Lord: Starting with Biological Modification

A few days later, a dust-covered convoy of carriages from the direction of Minas Tirith entered Newly Town.

Leading the convoy was none other than Tristan, the newly appointed mayor of Mi Port.

He lifted the carriage curtain, and his gray-blue eyes reflected the sight of Newly Town.

Unlike the clamorous, chaotic, and rawly energetic atmosphere of the massive construction site that was Minas Tirith, Newly Town was already an orderly small town exuding an air of prosperity.

On the smooth, white stone-paved streets, pedestrians came and went, their faces free of the numbness and misery common among the lower class of the Royal Capital.

The air was filled with the aroma of baking bread and the sweet scent of fermenting ale.

Tristan’s gaze fell upon the notice board in the town’s central square.

A crowd had gathered there, where a clerk was loudly proclaiming something.

"...To celebrate the Grey Marsh Territory’s first bountiful harvest and to welcome the coming new year, the Lord’s Mansion has decided to hold a three-day ’New Year’s Festival’!"

"During the festival, there will be a grand theatrical performance! The Lord’s Mansion is now recruiting performers for high pay! No literacy is required, and your background does not matter. As long as you have a good voice and dare to present yourself before a crowd, you have a chance to be chosen!"

Tristan lowered the carriage curtain, lost in thought.

He had rushed from Mi Port to Newly Town this time precisely to deliver a group of actors.

The gesture seemed to be merely a celebration of the harvest, but Tristan’s intuition told him it was not nearly that simple.

He had recorded and reported all of it to the Lord’s Mansion: the Church’s recent infiltration, Priest Fabian’s "miracles" at the Mi Port construction site.

’Lord Velin’s actions must be related to this.’

’Using theater to fight the Church?’

’Can a play performed by a few illiterate commoners really shake a deeply rooted faith?’

He didn’t understand, but this lack of understanding only piqued his curiosity.

In the carriage behind him sat a dozen or so people, all with different expressions on their faces.

There was a destitute poet who made a living as a storyteller on the docks, a vagrant who earned tips in taverns by mimicking the scandalous behavior of nobles, and a porter recommended by his fellow workers for his booming voice.

They were the founding members of the Grey Marsh Territory’s first "theater troupe."

The carriage stopped at an inn in town, where Barrett was already waiting.

His one eye swept over the people disembarking from the carriage. Without asking a single question, he simply said to Tristan in a low voice,

"Mr. Tristan, the rooms have been arranged. The finest ale and roasted meat have been prepared as well. The Lord is waiting for you."

"Thank you for your trouble, Master Barrett."

Tristan nodded slightly and entrusted the group of future "actors" to Barrett’s men to be settled in.

He then followed Barrett toward the Lord’s Mansion.

...

「Lord’s Mansion, Second-Floor Study」

The oak logs in the fireplace burned brightly, the dancing flames casting flickering light and shadow on the massive map of the Grey Marsh Territory that hung on the wall.

Velin sat behind his desk, a quill in hand, seemingly editing a document.

Barrett pushed the door open and stepped aside to let Tristan enter first.

"My Lord, the people have arrived. They’ve been settled in the inn in town," Tristan reported with a bow.

"Thank you," Velin said, putting down his quill.

Tristan straightened up. He looked at Velin, no longer able to suppress his suspicions, and asked directly,

"My Lord, I posted the same notice in Mi Port as well. But I must admit, I don’t understand your intentions."

"Please enlighten me. How can a theatrical performance possibly counter the influence of Priest Fabian?"

Velin didn’t answer directly.

"Tristan, what do you think our people need most right now?"

Tristan thought for a moment before answering,

"Purpose."

"Both Mi Port and Newly Town are developing too quickly. We need to give them a purpose, something that makes them truly belong here, not just gather for food and merit points."

"Correct."

"We gave them food, we gave them work, and we gave them a safe place to live."

"The issue of survival has been solved."

"But when they finish a day’s labor, drag their exhausted bodies home, and eat the dinner they earned with their sweat, what are they supposed to do then?"

Velin turned his head and looked at Barrett.

"What do they do, Barrett?"

"They drink, gamble with their merit points, or argue with their families over trivial matters," Barrett answered truthfully. These were all things he had seen with his own eyes.

"Those are just the symptoms."

"The root cause is that their spiritual world is a wasteland."

"A barren, arid wasteland, devoid of nutrients. Any seed that falls into it offering solace can easily take root and sprout."

Tristan’s pupils contracted.

He thought of the workers at the Mi Port construction site who gathered outside the white tent at night, kneeling in the mud to pray to the Priest.

"Priest Fabian..."

"Exactly." Velin’s finger stopped on Mi Port on the map. "He is doing just that. The story he brings is very appealing."

"’The hardships of reality are only temporary. As long as you have faith, you can enter a Celestial Kingdom free of toil after death.’ For those who have nothing and can only survive by selling their labor, this is a deal they can’t lose."

"We can’t expel them," Barrett said, his brow furrowed. "The edict bears the council’s wax seal. To defy it openly would be to declare war on both the council and the Church simultaneously."

"Why would I want to expel him?" Velin countered.

A smile touched his lips.

"He helped me identify the problem. I should thank him. Moreover, he’s provided a very interesting approach."

Velin withdrew his hand and turned to face the two of them squarely.

"Since this is a war of ’stories,’ then we’ll simply tell our people a better one."

A glint flashed in Tristan’s eyes; he seemed to have grasped something.

Velin continued,

"A story... more real and tangible than some ethereal Celestial Kingdom."

He walked back to his desk and picked up the quill.

"We will forge a dream for them worth fighting for, a hope that can be seen and touched."

His voice wasn’t loud, yet it rang with exceptional clarity in the quiet study.

"Let’s call it the ’Gray Marsh Dream’."

"The Gray Marsh Dream?" Barrett repeated instinctively.

"Yes. The Gray Marsh Dream."

"Its core is simple: Here, your birth and bloodline no longer determine your life. The only standards of measure are your intellect, your sweat, and your contributions."

"A bricklayer, so long as he builds the sturdiest walls, can earn the highest merit points, move into a house with a courtyard, and win the respect of all."

"A soldier, if he fights bravely and his merits are outstanding, can rise from a common recruit, step by step, to become a commander of a hundred, then a commander of a thousand!"

Velin turned, his gaze burning as he looked at Barrett.

"We don’t promise an ethereal afterlife; we only offer a present that can be cashed in. We aren’t selling indulgences, but a ladder to a better life. A ladder they hold in their own hands."

"The Church’s story is founded on ’original sin’ and ’redemption.’ It tells people they are born with sin and must rely on external grace to be saved."

"Our story, however, is founded on ’labor’ and ’value’! It tells people that their own two hands are their greatest power! That their destiny is determined by their own hard work!"

The study fell silent. Barrett felt his mouth go dry.

He thought of his wife and children, far away in Green Vein City.

The thought was like a spark, and a fire began to burn in his heart.

’This isn’t just about serving the Lord anymore.’

’This is a fight for myself, for my family, and for my children’s future.’

"But... how do we tell this story?" Barrett asked, returning to his senses and raising the most practical problem. "We don’t have any eloquent preachers. Most of our people are illiterate; they won’t understand complicated reasoning."

"Who says a story must be told with words?"

A smile spread across Velin’s face.

"We can perform it for them."

"Perform?" Tristan finally spoke.

"Theater," Velin said a single word. "Find an open space, build a stage, and have people act as characters in a story, bringing the principles we want to convey to life right before everyone’s eyes."

"People don’t like listening to grand lectures, but they love a good show. They love to watch the joys and sorrows of others. We’ll just hide the lesson within the entertainment."

"My Lord, you’re going to... personally?"

"Yes," Velin cut Tristan off. "I am going to form the Grey Marsh Territory’s first theater troupe. And I will be its head playwright."

"The Church has been telling its stories for hundreds of years. Everyone’s tired of them. It’s time we gave them something new."

Velin pulled a thick notebook from a pile of documents.

Emblazoned on the cover was the title: *When Sugar Comes Knocking*.