Pioneer Lord: I Have Conquering System

“They’re doing even better than I imagined.”

Speaking of which, Jos couldn’t help but sing their praises.

“Lord Levi, I know the Great Monks would condemn me for saying this, but I have to admit, these people are natural-born slaves. It’s no wonder their entire race is enslaved in the Persian Gulf Empire.”

They ate more than the Goblins and Kobolds, but they certainly worked faster and harder. The most critical reason, however, was the need for a Cowhide Whip soaked in saltwater.

‘So they’re good at everything, huh…’ the Lord muttered. He hadn’t expected that on top of picking cotton, these Black People would also be expert miners. It was quite a surprise.

As they walked into the Iron Ore Camp, the full scope of the iron mine unfolded before them.

The winding valley looked like a wound carved open by a Giant Axe. As far as the eye could see, thousands of vine-woven helmets swarmed over the ore deposits, like a colony of black ants gnawing at the earth.

The clang of metal on rock echoed through the mountain forests. Rhythmic work chants, interspersed with the sharp ring of steel, made the very air vibrate with a low hum.

The Black miners worked with hunched backs, sparks flying with every rise and fall of their pickaxes. Kobolds pushed sheet-iron carts—a design developed by the Lord—weaving between the ore deposits. The now-disciplined goblin miners, carrying baskets on their backs, dumped load after load of iron ore into the carts. The ore was then hauled to several large, newly constructed warehouses to await shipment to High Cliff Castle once a sufficient amount was gathered.

Dutiful Federation Sentinels manned the watchtowers.

They hadn’t needed so many guards before. The Kobolds and goblin miners had been remarkably self-disciplined, knowing that the alternative was being kicked out of the camp to survive on their own in the Wilderness. After all, if one of them wouldn’t work, there was always another Goblin who would.

It was only with the arrival of the Black slaves, who spent their days scheming up ways to shirk their duties, that they had to increase the number of guards and supervisors armed with Cowhide Whips.

Braving the cold wind, the group entered Jos’s cabin. Levi had barely sat down before he asked, “What are their working hours?”

The iron mine had played an undeniable role in High Cliff Castle’s development. It not only allowed them to produce their own high-quality, standard-issue equipment, but the weapons trade also brought in a fortune in Gold Coins. For these reasons, the Lord was deeply invested in its operation.

“I only have Green Rattan Tea, I hope that’s alright.” The firewood crackling in the hearth warmed the entire room. Jos calmly took off his Bear Coat, hung it on a wooden rack, and poured everyone a cup of hot tea before answering. “They mostly work from sunrise to sunset. And since mining is such physically demanding work, we have them work for five days and then rest for two, in rotating shifts.”

“Jos, my friend, compared to the boss, you’re practically a benevolent Knight.” Zat chugged the tea as if it were cheap ale and gave a thumbs-up.

“Can’t you keep your mouth shut even when you’re drinking?” The Lord didn’t hesitate to give the Beastman a sharp smack on the back of the neck.

The slaves at High Cliff Castle, on the other hand, were subject to his ‘enhanced 996 work-is-a-blessing’ schedule. They didn’t get a single day off, and they had to wake up before the chickens and go to bed after the dogs.

It wasn’t that he was completely heartless. High Cliff Castle was undergoing a massive overhaul, so a grueling pace was inevitable. But while the work was exhausting, he never skimped on their food, clothing, or housing.

“Alright. You handle it as you see fit.” Levi didn’t offer any further direction on the matter.

Jos was managing the place perfectly well; it would be inappropriate for him to meddle.

As a leader, his job was to set the general direction. As long as that was sound, there was no need to micromanage. Doing so would only be counterproductive.

…

Leaden clouds, thick with a bone-chilling cold, stampeded across the sky above the Kas Mountain Range like a routed cavalry.

The howling north wind tore at the pines, driving shards of ice into every crevice of the Tribe’s settlement.

The Bear Claw Tribe was huddled in a rugged mountain hollow. Its few hundred crooked, hide-covered pine huts were scattered haphazardly through the forest, resembling a collection of gnawed-on animal bones.

Women wrapped in old bearskins, with emaciated infants strapped to their backs, hunched over to chip at the ice in a frozen creek. Beneath their ragged furs, their ankles were exposed, frozen a deep, purplish-red.

The men, who should have been out hunting, huddled around a bonfire where an iron pot hung, rubbing their hands and blowing on them for warmth. The flickering flames cast skeletal shadows across their gaunt faces.

The slings hanging at their waists were frayed with wear, and the edges of their Stone Axes were chipped and jagged. Ever since the heavy snows sealed off the mountains, the forest’s last few snow hares had disappeared ten days prior. They were about to run out of food.

No one could have predicted how strange the weather would be for the past two years. As a result, the Tribe’s food stores wouldn’t last the winter. It had simply gone on for too long…

Children wrapped in stiff weasel pelts huddled in their mothers’ arms, their empty stomachs spasming as they swallowed saliva.

“Throw the rest of the potatoes into the stew!” the old Chieftain’s hoarse roar cut through the biting wind.

The gray wolf tooth necklace he wore—a symbol of honor—dangled against his gaunt collarbones as he coughed.

A few sallow, emaciated women with trembling hands untied a bundle made of bark. Frostbitten, blackened potatoes tumbled into the stew, slowly turning to mush. The surrounding Northern Old People stared, their eyes filled with desperate longing.

Normally, even in a blizzard, the men would be out hunting and the women would be digging through the snow for buried pinecones, all to keep the Tribe’s children from starving. The harvest might be small, but at least they wouldn’t be forced to sit by and watch their precious food stores dwindle day after day.