Chapter 231 - 226: Spiritual Poverty
The chill of deep winter had not faded one bit despite the daylight sun. Instead, as the sun slanted west, it grew even more bone-piercing.
Velin and Old Walker walked side-by-side on the streets of Newly Town.
It had long since become a neat and beautiful little town.
The flat, white stone-brick roads were wide and clean, flanked by row after row of small, courtyard-style buildings. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, weaving together under the sky to create a scene of hearth and home.
The streets bustled with people. The townspeople wore thick, new clothes of coarse cloth, and some from more well-off families even had on dyed felt cloaks.
The hunger and terror that marked their faces upon arrival were gone, replaced by affluence and... complacency.
A young artisan who had just received his merit point bonus was loudly showing off a new silver ring he’d bought for his wife, drawing envious gazes from those around him.
A few children chased each other by the side of the street, holding malt sugar figures.
Velin said nothing, his gaze sweeping over both sides of the street.
This was the very prosperity he had built with his own hands.
However, on the B-side of this prosperity, a few dissonant notes were quietly being played.
In front of "Brothers, Boars, and Booze," two men, their faces flushed from drinking, were shoving each other and slurring curses. A woman in a coarse cotton coat rushed out of the tavern and tried to pull one of them away, only to be pushed to the ground, which drew a wave of derisive laughter from the onlookers.
Velin stopped and watched the scene.
The guards arrived quickly and hauled the two drunkards away. The crowd of onlookers dispersed, as if it had all been just a harmless farce.
"Is there a limit on the ale that can be exchanged for merit points?" Velin’s voice was calm.
"There is, my lord," Old Walker replied. "A maximum of two cups per person per day. But there are always some who use their accumulated merit points to buy the quotas from those who don’t drink."
They continued on, turning into a small alley.
The light was dimmer here. A group of men were gathered around an overturned wooden crate, the atmosphere both feverish and tense.
"Place your bets, place your bets! High or low!"
A man slammed a merit point plaque onto the crate, his eyes bloodshot as he roared, "I’m betting my entire woodworking order for next month! I refuse to believe my luck is this bad!"
With a frustrated curse and a burst of triumphant, mocking laughter, the crowd parted slightly.
Velin saw a dejected man handing his merit point plaque to the bookie, a brutish-looking man with a fleshy face.
Velin’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
’My original intention in establishing the merit point system was to quantify the value of labor and stimulate productivity.
But now, that very system has become chips on a gambling table.’
"We’ve issued anti-gambling ordinances as well," Old Walker’s voice chimed in at just the right moment. "But they’re not very effective. As soon as the guards leave, they just move somewhere else. There are too many people and not enough patrols to monitor every alley."
As they passed through the residential area, the air, mingled with the aroma of cooking, also carried other sounds.
The second-floor window of a barrel-shaped apartment building was half-open, and from it came the intermittent, stifled sobs of a woman.
"...You took the merit points for the child’s new bed and spent them on drink... You promised me..."
"Shut up! I exceeded my quota this month and earned an extra thirty merit points, so what if I have a few drinks?! Without me, you and the kid would still be in the slums of Shiyan Town eating dirt!"
This was followed by the sharp CRASH of a plate being smashed.
Velin paused, glanced up at the window, and then continued on in silence.
Back when they were struggling to survive in the Gray Marsh, people could summon astonishing unity and perseverance just to stay alive.
Back then, the only enemies were hunger, the bitter cold, and the monsters in the marsh.
’He had solved the problem of material scarcity.
The people were fed, clothed, and even had money to spare.
But once survival was no longer the sole objective, the aspects of human nature that had been suppressed by hunger and the will to live began to resurface in the hotbed of comfort, but in a more twisted form.
This land he had carved out with his own hands was now showing signs of a disease he had never anticipated.’
The two walked back to the Lord’s Mansion in silence.
"My lord, please take a look at this."
Old Walker pulled a thick ledger from a neat stack of documents and flipped it open to a certain page.
"These are the town guard’s dispatch records for the past fifteen days. During this time, they handled forty-two brawls, a sixty-percent increase from the last period. They also mediated thirty-one domestic disputes, which is nearly double the previous period."
He tapped a line in the ledger with his finger.
"The most noteworthy part is here. Ale consumption in the taverns has doubled in the last half-month. According to the logistics department’s records, the proportion of residents’ merit points spent on basic foodstuffs like black bread and salted fish has dropped by ten percent, while the proportion spent on non-essentials like ale, tobacco leaves, and sugar cubes has risen by fifteen percent."
Old Walker closed the ledger and looked up.
"My lord, we solved the problem of food and warmth for everyone before the onset of winter. This is undoubtedly a great success. But it has also brought a new problem."
"When people no longer have to worry about their next meal, they start needing something else to fill their heads."
"In the Royal Capital, the nobles have their poetry gatherings, plays, and hunts. The wealthy merchants have their salons and wine tastings. The commoners, after their work is done, go to church to pray or gather around bards to listen to stories. These activities, whether high-brow or low-brow, provide them with a purpose, a form of spiritual sustenance."
"But here in our domain, all of that is a blank slate."
Old Walker’s tone grew grave.
"After a long day of labor, our residents have nothing to do to pass the time or focus their energy on, other than drinking and gambling. Their spiritual world is still barren."
He paused, as if gathering his thoughts for something more important.
"And this barren land is precisely the fertile ground some people have been longing to see."
"Many people in town are now talking about Priest Fabian. They talk about how he healed a broken bone with a touch of his hand, about his gentle smile and his comforting words. They say this Priest brings the grace of the Lord, that he can wash away their sins and allow them to enter the labor-free Celestial Kingdom after death."
"He is offering those empty minds the simplest and most alluring story."
Silence fell over the study, broken only by the occasional CRACKLE of firewood in the hearth.
Old Walker stood quietly to the side. He had said everything he needed to say.
He watched Velin’s reaction with some nervousness, wondering if the young lord would be angry or worried after hearing this bad news.
Velin walked to the window, looking down at Newly Town, which was now speckled with points of light.
After a long moment, he turned around.
There wasn’t the slightest trace of worry on his face.
On the contrary, his wine-red eyes glinted with a light Old Walker knew very well.
It was the light of focus and excitement.
"You’re right, Old Walker."
There was even a hint of delight in Velin’s voice.
"They have full bellies now. But with full bellies, they don’t know what to live for."
"They need a new story."
"A story more captivating, and more tangible, than drinking, gambling, and the holy book."