The True Priceless Treasure

The reading of the enormous supply handover list finally came to an end.

Shien looked past the piles of Refined Steel and Holy Silver gleaming in the firelight, straight toward the shadows at the rear of the convoy.

More than three thousand people stood there, their clothes tattered and their faces numb.

The Convicts huddled together, shoulders hunched against the cold wind, their bodies trembling uncontrollably.

Valen turned the last page of the thick parchment ledger, glanced toward the crowd, and said, "My lord, this group includes more than a hundred valuable specialists, among them former royal craftsmen and retired mechanics."

A glint flashed through Shien's seemingly calm, ice-blue eyes.

On this man-eating wasteland beneath the Blood Moon, no matter how high they piled their supplies, beast tides would eventually wear them down.

Compared with those dozens of wagons of ore, the people the Church had thrown away like trash were worth far more.

If he kept a firm hold on them, everything they knew could become his.

In Shien's vision, the Grace Values flickering above the heads of the three thousand new prisoners were all a lifeless gray-white.

That color meant unfamiliarity, wariness, even despair.

It was like a cold, heavy door sealing their thoughts away.

In that state, Shien's access was limited. He could neither see their ability panels nor use replication directly.

But as he watched the Convicts huddled together in the wind and snow, the corners of his mouth curved upward.

When he had first arrived in this wasteland, facing more than three thousand people filled with despair and hostility would indeed have seemed troublesome.

Things were different now. After working with the first group of Convicts, he had developed a method.

Faith, oaths, honor—none of that worked on people like these.

Shien raised a hand and gave the order.

The logistics soldiers soon set up dozens of cast-iron cauldrons on the ground.

Rich fat, aged wheat grains, and pungent spices to ward off the cold were dumped in together, churning in the hot broth.

Before long, the scent of meat filled the wind.

The moment it spread, the crowd changed.

Throats bobbed. Heads lifted involuntarily. People edged half a step forward, as though the aroma might vanish if they were too slow to breathe it in.

Then the veterans pushed wooden carts through the crowd, handing out bowls of scalding meat soup and thick, coarse linen coats.

Their movements were hardly gentle, even a little rough, but no one dared put down what they had been given.

The refugees clutched their hot wooden bowls, their frostbitten, reddened fingers shaking beyond their control.

Heat washed over their faces, and white steam rose in waves.

Their sunken eyes were full of stunned bewilderment, as if they had yet to grasp what was happening.

In other camps, Convicts usually received nothing more than black gruel mixed with sawdust, or cold water gone sour and foul.

Anyone who dared snatch an extra mouthful would be lucky to get away with a whipping.

But this bowl of meat soup was different. The broth was hot, with fat and wheat grains in it.

As it went down their throats, a fire seemed to spring to life in their stomachs. Even their stiff hands and feet eased a little.

The square soon fell quiet. Only swallowing could be heard, along with the faint scrape of tongues against the bottoms of bowls.

When even those sounds gradually faded, Shien finally spoke:

"In Blackpine Fief, I won't ask where you came from or what crimes the Church pinned on you. I care about two things: how much work you can do, and whether you can survive here."

Some in the crowd looked up, still bewildered.

Shien paused for a moment, then continued. "Blackpine Fief follows the Work-Point Atonement System.

"Hauling stone, digging trenches, transporting timber, standing night watch, killing Demonic Beasts—all of it earns work points. Save up a thousand, and I'll personally order the Sinner Brand on your necks removed."

The wind swept past the stacks of stone, but the square grew quieter still.

Many stood frozen, as though they had not understood him—or dared not believe him.

"When that day comes, you'll regain your status as free citizens. If you earn it yourselves, I'll give you homes and farmland, and let you build a life in this fief."

At those words, the crowd finally stirred.

A gaunt man in the front row froze, then drew a sharp, muffled breath.

His grip on his wooden bowl visibly tightened, as though everything might disappear if he loosened it.

Movement spread behind him. Some murmured "a thousand points" to themselves; others stared at the bowls in their hands. A few had reddened eyes but kept their teeth clenched.

Shien lowered his eyelids slightly. Deep within his sea of consciousness, the Canon of Grace and Righteousness opened soundlessly.

In his vision, the once-lifeless gray-white values above more than three thousand heads began to fluctuate wildly.

Most rapidly grew lighter, like snowbound ground finally cracking open to reveal the first faint shoots of green.

A few values even leaped straight past that first pale green into a deeper shade.

Most of those people had been driven to the brink. To them, this bowl of hot soup and that promise were enough to stake their lives on.

Not everyone changed, of course. Deep in the crowd, dozens of values remained stubbornly gray-white, without the slightest shift.

Most of them had suffered under the Church for too long. Their hearts had long since grown shells.

They trusted neither hot soup nor promises. To them, this was merely a sugar coating before they were sent off to die.

Shien saw them but paid them no mind. People like that could not be won over with a single speech. He would win them over slowly.

As the values above most of the refugees turned pale green, the Canon of Grace and Righteousness's most basic inspection access opened in Shien's sea of consciousness.

He walked slowly into the crowd. The people still held their hot soup; none dared move carelessly. They simply stepped aside on instinct, leaving him a narrow path.

Shien said nothing. He walked calmly among them, his gaze passing over one face after another.

More than three thousand translucent panels unfolded at once, like a thin radiance suddenly kindling and spreading densely across the square.

Shien lowered his lashes and let the data stream through his mind, sifting through it layer by layer for what he needed.

Who was suited to reinforcing the city defenses? Who belonged in the workshops? Who could fill the positions Victor needed most? And who should be sent straight into the trenches...

In a corner, an old man whose hands had been ruined possessed [Lv.3 Large-Scale Structural Mechanics].

His hands were useless, but his mind was intact. Shien could put him to work ensuring the inner keep's new walls could withstand the frenzied charges of High-Tier Demonic Beasts.

An array scholar trembling in the wind possessed [Lv.3 Principles of Rune Arrays].

Victor badly needed an assistant like him. He could miniaturize a vast rune array and cram it into a steam boiler.

That mechanic's skill was [Lv.2 Gear Transmission Technology].

Send him straight to the repeating-crossbow workshop and have him sort out the crossbows' semi-automatic mechanisms.

A sallow, emaciated middle-aged man possessed [Lv.3 Toxicology and Acid Purification].

Put him in charge of the Rat Oil mines and the defensive line's acid, and their corrosive power could surely be raised to a lethal level that dissolved bone and ate through flesh.

As Shien's gaze swept onward, [Lv.2 Metal Seal Forging], [Lv.2 Ore Identification and Prospecting], and [Lv.2 Alchemical Potion Formulation] appeared in succession...

Shien kept walking, branding these walking technology trees and their faces deep into his memory.