Anfeng City City, a peaceful little town called Windbird Town.
The Empire's turmoil seemed unrelated to this place. The gradually rising wheat prices helped the townsfolk slowly recover from the king's death. No matter who left, life had to go on, and time would heal the wounds. Besides, the townsfolk did love the king, but they had never seen him in person. They had learned most of what they knew about him from the media and newspapers.
Seen from above, this wheat-producing town resembled a great ship sailing through golden waves of grain. When the wind swept across it, the sea of wheat rustled.
A middle-aged man with a messy beard, rough facial skin, and scraps of dried food from the previous night stuck in his whiskers walked toward the outskirts of town. His cowhide felt hat was filthy and cracked, his large belly jutted out, and he reeked of last night's alcohol. A dull ache throbbed in his head from the hangover.
Although drunkards spent most of their time drowning themselves in alcohol, the wheat in their ancestral land was crucial to whether he could continue filling his belly with pure-malt beer.
The town's roads were muddy and badly maintained. The Empire was simply too vast; there were always areas beyond proper administration. For example, more than two-fifths of the funds for maintaining the town's basic infrastructure went into Mayor Libel's pockets. Considering the state of this world, the Empire was simply too powerful—so powerful that it had no need to fear foreign enemies in the slightest.
The drunkard trudged along the muddy road, cursing under his breath. But then he happened to glance to the side, and his footsteps halted. His foot sank into the mud, and muddy water squeezed through the gaps in his shoelaces and seeped