When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist-Chapter 764 - 719: The Giant’s Footprint, The Abyss of Mortals

Not long after the furious envoy from the Shattered Stone Plain left, news came from the border.

Heaps of shepherds' heads were piled into a small pyramid, and aside from the daring Norn merchants, no one else dared to trade wool on the border anymore.

In just a month, the wool input from the Shattered Stone Plain decreased by thirty to fifty percent, while the price rose by more than twenty percent.

For the nobles of the Shattered Stone Plain, the loss was not that significant.

Due to the region's unique geographical position, climate, and hydrological conditions that rivaled the mountain counties in the Thousand River Valley, only certain valley basins were suitable for farming.

Its greatest advantage lay in the abundant grassland resources and the warm, humid environment suitable for raising sheep.

Thus, the people of Shattered Stone Plain are divided into two types: shepherds who build huts on the plains to raise cattle and sheep, and farmers who establish cities and engage in agriculture in the valley regions.

Currently, most nobles of the Shattered Stone Plain are farming nobles, and they were also the earliest of the Norn people to convert to the Miseria religion.

The nobles of the Shattered Stone Plain, who controlled the waterways and grain, used grain in one hand and knights in the other to force the shepherds to work for them.

Using high-priced grain and water, they exchanged for low-priced wool.

The tax in the Shattered Stone Plain was thus based on sheep rather than cash.

The wool from the Shattered Stone Plain could compete with that of Golden Fleece Beach, with its biggest advantage being its cheapness.

And this affordability was entirely based on the suffering of the shepherds.

Previously, the blockage of the Thousand River Valley meant the nobles did not need to rely on it to offload their wool, as it was the spontaneous trade of independent shepherds.

They were merely greedy for the profits of this trade, but after being thrashed by Moliat, they dared not directly aid the Leia people in invading the Thousand River Valley.

From the perspective of Horn and even a group of high-ranking monks, life was merely getting tougher.

But in South Mangde County, for some families who lived off this, it was as if the sky had fallen.

Twilight had yet to penetrate the mist of South Mangde County when Old Laver was already crouched in the cowshed milking the beast.

The black-and-white cow lowed deeply, its black-pink udders fluctuating under Old Laver's rough hands, small bubbles surfacing in the iron bucket.

This Norn cow, which cost him four months of weaving wages, was now gazing at him with gentle almond eyes, its breath forming white ice crystals in the cold wind.

"Just a bit more effort will fill half the bucket." Old Laver's wife stood outside the fence wrapped in a faded wool shawl, as if comforting the cow or encouraging Old Laver, "That can be traded for three pounds of rye at the market."

It might have been an illusion, but Old Laver felt that her voice resembled the cracking of dried branches blown by the north wind, with fine fractures.

Fifteen-year-old Little Laver suddenly poked his head out from behind the woodpile, his nose red from the cold: "Dad, can I have a sip? To taste for saltiness..."

"It's for selling!" The mother's voice suddenly sharpened, startling the cow into swishing its tail and shocking Little Laver.

"No need to shout if you're not giving!" Little Laver thought his complaining voice was unheard, yet a sharp pain tore through his ear.

"Later, you still have to learn accounting from Brother Ansel. Your Uncle Lalor gave you the spot, and all you can think about is eating!"

Old Laver looked at his son, whose face was round yet full of wind-burned and frostbitten scars, as he let out a hoarse, pig-like cry.

The milky-white liquid splashed delicate waves against the bucket wall, and suddenly he pushed the iron bucket toward the boy: "Drink up."

As Little Laver's greedy gulping began, the mother turned her face away, the red light of the setting sun that leaked through the cowshed roof shining on her trembling shoulders.

The silver coins originally meant to buy new spindles, the whirring of the loom deep into the night, were now transformed into the milky foam on the boy's lips.

They had saved up money before and even borrowed some to buy this cow.

Now with wool prices rising and trade volumes decreasing, Brother Ansel even processed at a loss using the original price for raw materials, yet only a very few could get this privilege.

Old Laver could not dig out that red ball from the bag.

When dusk dyed the thatched roof red, the stew in the cast iron pot was bubbling.

Returning from the barn, the mother took venison wrapped in oil paper from the deepest part of the oak cabinet—it was leftover from last year's Holy Spirit Festival, with edges already tinged with grey-green.

She sprinkled the last bit of rosemary, the sizzling of fat at the bottom of the pot echoed the evening bells of the countryside chapel.

"Eat up." The mother handed the plate to her husband.

When the golden brown steak was served, Little Laver's Adam's apple instantly moved intensely, looking at his father like a little dog.

Mother's copper spoon fell with the sound of wind breaking, red marks instantly floating up on the boy's hand like the crescent moon in the evening.

"This is for your father!" The woman's voice was like a broken string.

Old Laver didn't seem to notice, using a chipped knife to cut half a steak and push it to his son, oil splashing on the coarse hemp tablecloth, spreading into dark spots.

"The vultures of the Shattered Stone Plain won't carry off my bones." His booming voice shook the pickled soup in the earthen bowl, "When I return from the border post, not only can I repay the debt, but also buy three more milk cows."

The mother, who was still tugging at her son's ear, suddenly covered her face with an apron, sobbing behind the coarse hemp fabric, mixing with the crackling sound of charcoal in the stove:

"Moliat, this ungrateful she-wolf, we are bullied like this, and she still vetoed the proposal to attack the Shattered Stone Plain...

The Broken Stone Primordial People bully us like this, and she doesn't even fart.

How long has she been the Autocratic Duke, and in the end, it was the Saint's Grandson who gave us good days...

If I had known, it would have been better to choose the crown as the Autocratic Duke, North County people said without spices you can't make sausage, and he immediately went and captured Black Snake Bay..."

"Foolish woman!" Old Laver pounded the table so hard it shook, "Do you think spiced meat can fill the stomach?"

The roar startled the crows under the eaves, wings flapping sound echoed in the night.

"If you have the guts, go shout at Moliat, you only know how to bully me!"

"Is that something you can discuss? We have what we have now, all thanks to the Holy Father's mercy..."

Seizing the moment during his parents' quarrel, Little Laver hurriedly wrested his ear from his mother's hand, stuffing the meat into his mouth.

The grease trickled down the corner of his mouth to his chin, like Pigsy eating the immortal fruit, the steak slid into his belly with a swish, and he let out a satisfied "burp—".

After dinner, the family remained silent.

Little Laver and Old Laver practiced short swords in front of the fireplace, while the mother sat beside the packed luggage, crying while sewing clothes.

When the moonlight climbed up the holly treetop, Lalor swayed into the courtyard with an earthen jug: "Cousin, I brought the wine for you."

Upon smelling the wine fragrance, Old Laver sprang out of the room, eyeing the scrawny Lalor enviously, "You lucky dog, you made connections with Brother Ansel, this time in the lottery you got selected again."

Lalor let out a bitter smile: "Damn Broken Stone Primordial People have driven the wool prices higher than velvet, I can barely pay the loan, shall we talk inside?"

"Let's chat outside, just like when we were kids."

The two men squatted by the grindstone, drinking honey wine brewed from acorns with wooden cups.

"This time I go to the border, the family depends on you."

"Don't worry, no one will bully them."

"If I don't come back for three years, you go sleep in Tatali's bed."

Lalor suddenly turned his head, carefully studying before confirming Old Laver wasn't joking, then shook his head: "She would poke my eyes out with a spindle."

"She will understand." Old Laver looked towards the window emitting dim light, Little Laver's murmuring of multiplication tables faintly audible, "Just like your old dad stuffed half a bag of our last oats into my mom's hands."

"At the time my mom was furious, and came to argue."

"Yes, and finally it was your old dad who took her away..."

As the morning star rose, the sound of cows ruminating came from the barn, the sound of military wagon wheels turning over the frozen ground woke the entire village.

Tatali stuffed her husband's woolen socks into the canvas bag, suddenly feeling the iron ring hidden in the socks.

It was a gift from the old blacksmith when they married, the iris pattern on the ring surface long worn smooth by time.

When Little Laver, who overslept, chased to the village entrance, the morning fog dampened his linen shirt, sticking tight to his back.

He saw his father toss the wine jug to Lalor, saw his mother clutch the ring till her knuckles turned white, saw the cart tracks on the frosty ground carve two deep, black scars.

Just like the gold fringe on the robe of the Shattered Stone emissary.