Lord: Starting with Biological Modification

Several hundred captured thugs knelt in the square, their hands tied behind their backs.

Grom looked at the people around him—some tied up, others with their weapons confiscated—and sneered inwardly.

It was just as he’d said. The Lord of Grey Marsh Territory was indeed going to purge them. The "criminals" in the square now included not only those who, like him, had participated in tonight’s looting, but also some organizations and gangs who hadn’t taken part in the action at all.

The thought that those who lacked the guts to cause trouble tonight would be dying with him dispelled much of his fear.

Surrounding them, over a hundred Bader Soldier Ants stood silently, their single horns reflecting a chilling light under the flickering torches.

The sea breeze blew through the fjord, carrying with it the salty tang of water and a distinct chill, but it couldn’t disperse the stench of sweat and fear hanging over the crowd.

Velin walked to the center of the square, with Barrett following behind him.

He placed a ledger on a makeshift wooden table and flipped it open with his finger.

He inclined his head toward Barrett.

Barrett took a step forward. His voice, accustomed to roaring on the battlefield, boomed across the silent square.

"Grom, former miner from Broken Stone County, leader of the Iron Fist Association."

The stout man kneeling at the very front, Grom, shuddered.

"Crime number one: Organizing a gang, monopolizing the quarry, and using violent means to extort ’protection fees’ from one hundred and twenty-seven workers."

Barrett paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd of onlookers.

"According to the City Hall’s calculations, from the seventh of this month until last night, your total illegal profits are equivalent to over three thousand merit points."

A wave of suppressed gasps rippled through the crowd.

Many of the oppressed workers clenched their fists, their bodies trembling slightly with excitement.

"Crime number two: Within the past twelve days, you organized and participated in two armed brawls, resulting in fourteen serious injuries. Three of these individuals suffered leg fractures, resulting in permanent disability."

"Crime number three: Last night, you ordered your subordinates to spread the rumor that ’the Lord’s Mansion will cut all worker rations,’ inciting a riot."

"Crime number four: You led the charge on Granary Number One and beat three members of the garrison into unconsciousness."

With every crime Barrett read, the color drained further from Grom’s face.

He thought he had done all these things in secret. He never imagined they would be recorded so clearly, one by one.

Barrett turned a page and looked at another man.

"Raine, former boatwright from River Mouth Town, leader of the ’Riverport Gang’."

Another man kneeling in the front row lifted his head, his face ashen.

"Crime: Five days ago, you fought with the ’Wildfire Gang’ over the unloading area of Dock Number Three, resulting in two of their members suffering dislocated arms. Afterward, you compensated them with healing potions valued at thirty merit points."

A stir went through the crowd. This crime sounded much less severe.

"Also noted: Seven days ago, your neighbor’s son came down with a sudden high fever. You used fifteen of your own saved merit points to redeem a packet of fever-reducing ’Fire-Seal Grass’ from the exchange office, saving the child’s life. Upon investigation, this neighbor was not a member of the ’Riverport Gang’."

Raine was stunned. He never thought such a small, casual act of kindness would also be recorded.

The reading continued for a long time.

For every captured gang leader and core member, their crimes—and even some of their insignificant good deeds—were announced to the public.

The ledger’s records were so meticulous they noted who argued with whom over cutting in line on a specific day, and the data was so precise it tracked the flow of every single merit point.

No one dared to question it any longer.

When the last name was read, Barrett retreated behind his lord.

Velin slowly walked forward, his gaze sweeping over the several hundred people kneeling on the ground.

He first pointed to Grom and thirty-seven others with the most heinous crimes.

"You," he began, "you actively created chaos, spread rumors, attacked guards, and stormed the granaries. You are the principal offenders."

Next, he pointed to the largest group among the crowd, numbering more than five hundred.

"You were incited to participate in the looting. Although you didn’t deliberately harm anyone, you caused losses at the granaries. You are accomplices."

Finally, he pointed to the group of over two hundred people led by Barton.

"You defended your own camps during the chaos. You have participated in gang brawls, but you did not take part in tonight’s riot and looting. You acted in self-preservation."

These clear distinctions made everyone understand their standing in the lord’s eyes.

Those categorized as "accomplices" began to beg loudly for mercy.

"My lord, spare us! We were all deceived by Grom!"

"We’ll never do it again! Please, give us one more chance!"

Velin ignored their cries. He looked at Grom’s group.

"As for you, your crimes are unforgivable."

He turned to Barrett.

"Execute them."

Without a moment’s hesitation, Barrett drew the Longsword from his waist and gestured to the elite garrison troops behind him.

"Do it!"

Dozens of garrison members surged forward at once. With swift flashes of their blades, it was done.

Until the moment of his death, Grom couldn’t believe this young lord wouldn’t even give him a chance to defend himself or curse him.

Hot blood gushed out, staining the stone bricks in the center of the square red.

Thirty-eight heads rolled to the ground. The thick stench of blood spread quickly, shattering the last shred of hope in everyone’s hearts.

The farmer, Lars, looked at Grom’s head, his eyes wide in death. He let out a long breath, and the resentment and fear that had built up for days vanished like smoke.

As for the thugs categorized as "accomplices," having witnessed this merciless execution, many felt a warmth spread in their trousers and collapsed to the ground, losing control of their bowels and bladder.

They thought they would be next.

Velin turned to the terrified accomplices.

"You. Your death sentences may be spared, but you will not escape punishment."

"From now on, you are prisoners. City Hall will calculate the total losses you caused last night, and each of you will be fined double that amount in merit points."

"Until your fines are paid in full, you will receive no compensation for your daily labor. The merit points required for your food and lodging will also be added to your total fine."

Barrett froze. ’More than five hundred prisoners? There’s no way I can guard them all with the few men I have.’

He was just about to bring this problem to Velin’s attention.

But Velin had already turned to Barton and the two hundred-odd "self-preservationists."

This group, who had just been celebrating their non-involvement in the riot, now felt their hearts leap into their throats.

"Although you acted in self-preservation, you still caused damage to the work sites and engaged in brawls."

A look of bleak despair appeared on the faces of Raine and the others.

’We feel that while we were in the wrong, our hands were forced.’

"Therefore, starting today, you will be conscripted into the newly established [Minas Tirith Patrol Team]. You will be responsible for daily security patrols, mediating disputes, and assisting the garrison in investigations."

The two hundred-plus men were all dumbfounded.

They stared blankly at Velin, suspecting they had misheard.

’Not only were we not punished, but we’re... getting an official job?’

The massive shift from the hell of awaiting judgment to the heaven of becoming keepers of order left their minds completely blank.

"Of course, you can also refuse," Velin added.

"Anyone who refuses will automatically be classified as an accomplice and sent to the mines with the others to work off their debt."

No one refused.

Even the stupidest among them knew this wasn’t a punishment—it was a gift from the lord!

And so, a patrol team composed of former gang members familiar with every corner of the city and its social networks was born in this crude yet efficient manner.

Velin looked at Barton.

"Barton."

"Here, my lord!"

Barton jolted and answered immediately, his voice loud and clear.

"You will be the first captain of the Patrol Team."

Barton was completely stunned. His mouth hung open as he looked at Velin, then at the former gang members around him.

’Me? Captain? In charge of these guys?’

"My lord, I... I’m afraid I won’t do a good job." For the first time, Barton showed a lack of confidence in front of Velin.

"You only need to remember three things." Velin raised one finger. "First, my rules are the Patrol Team’s rules."

He raised a second finger. "Second, for anyone who doesn’t follow the rules, use your fists to make them understand the rules."

Finally, he raised a third finger. "Third, if your fists aren’t big enough, come find me."

Barton understood.

He puffed out his chest and struck it hard with his fist, producing a dull THUD.

"Yes, my lord! Barton understands!"

Velin nodded and turned to leave.

In the square, the two hundred-odd members of the newly formed Patrol Team looked at each other in dismay.

They looked at the bodies of Grom and the others on the ground, then back at their new captain.

Raine lowered his head and shuffled his feet, trying to put a little more distance between himself and Barton.

They had just escaped the fate of execution, only to feel like they had jumped into another fiery pit.

Everyone’s scalp tingled with unease.

Velin looked at the crowd before him, very satisfied with the results of his operation.