Lord: Starting with Biological Modification

Three days later, Velin and his entourage began their journey back to the Grey Marsh Territory.

Unlike the party of three on the journey there, the returning caravan was a magnificent procession, stretching for nearly half a mile.

At the core of the caravan were Velin, Ola, and Tristan.

Following closely behind were wagons loaded with various Magic Seeds, alchemy equipment, and rare ores, as well as a contingent of well-trained, stern-faced servants and guards personally assigned by Marquis Lorenzo for his son.

Caroline had already departed ahead of them. Trusting Velin, she had returned to Tarry Port before the council’s resolution was even passed. Taking with her new orders and strategic plans, she was to mobilize the full might of her merchant guild to purchase and build new ships for the coming naval battle.

The caravan had been out of the Royal Capital for barely a day, yet the nobles along the route were already astonished by the massive procession.

"Heavens, whose caravan is that? Such disciplined guards, and those servants bearing the Lorenzo family crest... Could some Count be traveling?"

A sharp-eyed noble cried out in surprise from a castle by the road.

When they learned that the master of this procession was merely the Baron of the Grey Marsh Territory—a man who had been obscure until recently—they all fell silent.

This silence quickly transformed into an almost fanatical wave of flattery and hospitality.

In the noble circles of the Duchy, Velin’s name was now a rising star, ascending with unstoppable momentum.

Dinner invitations flew in like snowflakes.

Countless noble ladies in their most glamorous gowns fluttered around Velin like butterflies.

A primal desire glinted in their sparkling eyes.

Both overtly and covertly, they hinted at their desire to spend a night with the young Baron, hoping for a chance to snare this man of limitless potential with a single night of passion.

However, Velin merely responded with polite nods, uninterested in such matters.

’Marrying anyone less than the legitimate daughter of a Marquis while my career is still on the rise wouldn’t be a political alliance,’ he thought.

’It would be a political trap.’

But this restraint and detachment, so rare at social gatherings, created a unique charm that only made the noble ladies more infatuated.

Midway through their journey, a sincerely worded letter was delivered to the head of the caravan.

The sender was Baron Gelan, the lord of this territory. He cordially invited Velin and his party to a banquet he was hosting that evening, hoping to make the acquaintance of the young Baron whose fame was rapidly growing.

The evening’s banquet was quite lavish.

The long tables were draped with silk tablecloths from the East, laden with roasted lamb, honey-glazed ham, and all sorts of rare fruits. In a corner, a bard plucked out poems of praise on his instrument.

After several rounds of wine, the host, Baron Gelan, approached Velin, who was seated to his left. The Baron held his goblet, his face etched with worry.

"Your Excellency Klein, a toast to you." He sighed. "To be perfectly honest, I invited you today not only out of admiration for your reputation, but also to ask for your advice on a difficult problem."

"Oh?" Velin gestured for him to continue.

"News of your accomplishments in the Royal Capital has spread throughout the Duchy, and the Grey Marsh Territory is flourishing under your governance. But my territory... sigh. The bandit problem is getting worse and worse. I’ve intensified my efforts to crack down on them—I hanged a whole group not long ago—but my tax revenue just keeps shrinking every year. I can barely afford to pay my guards anymore."

Baron Gelan’s voice was filled with confusion and anguish.

Hearing this, Velin’s fingers, holding his wine goblet, paused for a fraction of a second.

He exchanged a glance with Ola, who was beside him.

A flash of mutual understanding passed between them.

’So, it’s him.’

Velin’s expression remained neutral. He didn’t expose the Baron’s predicament directly, but simply said in a level voice, "Baron Gelan, there may be a simple way to alleviate your problem somewhat."

"What way?" Baron Gelan instantly perked up, leaning forward.

"During the summer and autumn tax seasons, randomly select one village."

Velin spoke as if he were discussing some trivial matter.

"Then, go to that village yourself and accompany your tax collectors. You don’t have to do anything special. Just be there, watch, and chat with your people about the weather and the harvest."

Baron Gelan was stunned. He never expected such an answer.

’Accompany the tax collectors? Chat with those dirt farmers?’

’What good would that do?’

But as he looked into Velin’s clear, calm, amber eyes, he couldn’t help but feel that this seemingly simple suggestion held a profound meaning he couldn’t yet grasp.

When the banquet concluded, Baron Gelan arranged for Velin’s party to be given the most comfortable guest rooms.

Inside the room, a servant brought in black tea to help them sober up.

Ola took a large gulp and could no longer hold back. He lowered his voice, "Velin, is this the town we passed through on our way here?"

"The very one," Velin confirmed with a nod.

Tristan, who had been quiet the whole time, looked over curiously.

Velin then briefly recounted what he’d seen when they passed through this area on their journey: how the "bandits" on the gallows were actually farmers with no other way out, and his analysis of the "lose-lose situation."

Tristan listened quietly, his brow furrowed in deep thought for a long while.

"This is indeed a dilemma that most nobles face," Tristan admitted.

"A lord can’t possibly monitor every tax collector. Above the collectors are the stewards, and above them are the managers. Corruption exists at every level, and it’s impossible to stamp out. If you rely on men to watch other men, you just end up in an endless cycle of oversight."

He had accurately pinpointed the core of the problem.

Velin gave him an approving glance.

"Exactly. Which is why this will be your first task after you take office as mayor of Mi Port."

Tristan sat up straighter.

Velin beckoned him closer, gesturing for him to lean in.

As Tristan looked on with a hint of confusion, Velin whispered his solution in a voice only the two of them could hear.

When he finished speaking, Tristan’s pupils constricted violently.

He snapped his head up, his gaze filled with utter disbelief as he stared at Velin.

It was a shock that overturned everything he had ever known.

But after the initial shock, his eyes began to shine with an unprecedented brilliance.

"You can use the rest of the journey to think about how you’ll implement this. Prepare a report for me once we reach Mi Port."

Tristan didn’t say a word, only nodded emphatically.

In that moment, the caged eagle had finally seen a sky he could call his own.

The rest of the journey became a near-constant repeat of that evening’s banquet.

Every lord along the route, great or small, sent messengers bearing gifts or extending enthusiastic invitations for Velin to attend a banquet.

Velin was no longer just the "Swamp Baron" from some remote territory.

To these nobles, great and small, he had become a rising star in the Duchy’s political scene.

His reputation as "progressive" and "wise" spread rapidly through the middle and upper echelons of the Duchy, carried by countless letters and banquet conversations.

From the mansion of the Marquis of the Iron Wall, it was said that the sound of shattering porcelain could be heard daily.

The carriage rolled smoothly along the winter road.

Outside the carriage window lay a continuous stream of congratulations and respect.

Inside the carriage, however, Velin simply sat and calmly read a report on the Grey Marsh Territory.

To him, all this external praise was merely a byproduct of progress and development.

The real challenge awaited him on the seas to the south.