Lord: Starting with Biological Modification

"Them?" Roland faltered for a moment before his expression softened into pity. "You’re still young, so perhaps your views on certain matters are not yet fully formed. The fate of the common folk is tied to the nobility. They will understand your decision, because your survival is their hope for the future."

He took a step forward, his voice earnest.

"Take my advice. Leave this place immediately with your core subordinates and seek refuge with your liege. Once the turmoil has passed, you can return and rebuild your home."

"Then, you can distribute bread to the survivors, offer condolences to the families of the deceased, and adopt the helpless orphans. Your name will be sung across the entire Duchy for your benevolence. This is the way of the nobility, the very order that Knights are sworn to protect."

Velin watched him, silent for a long moment.

The room was completely silent.

"Baron Roland," Velin began slowly, "does your code of chivalry include a way to quantify life?"

Roland couldn’t follow the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

"What I mean is," Velin took a step closer, his tone like one discussing a scholarly matter, "how many commoner deaths are equivalent to the life of a single noble? A thousand? Ten thousand? Is there a standard conversion formula?"

Roland’s lips parted, but no words came out.

’In his world, that question didn’t even exist.’

The life of a noble and the life of a commoner were never meant to be weighed on the same scales.

Velin’s question was a subversion of the very principles he believed in.

"It seems there isn’t," Velin answered for him. "You may stay here for a few days. Walk around, have a look, and we can discuss this topic again."

"Barrett, please show Knight Roland to a guest room. He’s had a long journey and must be tired."

The Captain of the Guard stepped forward and gestured for Roland to follow.

Roland followed Barrett mechanically down the corridor, his mind consumed by Velin’s piercing question.

’It’s like asking how many pet dogs’ lives are worth one human life.’

’Of course, the human life is more important, but if you had to slaughter a thousand dogs to save it, even an ordinary person would feel a pang of pity.’

Just as he was lost in these unsettling thoughts, a servant led him to his guest room. Roland stopped, stunned once again.

There was no soft velvet carpet on the floor.

No intricately carved wooden bed.

No tapestries bearing a family crest.

And certainly no crystal decanters filled with fine wine.

There was only a hard plank bed, a sturdy square table, and a single chair.

Everything was clean and tidy. It wasn’t shabby, but it lacked even a hint of stately elegance.

On the table, several neatly arranged pamphlets had replaced the collections of poetry or epic tales one would typically find in a noble’s guest room.

He picked up the one on top.

*Fiefdom Safety Regulations (Second Edition)*

He opened the second.

*A General Guide to Earning and Redeeming Merit Points*

Roland picked up the *Merit Points* guide. The rough paper and the smell of ink were unfamiliar to him.

He flipped to a page. The text was clear and concise.

Roland continued to flip through, page after page.

The more he read, the more his shock and disbelief grew.

There was no loyalty, no devotion, no honor.

There were only cold rules, clear-cut transactions, and naked desire.

’This lord... he’s not ruling a fief, he’s running a massive workshop.’

’His people aren’t subjects in need of protection, but a horde of employees working themselves to the bone.’

Roland placed the pamphlet back on the table and walked to the window.

Outside, the whole of Newly Town was ablaze with light. The sounds of hammering and work chants merged into a torrent, filled with a raw, almost barbaric vitality.

This noble was unlike any he had ever met.

’A Level 5 Magical Beast... Can this Shiyan Town truly be defended?’

He was getting curious. Gazing at the bright moon, he decided to stay for a while.

The moonlight shone down upon the Duchy, from its western reaches to its eastern shores.

Late at night, Ola was still galloping furiously.

His heart pounded like a drum. The draft horse beneath him was on its fourth lather of sweat, steam rising from its body into the cool night air.

He had traveled by boat for three days and ridden for two days and two nights straight, only stopping in towns to buy fresh mounts.

Velin’s plan echoed in his mind. The "Dwarven Wind Crossbow" was the key to controlling the giant serpent. Without it, the entire plan would collapse at the second stage.

He couldn’t waste a single second.

On the morning of the third day, the grey-black silhouette of a city emerged on the horizon.

Qishi City, a Free City in Donglu Province.

Unlike human cities that spread outward, this one burrowed downward like a mole.

Its buildings were low and solid, built from massive stones or hewn directly from the mountain rock. There were no soaring spires, only thick walls and a wide gate. Carved upon the gate was a large, unadorned Rune—Six Peaks Mountain, the ancestral home of the mountain Dwarves.

Nearing the gate, the air grew thick and pungent with the smells of coal, sulfur, metal, and ale—all aromas beloved by the Dwarves.

But the smell made Ola’s throat tighten. He hadn’t smelled it in over a decade.

The guards glanced at his road-worn appearance and the Baron’s insignia at his waist, then waved him through.

Here, over a third of the population was comprised of Dwarves. They wore leather aprons and carried hammers, gathering on stone benches outside taverns to carouse, their laughter booming like thunder.

Ola confidently turned down a narrow side street he knew well, where the smell of coal smoke grew even thicker.

He stopped before an unmarked shop. The soot-blackened relief of a hammer and anvil on the lintel was just as he remembered, and the rust on the door hinges was as stubborn as memory itself.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

TING-A-LING— A small brass bell on the door chimed.

The shop was dim, lit only by the flickering red glow of a forge.

A bare-chested Dwarf stood before an anvil, his corded, bronze-muscled arms swinging a great hammer. Each blow landed squarely on a red-hot sword blank, sending a brilliant shower of sparks into the air.

"Uncle," Ola said, his voice hoarse.

The Dwarf didn’t stop. The rhythm of his hammering remained perfectly steady.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG... The rhythm echoed through the smoke-filled room.

The sword blank was quenched for the last time with a sharp HISS.

Bolin plunged the red-hot Longsword into the quenching oil, releasing a plume of acrid white smoke.

Without a glance at the newly forged weapon, he casually tossed it onto a rack.

He turned slowly. The wrinkles on the Dwarf’s face were deep-set, and his thick, braided beard was bound with copper rings against his chest.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Bolin’s voice was ice-cold. "Heh. A rare visitor."

Ola seemed uncomfortable. "Uncle, I..."

"’Uncle’?" Bolin cut him off. "I’m not worthy of the title. Years ago, on a snowy night, my apprentice stole my war axe, Skull Smasher, and vanished without a trace."

He scrutinized Ola. "I thought the outside world had swallowed you whole long ago. I never expected you’d actually use my ’Skull Smasher’ to carve out a Baron’s title for yourself in the human world."

His eyes held a complex mix of emotions: resentment over the theft and the unannounced departure, but also an affirmation, born of his Dwarven blood, for the boy’s tenacious struggle to survive.

Ola remembered his childhood. The bullying, being called a "half-breed," the kindness of his uncle who took him in, and the guilt over his own actions all tangled together, leaving his throat dry.