5: Chapter 5 Autumn Harvest Feast! The Fallen Knights!

White Cliff Territory, Harvest Feast.

This was a custom that had been passed down for hundreds of years in the Snow Source River region.

When the west wind first swirled gold and red leaves over the cliffs, it was the day to hold the Harvest Feast.

A thick layer of hay was spread over the stone floor, and long tables stretched from below the steps all the way to the outer courtyard gate.

The tables were piled with freshly baked rye bread, thick stews of tender root vegetables, large platters of smoked fish, and cheese.

There were also several barrels of ale mixed with honey.

On ordinary days, this was an abundance that the serfs of the territory dared not even dream of.

Rowan sat in the high-backed chair at the head of the table, with the thick stone walls of the castle behind him.

Butler Henry stood respectfully behind him with his hands down, his gray hair combed meticulously.

No other nobles were present at the feast.

White Cliff Territory was located in the Snow Source River region on the northeastern border of the empire.

It was surrounded by three other baronies.

Grey Rock Territory, Golden Ear Territory, and Dark Thorn Territory.

However, they had little contact with White Cliff Territory, only trading local specialties at the end of the year.

Rowan was happy to have the peace and quiet.

He had long ago investigated the situation of the surrounding nobles, and there were no ladies with a rating of over ninety as determined by the system, so he was too lazy to engage in pointless social interactions.

At the edge of the banquet, the serfs sat huddled together.

They wore patched sackcloth clothes, with elbows and knees worn shiny.

Facing a table full of food, no one dared to move first.

Several children stared at the bread, swallowing hard, but were held firmly on their mothers' laps.

In this land, Rowan was the law, the heavens, and the king who held the power of life and death.

Finally, Rowan picked up a wooden spoon and scooped a spoonful of thick soup.

As if it were a silent command, the sound of swallowing echoed one after another along both sides of the long tables.

Only then did the serfs cautiously reach out and grab the food in front of them.

They ate very quietly, keeping their mouths tightly shut while chewing, for fear of making unseemly noises.

Occasionally, someone would steal a glance at the head seat and then quickly lower their head.

After three rounds of drinks, the atmosphere loosened slightly.

A few bold serfs began to talk in low voices, discussing this year's harvest and whose ewe had given birth to lambs.

The children were given half a cup of sweet wine, their small faces flushing bright red as they rolled around in the hay.

Rowan ate by himself.

Two young maidservants knelt on either side of his chair, one pouring wine for him and the other massaging his shoulders.

They had been selected from the farming households during the spring plowing; they were about sixteen or seventeen years old, their faces still carrying the rosy glow from working in the fields.

On ordinary days, in the kitchen or the corridors, they chirped like birds in the forest.

But as soon as they were in front of Rowan, they became mute.

At this moment, the fingertips of the farm girl massaging his shoulders were trembling slightly.

Rowan's body rose and fell beneath his silk shirt.

She could feel those taut muscles and the surging heat beneath them.

The girl's face was red all the way to her ears, and she kept her head low, not daring to look up.

Rowan closed his eyes and let them serve him.

These were already the highest-rated farm girls in the territory, whom he had carefully selected.

Healthy, young, beautiful, and obedient.

They also carried the vitality of the earth and plants.

But in the system's ratings, the highest was only in the seventies.

Having children with them would not count toward the number of qualified offspring for the system and could not trigger milestone rewards...

The autumn sun shone obliquely from the west, casting shadows of his eyelashes onto his face.

His breathing was even, as if he were asleep.

Until a figure pushed through the crowd and knelt with a thud before the long table.

It was a short, stocky youth.

He was about fifteen or sixteen years old, with arms as thick as small tree stumps, broad palms, and knuckles covered in calluses.

He wore a faded linen shirt with frayed edges at the knees.

He was the son of the territory's blacksmith, Connor.

Rowan remembered him; the people in the territory called him "Little Blacksmith," but his formal name was Nolan.

The youth placed a long, gray cloth bundle from his arms onto the ground, holding it with both hands and lifting it high above his head.

The feast suddenly went silent.

The serfs stopped chewing.

The maidservants also stopped their movements and stepped aside.

"My Lord," Nolan's voice was muffled and trembling.

Rowan opened his eyes.

His amber pupils shimmered in the light.

"Little Blacksmith Nolan," he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, "what is the matter?"

Nolan took a deep breath and untied the hemp rope on the cloth bundle.

The coarse cloth unfurled layer by layer, revealing a longsword inside.

The sword was about three feet long, with a narrow, straight blade—a standard knight's design.

There were no ornate decorations or inlaid gems, but every inch revealed the craftsman's painstaking effort.

The steel glinted with a cold, clear light under the autumn sun, like a pool of frozen autumn water.

"This is what I... I started forging last winter." Nolan kept his head down, not daring to look at Rowan.

"I chose the best iron and forged it three hundred times. I used mountain spring water for quenching and tempered it three times. After the edge was sharpened, it could cut through tossed Black Thorn Rope."

He paused, his voice growing even lower.

"Father said this is the best sword he has taught me to make in his life. I want to... offer it to you."

Rowan reached out and gripped the hilt.

It felt slightly heavy in his hand.

It was a few points heavier than the standard longsword left by his father, yet the center of gravity was perfectly located two inches in front of the crossguard.

With a flick of his wrist, the blade emitted a clear, lingering hum.

A fine sword.

In this frontier with low productivity, being able to forge such a sword could no longer be described as just having good skills.

Old Connor had likely used the best iron he had been saving, and every forge mark showed his heart and soul.

If placed in a blacksmith shop in the county city, it wouldn't be a problem to sell it for two or three gold coins.

For a blacksmith family of serf origin, this was a massive fortune.

"It is indeed a fine sword," Rowan did not hold back his praise.

He performed a flourish, the blade cutting through the air with a faint hiss.

"The steel is uniform, full of toughness, and the balance is perfect. Nolan, you are no worse than your father was back then."

The youth's shoulders trembled, and he lowered his head even further.

Rowan laid the sword across his knees, his finger tracing the cold blade.

He accepted this sword with a clear conscience.

Every blade of grass, every tree, every person, and every animal on the territory was originally the property of the lord.

Serfs offered their best products, and the lord provided protection and order; this had been the law for thousands of years.

He looked at Nolan: "By the way, how is your father's health? His cough hasn't flared up again since autumn started, has it?"

Old Connor was a treasure of White Cliff Territory.

The swords and spears of the militia, the plows and hoes of the farmers, the harpoons of the fishermen, and even the rusted door hinges in the castle all came from his smoke-filled blacksmith shop.

Three years ago, when Sylvia built the watermill, it was also Old Connor and his son who forged all the transmission gears.

Talent, no matter the era, was always a valuable asset.

Nolan's shoulders began to tremble violently.

He suddenly bent down, his forehead striking the stone floor heavily.

"My Lord..." the youth's suppressed sobbing came out. "Yesterday... yesterday, my father and I went to the North Mountain to pull iron ore... we encountered people from the Crimson Vagabond Knights..."

The gentleness on Rowan's face faded away bit by bit.

"How many of them were there?" he asked, his voice calm, yet it caused the surrounding temperature to drop sharply.

"Ten, maybe a dozen... they were all on horseback, wearing red cloaks." Nolan looked up, his face covered in tears and snot.

"I ran fast and hid deep inside the mine... but my father, his legs are slow, he was taken by them..."

He kowtowed again, his forehead turning bruised and purple.

"I have no other way... My Lord, I beg of you, please save my father... I beg of you..."

...