Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 861 - 1 The Economic Principle of Human
Chapter 861: Chapter 1 The Economic Principle of Human Heads Chapter 861: Chapter 1 The Economic Principle of Human Heads The Hunter of Fallen Warriors
In the dark, primordial forest, two people from Terdun fled together.
They dared not light a fire or rest. The canopy that blocked out the sun made it impossible for them to tell direction—not that direction mattered anymore; finding a way to survive was what mattered most.
Still, they were caught up to; hounds followed their scent, and a dozen farmers surrounded them.
At dusk, the farmers returned to the village with two heads and other items stripped from the barbarians, carried on branches.
They did not go straight home but headed first to the village hall.
Wood crackled in the hearth, and outside the walls, winter was freezing cold, yet it was warm inside the village hall.
A middle-aged man, clearly not a farmer, inspected the two heads, furrowed his brow, and asked, “No helmets, armor, or anything else?”
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The leading farmer, his cheeks reddened from the cold, replied awkwardly, “No, would hats work? And earrings?”
The middle-aged man smacked his lips, turned back to warming himself by the fire, and gave the farmers only a profile view: “That won’t do. Without evidence, who’s to say whether these are indeed barbarian heads, or if you’ve stolen them from somewhere else?”
Another taller farmer immediately flared up, “What are you saying? How could these possibly be stolen by us? None of our people have heads like these!”
The middle-aged man scoffed but did not engage in conversation, not even deigning to look directly at the other man.
Two fully armed men sitting in a corner of the room stood up, their hands already on the hilts of their swords.
The taller farmer fell silent.
The leading farmer remained silent for a long while before speaking with difficulty, “So what do you suggest?”
“These heads, whose authenticity is unknown…” The middle-aged man paused for a moment before stating a price.
“How much?” The taller farmer asked eagerly, “A barbarian’s head is worth a large piece of land! How much are you offering?”
“Listen carefully, I don’t need to repeat myself.” The middle-aged man spread his hands, his attitude clear—it was take it or leave it.
The farmers were furious, unwilling to agree, yet unable to leave.
Until a sturdy farmer who rarely spoke suddenly said, “Let’s just accept it, my family back home is waiting for me to bring back flour.”
The sturdy farmer calmly retorted, “What more can we hope for?”
The deal was struck, and the payment was made in the form of flour.
The middle-aged man couldn’t suppress a touch of smugness. As he watched the farmers take the flour, he couldn’t help but laugh, “Hey, don’t think that a [head] is the same as [land]. Who knows how long the Rebels will hold out in Iron Peak County? If the Rebels fall tomorrow, won’t these heads become a burden in your hands? Right?”
His words seemed comforting, but in reality, they were a boastful salt in their wounds.
The farmers silently took the flour and left the town hall without a word.
Outside the door, they divided the flour along with the barbarians’ clothes and boots. The items went to families who still had mouths to feed, and the farmer with the hounds received an extra share.
“Mesa got hurt.” The sturdy farmer whispered, “Give him an extra share too.”
No one objected, and the taller farmer asked, “What do you want, dad?”
The sturdy farmer took half a bag of flour and a curved blade.
(Note: Here, “dad” is a term of endearment used for older men.)
Thus, everyone headed home—and all of this was incidentally witnessed by a few passing riders.
Pushing open his house door, a smile finally appeared on the sturdy farmer’s face.
He rubbed his son and daughter’s soft hair, handed the flour to his wife, then found a whetstone and started sharpening knives in the backyard.
“No matter what you plan to do.” A young man stood outside the courtyard gate, “Please don’t go.”
The sturdy farmer first startled, then surreptitiously gripped the curved blade, and replied, “And how would you know what I am planning?”
The young man did not answer directly but patiently explained, “The two of them are skilled fighters; you alone won’t stand a chance.”
“Who are you?”
This time, it was the young man’s turn to fall silent.
The daughter ran out of the house and threw herself into the sturdy farmer’s arms. Hugging his daughter, he was momentarily distracted, and by the time he looked up, the young man had vanished.
“What’s wrong?” the sturdy farmer asked his daughter.
“Mummy said someone left two bags outside the door,” the girl answered sweetly. “Mummy asked daddy to go and check.”
…
The middle-aged man was obliging and respectful in his responses, not even requiring Winters to reveal his identity.
The matter was simple; the middle-aged man was from Revodan here to purchase heads.
In Iron Peak County, barbarian heads had become a tradable commodity.
Unable to compete with his peers in town, the middle-aged man had hastened to this still unnoticed rural area—clearly, he wasn’t the only opportunist smelling Gold Coins.
Small players bought heads from the militia and farmers but didn’t hold onto them to cash them in later; instead, they quickly sold them to more significant players.
The big players were gambling, betting that Montaigne’s Civil Guard Officer would keep his promises, betting on the future fate of Iron Peak County.
Winters and his companions passed through the small village to rest their horses, accidentally stumbling upon this scene.
Xial, gritting his teeth in anger, exclaimed, “The battle isn’t even over yet! How could such people exist? In the end, are they the ones who benefit?”
The others accompanying them were similarly incensed, except Winters, who was lost in thought.
Thinking that his brother hesitated to speak, Xial unbuckled his horse saber and said bitterly, “I’ll teach that guy a lesson!”
“Teach them a lesson—for what reason?” Winters stopped Xial, “The county government has never forbidden trading in heads.”
