieces of dried, salted meat—were mercilessly confiscated and piled up next to Velin's carriage.
That was their last hope.
Now, even that had been taken from them.
A despair even thicker than before settled over the crowd.
Velin paid them no mind.
He didn't even spare the paupers another glance.
'The confiscated rations, plus our own reserves, should be enough to support everyone for two or three months,' he silently calculated. 'Food won't be an immediate problem.'
His gaze traveled past the lifeless Gray Mist Village and settled on the swamp shrouded in gray mist.
In the eyes of others, it was a symbol of death.
But in his eyes—the eyes of a biology Ph.D. from Earth—it was an ecological treasure trove waiting to be deconstructed.
'A salt marsh is an extreme environment, but any stable ecosystem must have an internal cycle and flow of energy.'
'In other words, there must be producers here.'
'There has to be some plant, or several types of plants, that have adapted to this high-salinity, high-humidity environment and formed the foundation of a food chain.'
'These plants are the key to breaking this deadlock.'
'They might be ugly and misshapen, they might contain mild toxins, and they might taste terrible.'
'But they have to exist.'
'And what I have to do is find them before our food and Golden Sun run out.'
"My lord."
Barrett's voice sounded beside him, interrupting Velin's thoughts.
The one-eyed mercenary captain had already completed the initial arrangements. His men were carrying out their orders as efficiently as a pack of wolves, bringing the entire village firmly under control.
"All the food has been gathered and is being inventoried. What's next... what do we do?"
In Barrett's tone, there was a hint of... obedience... that even he himself had not noticed.
The methods Velin had displayed had already won him the veteran's basic respect.
"Good." Velin nodded. His gaze swept over the numb pioneers before finally landing on the tightly shut doors and windows of the village's original inhabitants. "Bring everyone to the square. Including the natives here."
Soon, more than a hundred sallow and gaunt natives were half-pushed, half-coaxed before Velin by the Mercenaries.
At their head was a hunchbacked old man. His cloudy eyes showed neither fear nor submission, only a vast grayness.
He raised his head, staring at the young noble on the cargo crate, and sighed inwardly.
'Another lord...'
The moment his eyes met the old man's, Velin's heart gave an inexplicable leap, and he subconsciously used his ability.