The sun had just leaped over the treetops when Dorian, already finished with breakfast, leisurely strolled into the labor camp. This was his first visit to such a place since taking over Fort Cyrus a few days ago. Along with inheriting the Snow Fox's territory, he had also taken in over a hundred laborers working the mines.

On the continent, slavery existed to varying degrees, overtly or covertly, in many nations. The highest class of slaves included exquisite elven maidens and renowned warriors, while lower classes consisted of various skilled artisans. Laborers were the lowest of all slaves, often without any skills, relegated to the most dangerous, exhausting, and filthy jobs. The hierarchy among slaves was straightforward and direct: based on their ability to create value for their masters.

Corresponding to their status, labor camps were typically the dirtiest and most rundown areas. Laborers were marked for life with a brand on their faces. Escaping was not a viable option, as captured runaways would belong to their captors, with the original owner having the right to buy them back for a reasonable price. Those reclaimed were typically executed in front of other laborers to serve as a deterrent. Despite this, large-scale escapes occurred from time to time, with numerous smaller attempts.

In the year 650 of the Holy Calendar, the laborers staged the largest rebellion in continental history, numbering 700,000 and even overthrowing a minor Duchy of kingdom's king. However, the uncontrollable laborers not only killed all the nobles but also the clergy of the Holy Church in that kingdom. Pope Paul VII then convened a coalition of 12 nations, totaling 100,000 troops, and dispatched 5,000 Templar Knights, led by the youngest Holy Knight of the church, Augustus, to suppress these abandoned by the gods.

When sheep face lions armed to the teeth, neither numbers nor resolve matter, especially when facing a pride of lions. In July of that year, Augustus led the Templars to six victorious battles, granting no quarter. By the end of the month, they had slaughtered all 700,000 rebellious laborers, in an event known as the Red July. Augustus earned the moniker "Blood Angel."

Just as Dorian stepped into the labor camp, he was nearly knocked over by a stench that assaulted his senses, preventing him from finishing his contemplation of the laborers' history from the "Continental Chronicle." He glanced around angrily. The camp was filled with low, dilapidated shacks that seemed worse than animal dens, with streams of multicolored sewage flowing everywhere, emitting the foul odor.

The laborers, already up, were standing in line for breakfast. In the center of the camp, a giant iron pot was simmering with a grayish-green porridge-like substance. A large, burly overseer was ladling the "porridge" into bowls for the laborers. Dorian, frowning, approached the pot and almost gagged at the smell emanating from it. He took the ladle from the overseer, inspected a scoop of the mixture, and saw it was a sticky, gray-green soup with uncut leaves floating in it. A bubble rose to the surface, bringing with it a cooked insect. Dorian's stomach churned, and he quickly averted his gaze, only to see the laborers staring at the "meat" with shining eyes, their Adam's apples moving up and down.

Dorian's face darkened as he glared at the overseer. "Who is responsible for preparing the food for these laborers?"

Sensing trouble, the overseer replied, "I am, sir."

"You handle everything from buying the supplies to cooking?"

"Yes, sir."

"Damn it! I spend ten gold coins every month, and this is what you feed them? Tell me, how much have you embezzled?" Dorian kicked the overseer to the ground and continued to kick him in a rage until a few other overseers pulled him away.

The overseer, wiping blood off his face with a defiant look, said, "Sir, your manager Nila only gives me four gold coins a month. If you want to blame someone, blame him. Besides," he glanced around menacingly, causing the laborers to shrink back, "these pigs! I'm already generous enough to feed them on half a gold coin a month!"

Dorian, trembling with anger, looked at the two overseers holding him back. They quickly let go and stepped aside. Dorian took a deep breath and said, "It seems you are all in this together. I can't believe you dared to stop me on my own land. Heh, heh."

The overseer, ignoring Dorian's threat, said, "Sir, I am Guta, the son of Ian, the mayor of Le Mans. These men are all from our town. You know there are no other people around Fort Cyrus. If you drive us away, you won't find anyone else to do this work. You wouldn't bring people from Lille or Fort Farle for such menial jobs, would you? Besides, why dirty your hands over these lowest of the low? Leave it to us. How about this, from now on, you only pay six gold coins a month for these pigs."

It was clear that the other overseers followed Guta's lead. Dorian remained silent for a moment, then sighed, "Alright. But the mine's output is insufficient. If you feed them like this, how will they have the strength to work?"

Guta laughed, "Don't worry, leave it to me. I'll make sure they work like mad boars. Even the Snow Fox relied on me."

Guta's laughter was cut short by a grunt. His face turned purple-red as he clutched his groin and fell. Behind him stood Dorian, smirking. Satisfied with his move, Dorian felt pleased with his agility, a skill honed from a recent life-and-death battle. Dealing with a non-magical, non-combatant like Guta was a breeze.

The other overseers, sensing trouble, seemed ready to rush in. Dorian sneered, "If any of you think you've lived too long, try it. A noble killing a few people on his land is no big deal. If you attack me, a noble, your whole family could be exiled!" Dorian cursed himself inwardly; there wasn't any place more desolate than here for exile.

The overseers looked at each other and then surrounded them. Dorian remained calm and stepped on Guta's ankle, channeling his inner energy. With a loud "crack," Guta's bones were crushed. Guta screamed like a pig being slaughtered, causing the other overseers to panic. Dorian lifted Guta's head and pressed his face against the still burning pot. A wisp of light smoke rose, and Guta fainted after just two screams. Dorian threw Guta in front of the overseers. By now, half of his face was charred and bloody.

After witnessing the carnage a few days prior, Dorian felt indifferent to the scene. The overseers, however, were visibly shaken. Dorian pointed to the most trembling of them. "You, from tomorrow, you're in charge here. You'll get ten gold coins a month, and you'd better feed these laborers till they're as strong as oxen! As for this trash," Dorian kicked Guta's unconscious body towards them, "he thinks the laborers are pigs? Tomorrow, he'll work alongside them! Brand him!"

One overseer hesitantly said, "Sir, he's the mayor's son. If we do this, the townspeople might be displeased with you." Dorian laughed coldly, staring him down until the overseer, sweating profusely, nodded repeatedly.

"Do as I say! Any of you who are unhappy with it can take his place! You think you can team up to give me a hard time, huh? Trying to start high and then haggle down? Damn it, if you piss me off again, you'll all be working in the labor camp tomorrow!" Dorian barked, spinning around and storming out of the labor camp. His anger festered as he walked, "Ian, you old bastard, I haven't even settled the last score with you, and now your son dares to interfere with my money-making? We'll see about that!"

Night fell over Fort Cyrus, with the stars flickering in the cold wind. Deep autumn made the mountainous night feel desolate. A few unknown autumn insects chirped, adding to the melancholy of the scene. The mountain villagers were already nestled in their warm beds, rolling around contentedly, imagining those still toiling on the roads, and feeling their beds were infinitely warm. Men and women in the village had begun their simple, vigorous amusements, testing the sturdiness of their beds, disturbing countless insects and even the occasional wandering mouse.

A shadow flitted out of Fort Cyrus. A gust of cold wind made the figure shiver even more, muttering curses under his breath. Unintentionally, he became a benchmark for happiness, highlighting the comfort of those hiding in their beds. But his public spirit brought him no luck; as he hastened towards Le Mans, three bandits ambushed him. Shocked, he hadn't expected such dedicated thieves in this remote area. Seeing the odds were against him, he was about to offer his money when one bandit struck him from behind, knocking him out. They swiftly stuffed him into a sack and carried him back to Fort Cyrus.

The shadowy figure had a strange dream, swimming in the depths of winter. Naturally, he woke up quickly, chilled to the bone. He looked down to find himself drenched, as if he had just been pulled from the water. Looking up, he saw a sinister, small man holding an empty bucket. Realization dawned, and he noticed the room with several chairs occupied by young nobles. Around them stood mercenaries, their faces marked by malice, staring at him with ill intent. Cold sweat poured down his back, and a sharp pain flared in his head.

"Our dear overseer, you're certainly earning your pay, working so late," Reginald sneered. "Who'd be in a good mood after being dragged out of bed at this hour?"

"What's his name again? Ah, Mr. Toffler! Your name has a noble ring to it," Tristan added. "May I ask what urgent business brought you out so late? Of course, you can choose to tell us later, making this night a bit more entertaining."

Toffler stared in terror at the mercenaries, who were expertly handling various torture devices, the charcoal brazier already glowing. He shouted, "I was going to check on my sick wife in town!" But no one heeded his cries. The nobles continued to critique his physique, while the diligent mercenaries made final preparations.

The art of interrogation is vast and profound. Whipping and burning are basic; breaking the spirit is the true mastery. The Dragon and Beauty mercenary group was a motley crew—soldiers, bandits, thugs, ruffians, and many veteran mercenaries. In chaotic times, the line between mercenary and bandit was thin. Entering a city as mercenaries, leaving as bandits was common. Thus, Dragon and Beauty had many skilled torturers. While they weren't masters, they were more than capable of dealing with ordinary people.

Hearing that Dorian planned to interrogate a prisoner tonight, the mercenaries eagerly volunteered. The nobles picked six men for the job. These six were impressive; even before starting, their preparations made Toffler sweat profusely. "I'm telling the truth! Let me go! What are you going to do?"

Tristan approached, his handsome face looking devilish to Toffler. "You're very cooperative. Otherwise, wouldn't our preparations be wasted? The night is still young."

Toffler panicked, "Wait! I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"

"Shut up!" the mercenaries roared.

"You'll talk after a round of torture. Show some backbone," Dorian said, peeling a banana.

A bearded mercenary began unbuckling Toffler's belt. The overseer howled, "I'm going to warn Ian to lead the townspeople to rescue the old tower and then petition the capital!"

The nobles exchanged glances. Reginald smirked, "Do you think we're children? Trying to scare us away? Tell us, how many Snow Fox members are in Le Mans?"

Toffler shivered, "S-Snow Fox?"

"Looks like this night won't be dull," someone chuckled.

"Indeed."

With their boss present, the mercenaries were eager to show off. The six surrounded Toffler, beginning their work. A cold iron wire barely touched his skin when Toffler let out a blood-curdling scream, making one mercenary drop the wire in fright. Sensing his chance, Toffler urgently spilled everything he knew about Snow Fox, including details about a notable figure in Le Mans.

In a life-or-death situation, Toffler's survival instincts and wit sharpened to a keen edge. He quickly identified what interested the nobles, repeating the Snow Fox names and embellishing scandals about the notable figure. His tales were wickedly detailed, covering every vice imaginable. The scribe recorded fervently while the nobles listened, nodding in approval.

Finally, Toffler's accusations ended, leaving the audience wanting more. The scribe presented the thick record for Toffler to sign, which he did without hesitation. The nobles reviewed it with sinister smiles, praising Toffler's talent and lamenting his position as an overseer. Just escaping his ordeal, Toffler was overjoyed by the praise, feeling as if he were in paradise.

Dorian, having read the report, shook his head, thinking, "Where do these rebels come from? Truly, oppression breeds resistance. Old man, it seems you're the real mastermind."