Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

Gwen casually tidied her long white hair, revealing her slender neck.

“Mr. Isaac, was what we’re doing really useful? From what I see, the townsfolk had no intention of accepting us at all.”

It had been Isaac’s idea to enter the town. Under Gwen’s strict orders, the Resistance Army had not touched a single item belonging to the townspeople. Instead, they even helped clean the streets and did small chores.

But even so, nobody came to their stalls. A few bold ones came to take a look, but without buying or selling anything, they left right away.

This discouraged the Resistance Army greatly. They might be able to defeat the Winter Wolves, but they still could not earn the recognition of these natives.

They themselves were displaced folk and had seen such things many times before, but still, it left them saddened.

Perhaps Isaac had given them too much hope, and now that it was dashed, the disappointment was especially painful.

Isaac, however, grinned broadly. “Miss Gwen, don’t mind it. This too was part of the plan. Their rejection of us now doesn’t mean it will always be so.”

“Did you arrange people to spread word?”

“Yes.”

“That short fellow, Leonard?”

“No, it’s the Winter Wolves Guard.”

Gwen blinked in confusion. “You’ve lost me. Why would the Winter Wolves Guard do propaganda for us? They would never help us.”

“They don’t need to help us. They don’t need to do a thing—yet they will still drive the people toward the Resistance Army.”

Isaac’s voice dropped low. “The Moths Chasing Fire were able to rebel everywhere not because we possessed any special tricks of persuasion. We only needed to raise the banner of resistance, and the lords themselves sent us their followers in droves. Without oppression, who would be willing to risk their lives in revolt?”

“As for Leonard… you’ve heard him speak, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir. The speech in the tavern made my blood boil. He really was a master of rousing hearts.”

Isaac shook his head. “What roused hearts was a pound of bread priced at five Rio. He only told the truth. Don’t worry. The townsfolk may not accept the Resistance Army now, but once we’re gone, they will begin to miss us.”

Gwen nodded, half comprehending.

In the days that followed, the Resistance Army went to several other small towns in turn. They swept the streets, helped rebuild houses, set up stalls for fair trade—and almost always reaped nothing.

The people resisted them. No matter how many good deeds were done, the gazes they received were full of wariness.

Yet the Resistance Army offered no rebuttal. They simply did their work in silence. Even their undercover agents disguised as traveling merchants made no moves, letting the townsfolk vent hostility freely.

And every time, not long after the Resistance Army departed, the Winter Wolves’ cavalry came rushing into the town, grim-faced, only to find they had chased nothing but shadows.

Though they were cavalry and their foes were only on foot, they always ended up the slower side.

The suspicious stares of the townsfolk angered them even more.

The Winter Wolves Guard left in shining armor, but when they returned, not only were half their numbers missing, many bore wounds as well.

As for discarded armor and abandoned gear—that went without saying. Few came back in full kit.

The townsfolk did not understand battles, but even they could see who was winning and who was losing.

Yet before they could gloat, they were subjected to bloody reprisals from the Winter Wolves Guard.

The Guard might not be able to best the Resistance Army, but bullying their own commonfolk was no problem at all.

They stormed into houses without care, smashing doors, tying people up with ropes, and dragging them behind horses to the square, leaving trails of blood along the way.

The rest were driven out, trembling before sabers and muskets.

“You filthy peasants betrayed the Earl, colluding with the White Raven people to harm the Winter Wolves—to harm your very protectors!”

The Head Wolf paced across the square. Another scar now marred his face, but this time it was not an honor, only a disgrace.

Behind him stood several hastily erected poles, from which hung mutilated bodies.

Many had been mangled beyond recognition. Dragged all the way, only half their bodies remained by the time they reached the square. Yet they still weren’t dead, moaning faintly.

“Such is the fate of traitors!!”

The Winter Wolves soldiers bellowed in unison, frightening many townsfolk into collapsing on the ground.

The Head Wolf looked at the strung-up victims, his expression dark.

The defeat had been too disastrous. He had to give Earl Bazel an explanation, so he borrowed these heads to use.

In a wolf pack, should the Head Wolf show the slightest weakness, a challenger would tear open his throat. He had no choice—so he thought.

Behind him, the Winter Wolves gradually regained confidence amid the blood and wails. This was the battlefield they knew: as long as the blood was not their own, it was fine.

The townsfolk’s eyes showed both fear and hatred. The Winter Wolves ignored them completely.

In the Northlands, these people were like weeds in the wild. Left alone, they grew. Cut with a blade, they grew again. If their heads had some use, then they might as well be taken.

Even if all were burned away, their roots destroyed, the White Raven refugees could always fill the gap.

The Northlands were barren, but never lacked weeds.

The Head Wolf silently counted the heads hanging from the poles and frowned.

His adjutant leaned in at once. “My lord?”

“These are not enough. Far from enough. What we need is a victory—a great victory. Only then can we live up to Earl Bazel’s trust.”

He glanced at the kneeling townsfolk and shook his head. “Go to the other two towns. There are more traitors there. More heads.”

The Winter Wolves filed out. Their armor was still incomplete, but their morale had returned somewhat.

All they needed was proper rest, and they would have nothing to fear from the Resistance Army.

The cavalry departed, leaving only a wrecked square and wailing residents, with headless corpses strewn about.

After an unknown time, the townsfolk helped each other to their feet. They gathered the corpses, hauling them by cart to bury together in the cemetery.

Most were so mangled they could not be identified. Many were only severed parts. Even piecing them together was impossible, so a great pit was dug and the remains heaped inside.

Flesh and grief alike were buried under shovelfuls of earth. Now and then came a sob.

They stood long before the pit. This time, there were no speeches, no one to stir them on, no strong liquor poured into mouths—only blood-soaked mud.

They stood in silence, like a row of wordless gravestones.