Lord of Rot

”Cough, cough!”

The acrid smell from the preservative he was making sent Leech into a coughing fit. He waved his hand in front of his face for a long time before the stench finally dissipated.

He turned to look at the mutated half-Corpse Ghost wandering in the distance. It possessed a very low level of consciousness; even under Leech’s orders, it could only walk around slowly and aimlessly.

He had also turned the other two troglodyte bodies into zombies. Lacking magical materials, they were just the most ordinary kind of undead, requiring him to control them directly. Normally, they were as motionless as any other corpse.

Leech had also sent people into the mountains to search for the red herb, but there had been no news so far. On the other hand, there was a lot more wild game on his dining table.

Making the preservative wasn’t difficult. The materials were readily available and not too expensive. The only problem was the pungent smell. If he hadn’t been conducting his research in the cellar beneath his bedroom, the stench would likely have filled the entire Porcupine Castle.

This also meant the corpses soaked in preservative could never be seen in public.

With three troglodyte corpses at his command, Leech’s progress in clearing the area sped up considerably.

The cavern.

He controlled two swaying troglodyte zombies, making them draw their rust-covered longswords. He was getting used to multitasking. The ability to apply combat techniques to bodies that felt no pain and could not die allowed him to take hits head-on, and by coordinating with the red-haired, mutated half-Corpse Ghost, he successfully slaughtered his way through the troglodyte cavern.

He discovered that when he gave the red-haired half-Corpse Ghost a simple ”kill” command, her primitive brain would execute the near-instinctual order with brutal efficiency.

In a corner, a small troglodyte was curled into a ball, staring fearfully at the zombies. It probably didn’t understand why the bodies of its family had stood up, let alone why they were killing its other kin.

And Leech had no intention of letting it be troubled for much longer.

A longsword ran it through. The last troglodyte was dead.

Now he could finally take stock of the spoils.

He found a patch of grass.

Blue grass. A whole patch of shimmering, vivid blue.

’Could this stuff be the Grass of Life mentioned in Son of the Ranger?’

Besides the blue grass, the spoils included three intact troglodyte bodies, a pile of rusty armor and weapons, and a single rotten, broken chest.

The zombies tore apart the fungus-covered wooden chest. Most of the contents had rotted beyond recognition, but a single sealed cylinder caught his eye.

The study.

Two items lay on Leech’s desk: a stalk of the blue grass and the sealed cylinder.

He pried open the cylinder with a knife. Inside was a letter sealed with wax—an unopened, secret message from centuries ago? Even though he wasn’t a scholar, Leech’s breath caught in his throat. Humans are naturally curious about unknown history, and the secrets hidden within it only amplify that curiosity.

After centuries, the paper of the letter inside had only yellowed with age. Still, he opened it with extreme care, afraid it might crumble.

But this was no letter. It was... Magic!

It described a spell called ”Eagle Eye.” By taming one’s own bird, the magic user could have it patrol the skies and see everything the bird saw.

’It’s like how a Necromancer controls the undead, but this spell doesn’t grant control over the creature’s actions. You can only see what it sees.’

It wasn’t as effective as controlling the undead, but it consumed less mental energy and could be used on living creatures.

After reading it carefully several times, Leech copied the Magic Letter onto a new scroll. Then, he burned the yellowed original. It was a mercy of time that the paper had lasted this long; he couldn’t possibly expect the original to survive for ages to come.

Black Ears’s Smithy.

Leech had come to inspect the new farm tools forged by his blacksmith apprentice. Black Ears, though proud and convinced he was destined for more than making farm tools, was admittedly a natural at it.

”The... iron tool you asked for... I’ve finished it.”

It was a triangular, double-bladed piece of iron. Its long, sharp point was designed to dig into the soil.

Black Ears scratched his hair, unwashed for a month or two, and asked curiously, ”Lord, are you planning to mount this on a hoe?”

”Of course not,”

Leech shook his head. ”I’m having a completely new kind of farm tool built. It will make tilling the fields faster, more efficient, and less strenuous.”

At a time when people still dug holes by hand and only some farmers could afford hoes, the introduction of a plow to his territory would massively increase the speed of cultivation. Of course, the Lord had no intention of providing them for free.

The autumn harvest had nearly ended, and a new planting season was about to begin. He planned to have his slaves use the plows, thereby enticing the farmers to change their own tools.

The planting of the wheat would be an excellent opportunity for a demonstration.

Although a heavy plow would be a great labor-saving device, Porcupine Territory only had those few decrepit old horses he had just bought. Lacking sufficient draft animals, it wasn’t a consideration.

According to the Groom’s assessment, only two of the mares were still capable of breeding. The rest could only pull light loads and couldn’t be expected to handle anything too heavy.

With the iron plowshare ready, the rest of the plow needed to be crafted by a carpenter. However, Porcupine Territory was short on craftsmen. Having heard Leech’s idea, Black Ears volunteered for the job. He had experience making farm tools, so he wasn’t a complete novice when it came to woodworking.

Having a complete lack of skilled artisans under his command, Baron Leech could only let Black Ears give it a try.

”Lord!”

The manservant, Pitchfork, came running over in a panic.

”What is it, Pitchfork?”

Pitchfork glanced at Black Ears. The blacksmith’s apprentice tactfully turned and left, leaving the master and servant some privacy. Only then did Pitchfork whisper, ”I followed your orders and mixed that grass into the sheep’s feed. After the sheep ate it...”

”What happened?” Leech was very curious about the effects of the Grass of Life.

”The ram... it was on top of the ewe for a very long time,” Pitchfork said awkwardly. ”Now the ewe runs away the moment she sees it.”

He asked, ”What about the ram?”

Pitchfork scratched his head. ”The ram was foaming at the mouth. It’s awake now, but its legs are so weak it can’t stand up.”

”Then let it get some rest,” Leech said, sympathetic to the completely drained ram. ”If it won’t eat, pry its mouth open and feed it. Don’t let it starve to death.”

Pitchfork immediately replied, ”Yes, Lord!”

Leech, however, was thinking about the Grass of Life.

’A single stalk of that grass can nearly work a ram to death. If I dilute it and make some kind of special drug to sell in Iron Stone City...’ He could practically see a glittering golden road to wealth.

The ”sacred ground” of Iron Stone City would be the perfect market for a male enhancement drug.

But he would have to run more tests first, lest he end up killing his customers.

The autumn harvest ended. The yield this year was poor. Cart after cart of shriveled grain was delivered to the castle, leaving only a small fraction behind to help the farmers endure the harsh winter.

Having just finished his work, a man named Pig’s Eye Grass pushed open the door to his home.

Oatmeal porridge simmered in a pot hanging over the fire, bits of bran still floating on the surface. The aroma made the man’s stomach rumble noisily. He ladled out a spoonful and was just about to bring it to his lips.

”That’s for the child!” His wife, dressed in a dirty hemp skirt, walked over and snatched the spoon from Pig’s Eye Grass’s hand, dumping its contents back into the pot. ”There’s no grain left in the house. How are we going to get through the winter?”

’The land we farm never seems to grow any grain. My husband works so hard,’ she thought, ’but... maybe our prayers to the Four Gods just aren’t pious enough.’

One-Eared Old Gaps had enough grain to last the winter. The Lord had even married a young widow off to him. His life was complete.

”Heh heh,” Pig’s Eye Grass grinned. ”Who says we won’t make it through the winter? The Lord said that any family short on grain can borrow from the castle. Borrow ten pounds this year, pay back thirteen next year.”

”Did the Lord really say that?” his wife asked, surprised. Then her face soured. ”But what if the harvest is poor again next year and we can’t pay it back?”

”Then we’ll forfeit our lives to the Lord and become his slaves,” Pig’s Eye Grass said, trying to sound nonchalant. ”From what I’ve seen, those slaves have it better than we do. They get a bowl of oat soup and a loaf of rye bread every day.”

But his wife became agitated. ”Who wants to be a slave!”

Slaves only have the freedom to kill themselves. Beyond that, they must obey their master’s every command. And the children of slaves are born slaves, a cycle that continues for generations. She hoped her son would grow up to be a farmer. If he were lucky, he might even enter the castle as a manservant, and the whole family’s life would become much easier.

Just look at Lady Sparrow. Ever since she started working in the castle as a laundry maid, her children had been able to eat their fill every day.

”I saw Old Toilet’s family borrow thirty pounds of oats,” Pig’s Eye Grass whispered. ”The grain from their land is even worse than ours. If we really can’t pay it back, well, we won’t be the only ones. If we don’t get through this winter, we’re all dead anyway. Next year, while I’m busy, you just stay home and pray extra hard to the Four Gods. We’re bound to have a good harvest then.”

She seemed to be wavering. ”Well... why don’t you go and ask?”