After allocating his attributes, Renard glanced at the words in parentheses and saw that he still didn't meet the requirements. He couldn't help scratching his head.
Of course, he hadn't expected much. Knowing how the system worked, he'd be lucky to meet the standard in three years.
As Renard wondered what they might find tomorrow, Tommy stumbled into the tent, shivering. He hurried into his sleeping bag and let out a long sigh of relief.
Renard turned to look at him. Ice crystals clung to Tommy's hair, and Renard couldn't help looking impressed. He gave him a thumbs-up. "You guys are badass!"
Tommy didn't know what he meant. He smiled bashfully, then stayed curled up in his sleeping bag, shivering.
A moment later, Ben came into the tent, shivering too. He was more composed: he bowed respectfully, then slowly climbed into his sleeping bag.
Renard turned to look at Ben. "Ben, I've noticed that these kobolds don't seem very strong."
Ben turned onto his side as well and nodded. "That's right. These fellows aren't even as strong as half-grown children. To put it bluntly, even you could easily kill a few, young master."
Renard wasn't offended by the comparison. "These fellows can hardly be called opponents. Why doesn't Saint Brieuc Fortress just send people to wipe them out?"
The question had been troubling him for a long time. He didn't expect Ben to have a definitive answer; a few clues would be enough.
But Ben proved far wiser than he'd expected. He held up two fingers. "There are two reasons."
"I'm all ears." Renard adopted an attentive expression.
Ben lowered his middle finger. "First, kobolds, goblins, and other indigenous people breed extremely quickly. If food is plentiful, they can have at least two litters a year, with more than twenty young in total."
"Like rats?" Renard raised an eyebrow.
"Just like rats!" Ben said firmly. "And these indigenous people aren't actually weak. The ones we've seen are just cast-off wanderers."
"Cast-off wanderers?" Renard frowned. "Go on."
Ben cleared his throat. "By 'cast-off wanderers,' I mean indigenous people who were screened and driven out of their homes. Most of them are old, weak, sick, or disabled."
"Survival of the fittest?" Renard said, beginning to understand.
"That's one way to put it." Ben nodded. "The indigenous people live in very harsh conditions, and a lack of food is one of the main causes of death. To ensure the survival of their whole community, they have to drive the old, weak, sick, and disabled out of their homes to fend for themselves, so they won't become a burden."
Renard drew a deep breath. This sort of thing wasn't uncommon. He'd heard of old people who could no longer work being sealed in their graves and left to die.
Was it cruel? If they weren't desperate, who would do something so inhumane?
Ben continued at length. "To survive after being driven out, these indigenous people have to band together. That's how their camps came to be."
Renard's pupils contracted slightly. He looked down at his hands. They were clean, yet it was as if countless sins clung to them.
After a long while, he sighed dejectedly. He had no choice.
Ben seemed to read his thoughts. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Are you feeling sorry for them, young master?"
Renard didn't answer—or, rather, his silence was answer enough.
"There's no need." Ben wiped his nose. "These fellows are no innocents. We can kill them easily because we're professionals. If ordinary farmers ran into them, they'd be eaten down to the bones."
"Every winter, when food runs short, they come in bands to raid the countryside. Pigs, dogs, cattle, and sheep—nothing is safe. Not even people."
"They don't produce anything. They only take from others. What's the difference between them and bandits? Do they really deserve our sympathy?"
Renard felt a little better. "If these are all wandering indigenous people, where are the real communities?"
Ben shifted around, settling into a more comfortable position. "The truly powerful indigenous tribes are deep in the mountains and forests. They have their own civilization, just like us."
He pointed west. "Have you noticed? The closer you get to the Ambrisset Mountains, the stronger the indigenous tribes are. Take the Kobold Camp Number One you marked out, for example. There are thousands of them there."
Renard nodded, agreeing with him.
Ben smiled. "Still don't understand?"
Renard frowned. He'd often heard people speak of the dangers of the Ambrisset Mountains. "You mean all the indigenous tribes are inside the Ambrisset Mountains?"
"That's right." Ben sighed. "Wiping out these tribes on the outskirts only treats the symptoms. I'd bet that, unless something unexpected happens, the camps we've cleared will be bustling again in just two or three months."
Tommy had finally managed to warm up. "Unless we can go deep into the Ambrisset Mountains and deal their tribes a serious blow, however many you kill, that many more will appear."
He struggled to turn over and continued, "But the indigenous tribes that can make their homes there are terrifyingly powerful."
Go deep into the Ambrisset Mountains? Renard's mouth twitched. Even His Majesty the King probably wouldn't dare.
"What's the second reason?" Renard's curiosity was piqued.
"The second reason?" Ben pondered for a moment, then looked at Tommy, inviting him to answer.
Tommy perked up and smiled. "You've probably heard an Eastern proverb, young master: 'When the birds are gone, the good bow is put away; when the hares are dead, the hounds are cooked.' It means..."
Renard waved a hand to stop him. "I know what it means. Just get to the point."
Tommy looked embarrassed and said sheepishly, "Without these indigenous people to help, why would farmers and tenant farmers willingly gather under their lords' banners?"
He sighed. "The Barren Land is barren because its population is small and it lacks labor. The truth is, the land here is extremely fertile and stretches far and wide."
Renard was no fool. He immediately understood what Tommy meant. If there were no dangers in the wasteland, farmers and tenant farmers could simply clear the land themselves. They wouldn't have to serve the lords or pay exorbitant taxes.
He smiled bitterly and said softly, "Dirty politics. Disgusting exploiters."
As he said this, his expression suddenly froze. Then he thought of himself. Wasn't he a descendant of those very exploiters?
He coughed awkwardly twice and quickly changed his tune. "The indigenous people can never be eradicated. Only the lords can protect their subjects from their harm."
Tommy and Ben exchanged glances. Then they both rolled over, turned their backs to him, and fell fast asleep.
Before you continue