When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist-Chapter 649 - 609: Really Giving It!

With two wolf pelts draped over his shoulders, the wolf fur was dyed red at the tips by grease and blood.

Cold rain drizzled on his shoulders, carrying an eerie chill.

The rainwater trickled through the tears in his clothing into wounds scratched by thorns and wolf claws, causing a burning pain.

After three days of trekking through the forest, the father and son, Laver, both looked haggard and yellow-faced, yet they had no intention of rushing home.

Instead, the two of them cheerfully took a detour to the main road of the estate, asking everyone they met, "How did you know we hunted two wolves?"

At this time of year, they would normally be met with envious and jealous looks, but today was somewhat different.

When they carried the wolf pelts onto the narrow dirt road, hardly anyone showed much surprise at the sight of the two pelts.

When they asked, "How did you know, about the two wolves?" the person questioned would just hurriedly reply, "Who asked you?" and leave.

"Dad, doesn't something feel off?" Laver said, his head full of dust, grass, and confusion. "What are they rushing off to do? Could it be a market day?"

"Market day is still far off, and besides, it's wolf hunting season, who would host a market at this time?" Old Laver scratched dandruff from his head.

Unable to figure it out, he simply slung the wolf pelts over his shoulder, grabbed his son's arm, and headed in the direction where people were gathering.

Soon, while following the gathering villagers, they discovered that they were all heading towards the village church.

Old Laver suddenly sensed something was amiss, he told his son to take care of the pelts and squeezed into the front row of the crowd.

Once he saw the scene in front of him clearly, his face instantly turned from white to red, then to green, and finally to a deathly pale.

Four or five members of the Scythe Brotherhood were maintaining order with flails, and a long line formed at the church entrance.

Each person in line was carrying a large sack filled with wool spindles wound on sticks, each bundle weighing one pound.

Inside the church, Ansel and Bryson each with a desk, one responsible for quality control, the other for disbursement of money.

Behind Ansel were three individuals, chosen by popular vote for their integrity, to measure the number of threads.

Ansel had earlier crafted a batch of standard spindle frames using carpentry tools, wound with exactly 18-spun yarn.

Because yarn with more than or fewer than 18 threads of the same weight will differ significantly in density and feel.

This way, one only needed to first compare then weigh the bundles, with occasional spot checks.

Compared to actual quality control, this method was obviously crude, but there were no other options.

Once passing quality control, Ansel would tick off their names and record the quantity sold.

Then Bryson would take out Dinars, copper coins, and wool for the next period from the sack and give it to them.

Almost everyone who received the money was smiling so happily their eyes were practically closed, while those who hadn't joined were filled with envy and jealousy.

When the sparkling black and white Dinars changed hands, Old Laver simply couldn't believe his eyes.

Especially as he saw a familiar figure among them, Lalor, who took out six whole bundles of yarn from his sack.

When the clanging of three Silver Coins hitting each other resonated, Old Laver looked ashen.

Because he suddenly realized that, without their spinning wheel, they wouldn't even have made 3 Dinars!

That half piece of salt wasn't even a quarter-pound, likely not worth Half Dinar.

It was as if they had given Lalor 1 Dinar for free!

If his barbarian-blooded wife saw this, it would be disastrous.

He absolutely must keep this from her, otherwise, he would spend the night in the small field hut.

"Laver Iron Water!"

Just as he was about to leave in embarrassment, Old Laver suddenly heard a familiar lioness-like roar from behind.

At that moment, Old Laver realized he was done for.

Turning his stiff neck slowly, a calloused hand shot towards him rapidly.

"Thud!"

When the slap landed on Old Laver's face, the surrounding crowd could see a cloud of dust rising.

This was the dust accumulated on Old Laver's face over the past few days being jolted off by the force.

"I told you to lend out the spinning wheel! I told you not to fetch the wool!"

Although it was a flurry of punches, the guilt-ridden Old Laver could only dodge repeatedly: "The Scythe Brotherhood pays money now, they'll recover it through the Head Tax later."

"People earn 3 Dinars in three days, and the Head Tax is 5 Dinars a year—where did you hear that nonsense?"

Amidst the crowd's laughter, Old Laver was left with several bloody scratches on his face and neck by his wife: "A single wolf pelt is more valuable than their processing fee!"

"More valuable? More valuable my foot!" Laver's wife continued to claw wildly at his face and neck. "You got the pelt, how long did it take you to earn 3 Dinars?"

Indeed, the wolf pelt was more valuable than wool, a pound of wool fetched roughly 1.1 Dinars, with yarn processing costing just 0.5 Dinar per pound.

A single wolf pelt could sell for 4-6 Dinars, 4 to 6 times that of wool.

However, the issue was, the wolf pelt wasn't entirely theirs, they only got a 30% cut.

The hunting rights belonged to the lord, and many sought such a cut but couldn't get it.

After cleaning and treating the wolf pelts, they handed them over to the steward to sell, getting 3 Dinars for their share of the two pelts.

Hunting wolves took three days, with another three days to clean and dry, making only 3 Dinars over six days.

Spinning yarn was comfortably done at home, without risk of injury, rain or shine, earning the same 3 Dinars over six days.

Considering if there were two spinning wheels, two people spinning yarn, income could double.

Comparing the scenarios, the Laver duo's "two people, six days, 3 Dinars with injuries" seemed somewhat ridiculous.

Seeing his mother disrespect his labor, Laver piped up, "Mom, hunting wolves is a man's income, though tiring, it's still a lot of money."

No sooner had he finished speaking when Laver's wife sprang up, tired from hitting Old Laver, and grabbed Laver's ear:

"You naive brat! This wool! It's constant! Can you still hunt wolves in winter?"

Using her palm like a comma, she lashed at Little Laver in a storm of slaps.

"Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!"

Silenced by repeated slaps, Little Laver dared not speak again.

Laver's wife, known for her ferocity among the townsfolk, planted herself on the ground, crying out: "I don't care, go get the spinning wheel back and find Brother Ansel for the wool."

"Tsk." Old Laver pulled his wife's arm and crouched amidst the crowd's taunting laughs, "We agreed to lend it for ten days, it's only been three days, and you've used the salt."

"If you don't get the spinning wheel back, I'll leave the door open at night and go sleep with Lalor."

"Hey hey hey." Out of options, Old Laver forcefully pulled his wife up, "I'll go later, okay? Just get up first."

Finally managing to get his wife up, Old Laver knew that after such a scene, no one would gossip if he retrieved the spinning wheel.

Touching the handprint on his face and glancing at the scratches on his shoulder, he turned to look at the church, his expression extremely complicated.