The Exiled Lord: My Maid is a Battle Goddess-Chapter 40: Jane and Clara

"Will the farmland in the Nightfall Domain be full of wheat and vegetables next year?" Ashina asked with interest, glancing back a couple of times.

"Hopefully. But it definitely won’t be enough to feed everyone. We’ll still have to rely on imports," Phield replied.

"If only meat could be grown," Ashina said, wiping the drool from the corner of her mouth. She was far more interested in meat. "Meat is still the best."

As a fellow carnivore, Phield nodded in full agreement. "That’s true. But vegetables can be made delicious too—it’s just that my cook has never tried. Or rather, even his meat dishes are pretty mediocre."

The cooking methods of this era were abysmal. Fish heads stewed in cream, cabbage boiled for half a day into a mushy paste, meat and fruit thrown together into chaotic stews, and gelatin made from fish aspic, tallow, and animal organs—utterly revolting.

Phield’s cook did exactly the same. Despite Phield telling him more than once not to skewer oranges onto roast meat, the devilish chef stubbornly believed that this was the only way to make it taste good.

"Really? I think the current roast meat is delicious," Ashina tilted her head. "Also... vegetables can really be made tasty?"

"Of course. We happen to have time today—I’ll show you what real food tastes like."

Phield glanced into the distance and saw Tate already starting work at the new slave camp. "My advisor is busy now, so let’s give him a chance to prove himself. We’ll head to the kitchen first."

Previously, Phield had been too occupied with defending the territory and cleansing corruption to argue with the cook. Today, he decided to visit the kitchen personally, if only to prevent more culinary monstrosities from being born.

The current kitchen was the old one from the Grand Winery, and it was quite spacious.

But the moment Phield stepped inside, he felt how crude it was.

There was no proper stove—only a tripod stand with a soup pot, like a campsite setup. Cooking required constant care to avoid tipping it over. Massive slabs of smoked meat hung on the walls, piles of vegetables lay scattered on the floor, and a tree stump stood in the corner with an axe embedded in it, used for chopping bones.

There was also a grill, already skewered with steaks and two apples. The cook’s name was Otto, and he had an obsessive fondness for what he called "refining" fruit—his proudest technique. To be fair, he could pickle fruit and make fruit pies, which Phield found barely acceptable.

Otto, the fattest person in the territory, stood with his round belly thrust forward. He was the object of envy among both slaves and freefolk. Grinning honestly, he said,

"Ho ho, my lord! For lunch today, I’ll be making apple-purée grilled steaks, Brussels sprout soup, and orange-and-almond stewed cured ham—with chili added for flavor!"

I was done for. Truly.

The moment Phield heard "orange and almond stewed cured ham, with chili," he couldn’t take it anymore. He was so furious he nearly had a stroke.

The cook had made this dish before. Phield took one bite and then drank five cups of black tea just to rinse his mouth. Without hesitation, he rewarded the entire plate to the servants. What was even more bizarre was that everyone praised it as delicious.

They genuinely hadn’t eaten enough decent meat in their lives, mistaking that stuff for a delicacy.

"Cancel the orange-and-almond stewed cured ham. I’m creating a new dish—dry wok stir-fried beef. Prepare some beef tenderloin, onions, radishes, mushrooms, and chili peppers," Phield ordered.

"Dry... wok?" the cook muttered.

Seeing Otto hesitate, his face full of suspicion, Phield had no choice but to repeat himself more forcefully. No one liked being questioned in their own field, and Phield understood that—but for the sake of not being poisoned by dark cuisine in the future, he switched directly to a commanding tone.

He wanted to demonstrate it himself, but if a noble cooked personally, the chef would probably quit in utter shame that very night.

"Don’t add water directly to the pot. This is a completely new way of cooking. Listen to me—wash the ingredients, cut them, and set them aside. Then pour some oil into a hot pan, and then..."

On the other side, the maid Nina, under the protection of five guards, was preparing to distribute food to the slaves. The actual serving was done by ten freefolk, with Meg overseeing the process—making an appearance, asserting her presence.

The slaves needed to know exactly who was feeding them.

The midday meal was barley porridge and black bread. This batch of black bread, brought from Maple Leaf City, was several levels better in quality than what they had bought in Golden Eagle City.

The midday meal consisted of thin porridge and reheated black bread. This batch of black bread from Maple Leaf City was far better than the previous ones—mixed with a large amount of bran, but at least not so black-hearted as to contain stones, sand, or wood shavings. The loaves were cut into fist-sized chunks, making them easier to distribute.

The moment the slaves caught the scent of food, they dropped whatever work they were doing without hesitation and sprinted toward the wagons.

The guards immediately raised their blades, blocking the slaves and shouting loudly, forbidding them from coming any closer.

"I want to eat! Damn it, Brickface—it’s me! You bastard, you’ve eaten eggs for a few days and already forgotten us?"

"Yeah! We shared the same cage back then—give me one extra loaf!"

Some slaves tried to play the familiarity card, while more of them hurled curses. A few were former members of the guard trainees who had refused to fight or slacked off during training and were weeded out.

They regretted it so deeply that they couldn’t sleep at night. Sometimes, even in their dreams, they would think of their former cellmates—people whose lives were now getting better and better—and it felt worse than being killed. Every time they woke up, they would slap themselves in frustration. "I really deserve this!"

After all, the guards ate meat every day—and to a slave, eating meat was the pinnacle of life.

Who could have imagined that joining the guard unit didn’t mean becoming cannon fodder? When the baron said he had food, he really meant it.

"No grabbing! The lord has ordered—line up to receive your food!" The guards completely ignored the attempts at rekindling old bonds. Ever since they started receiving extra rations like smoked meat and eggs every day, they had become utterly loyal to Phield.

More loyal than lapdogs.

If Phield ordered them to beat up their own fathers right now, these people—once terrified of starvation—would charge forward without hesitation and deliver righteous group beatings.

"Line up! Form ten lines!" Maid Meg called out in her soft, delicate voice, doing her best to shout. Seeing no one listen, she put her hands on her hips angrily. "Line up! Or there will be no food!"

"What a pretty woman. If I could get one night with her, I’d gladly live fifty years less."

"Shut your filthy mouth. She’s a noble lady—watch out or they’ll cut your tongue out."

"I—I know I was wrong!" The man who misspoke immediately broke into a cold sweat, terrified that the guards would drag him away and execute him.

Clearly, Meg’s clean and elegant attire had caused a misunderstanding. The slaves assumed she was a noble. This was one of the unspoken perks of being a castle maid—your status always appeared a notch above common folk.

Like a leader’s driver: when the leader isn’t around, the driver is the leader.

Fortunately, Meg didn’t take offense. If it had been Nina instead, she would have used two loaves of black bread as bait and had the other slaves beat the offender half to death.

In truth, Meg very much enjoyed being mistaken for a noble lady. The feeling of being looked up to was intoxicating. She cherished the tasks Phield assigned her and was determined to carry them out as perfectly as possible.

Before long, the slaves shoved and jostled, barely forming ten lines. A few stronger slaves cursed loudly as they dragged others aside to cut in line. Such violations were immediately suppressed by the guards—one punch sent the line-cutter sprawling. Not a single egg was wasted; all of it turned into combat power.

"Line-cutters go to the back!" Meg declared, hands on her hips, doing her best to look fierce.

The slaves finally behaved themselves, some beginning to replay the violent scene in their minds.

"Did you see that just now? One punch—damn! Those guys are terrifying."

"No wonder they can kill corrupted corpses."

"I heard the baron gives the guards meat every day. I want to join too—then I can punch people whenever I want, haha."

The slaves discussed excitedly at full volume. Violence allowed them to vent long-suppressed emotions, becoming a topic they would talk about for months.

"So scary..."

Jane, a messy-haired girl with a filthy face, tightened the dirty cap on her head. The slightly foul-smelling burlap hat had belonged to a kind elderly slave. The old man had died on the road to Nightfall Domain—snatched into the air by a bat harpy and torn to pieces. Thankfully, the warm hat remained. The sisters took turns wearing it, sharing one of their few remaining "assets."

Her younger sister, Clara, had already begun to sob softly.

"Be strong. Just don’t look at them. We’ll be able to eat soon."

Though both girls were eleven, the elder sister had matured sooner. Jane held Clara tightly in her arms, shielding her from being knocked down and trampled by the crowd.

Fortunately, the sisters were fairly close to the front of the line.

"This is food bestowed by Lord Phield! You must work hard for him!" Meg repeated the line over and over. She truly believed it herself. Only their dear baron would share food so generously. Meg pursed her lips. "This food was brought back by the lord at the risk of his life."

Work hard...?

Jane repeated the words silently several times, then let out a long sigh. They had once had a happy family. Their parents worked hard too—rain or shine, they went out to farm. Their father was especially skilled with a slingshot, able to hunt birds. He would sell the game at the castle and occasionally bring back leftovers the nobles didn’t want. Those days were the happiest time of the sisters’ lives. The taste of those leftovers often appeared in their dreams.

Sadly, later on, their father picked up branches in the forest, intending to make a better slingshot.

The forest was the private property of the nobles. Everything in it—the animals, the berries, even fallen branches—was forbidden to commoners. Taking any of it was a serious crime.

That very evening, their father was hanged for the crime of embezzling noble property.

Their mother, meanwhile, was raped several times by the town guard captain, who had harbored vile intentions for a long time. In the end, she went mad and threw herself into the river.

The sisters narrowly escaped the guard captain, but while begging for food, they were inexplicably arrested and turned into slaves. After starving for three days, they were sold to a lord named Phield. Jane had thought of dying more than once—perhaps that would have been liberation. This world was utterly rotten. Everywhere was the same despair. Jane had assumed Nightfall Domain would be no different from her hometown.

"One bowl of porridge and two pieces of black bread per person! This already includes dinner—there will be no food distributed tonight."

Two pieces of black bread—for an entire day.

Two pieces?! Reality shattered Jane’s memories and despair in an instant. Her eyes widened as she whispered in disbelief, "You’ve got to be kidding. Two pieces of bread a day and porridge? Goddess above—is this a joke?"

On the road to Nightfall Domain, two pieces of bread per day had been meant to fill their stomachs so they could march quickly. But once they arrived, under normal circumstances, it should have been one loaf every two days—or even one every three.

Why was there more instead?

The lord must have drunk too much wine and messed up the orders.