The Lord Just Wants to Have Fun

The following afternoon, the summoned village chiefs arrived at the lord’s manor one after another.

“Lord, they have all gathered,” reported an attendant.

“Tell them to enter,” Philip ordered.

At his command, the village chiefs poured into the office. Most of them were retired knights or former low-ranking administrators, who not only farmed themselves but also oversaw the villagers, managed agricultural yields, and collected taxes.

Their faces were mixed with concern and anxiety at the unexpected summons.

‘We’ve had a bountiful harvest for the first time in a while, but why did the lord suddenly call us?’

‘Could it be that he plans to increase the waterway and mill usage fees that were reduced during the famine…?’

‘No way! That can’t be it. I’ve heard he’s making plenty of money from the forge and workshops.’

As the chiefs were lost in various speculations, Philip picked up something from his desk and stood up.

“The reason I called you all here is to discuss this year’s harvest. From what I hear, we’ve had an overall abundance…”

After a brief pause, Philip held up the objects in his hands for them to see.

They were ears of wheat.

The one in his right hand was plump and full of well-ripened grains, while the one in his left was comparatively poorer, with some empty husks mixed in.

‘Why is he showing us this…?’

‘Ah!’

Some remained puzzled, while the sharper ones quickly turned pale as realization dawned upon them.

Philip, observing their reactions, continued speaking.

“This well-grown wheat here was harvested from the serfs’ fields, while this weaker batch was taken from the lord’s fields. The quality of the wheat from my fields is far inferior to that of the serfs’ fields.”

Although all land in the domain technically belonged to the lord, the fields were commonly distinguished as “lord’s fields” and “serfs’ fields,” depending on who benefited from the harvest.

“All the fields were cultivated by the same serfs—or rather, the same farmers—so why is there such a difference in quality?”

“We have erred, my lord!”

“We failed to properly oversee the villagers…”

“Please, spare our lives!”

The more quick-witted chiefs immediately dropped to their knees in a panic, and the others followed suit, prostrating themselves on the floor.

Philip waved a hand dismissively. “Enough, get up… Siria! Why are you drawing your sword?!”

Siria, who had been assigned to Philip’s protection in the absence of his husband(?)—who was away on an expedition for knight trainees’ field training and monster hunting—was standing with her sword unsheathed, as if ready to strike down the chiefs at any moment.

“Huh? My lord, weren’t you planning to punish these old geezers? They had the audacity to neglect your fields,” she asked, tilting her head in confusion.

“I’m not killing anyone! I have no intention of executing them, so put your sword away, now!” Philip snapped.

At Siria’s reluctant compliance, the village chiefs let out relieved sighs. Philip then addressed them once more.

“To be honest, I understand the farmers’ reasoning. No matter how much effort they put into cultivating my fields, the yield doesn’t end up on their tables.”

“Ugh… Lord Philip…” one of the chiefs sniffled.

If a serf cultivated ten plots of land, seven parts of the harvest went to the lord, one part was tithed to the temple, and the remaining two parts were what the serfs kept for themselves. Naturally, they prioritized maximizing the yield of the two portions they personally benefited from.

‘Of course, there are also tricks they use…’

For instance, any grains that accidentally fell during harvesting from the lord’s fields were quietly pocketed by the farmers.

Pasture land left fallow could be grazed by their sheep just as freely as the lord’s livestock.

They weren’t allowed to hunt in the lord’s forest, but they could gather acorns or wild fruits to use as livestock feed or personal food reserves.

Additionally, they were sometimes exempt from including certain grains, like barley or buckwheat, in their owed harvest contributions.

‘There are harsher territories than ours, and more lenient ones too… but the key point is that this feudal system—this so-called cooperative farming method—is simply inefficient.’

Hadn’t Jude mentioned it before?

That the inefficient taxation and land system needed to be reformed.

Philip had decided to take this opportunity to make a bold move.

“The current harvest is from the wheat sown in spring, correct? That means it’ll soon be time to plant barley.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” one of the chiefs confirmed.

“Good. In that case…”

Philip paused briefly before throwing the village chiefs a tempting offer.

“I will drastically reduce the lord’s fields and increase the serfs’ fields.”

The chiefs’ eyes widened in shock.

Had they misheard? They exchanged glances in disbelief until one of them cautiously raised a hand.

“I am Hovel, the village chief of Daisy Village. How much are you reducing, and how much will you be giving us?”

Philip leaned back and answered, “I will discuss the details with my retainers before finalizing it, but at the very least, I intend to guarantee that serfs will have access to no less than 50% of all arable land.”

The chiefs gasped.

Fifty percent of all farmland—more than double what they currently had.

And that was just the minimum. There was a possibility that they could receive even more.

‘Is he serious?’

‘Maybe it’s because he’s the Apostle of the Blacksmith God and doesn’t care much about farming…’

‘If this is real, this is huge!’

It wasn’t unheard of for a lord to relinquish some of his land. During times of severe famine, when people were starving en masse or when civil unrest needed to be quelled, small portions of land had been distributed before.

But even then, it had never exceeded ten percent.

And more importantly, no lord had ever been this generous during a time of abundance.

“…But it’s not free, is it?”

Hovel, ever the cautious one, voiced the question that lingered in the air.

Philip responded as if it were obvious.

“Of course not. Nothing in this world is free, and if I stop collecting taxes, this land will be trampled by invaders and monsters alike.”

“Ah, as expected…”

“That’s why I will collect seventy percent of the yield from all serf fields.”

Even if they worked hard, seven parts of every ten harvested would still belong to the lord.

The chiefs murmured amongst themselves. The land would expand, but now even their original serf fields would be subject to taxation.

Some considered it a mere rearrangement of the same burdens, but others, like Hovel, saw the potential.

‘If we take the new land seriously and cultivate it properly…’

‘If a field that used to yield ten sacks of wheat now produces twenty, we get to keep six for ourselves.’

‘That’s far better than scrounging for stray grains after the harvest.’

As they started calculating how to maximize the upcoming barley farming season, Philip’s next words sweetened the deal further.

“The village that takes the lead in this new initiative will receive the most fertile land in the vicinity.”

The moment those words left his lips, the chiefs erupted.

“I’ll do it! Our village will take the challenge!”

“Those fools don’t know the first thing about farming! Give the land to Daisy Village!”

“I want it too! My lord, please consider us!”

What started as a contest of words escalated into chiefs grabbing each other’s collars in a frantic struggle to claim the best land.

Watching the chaos unfold, Philip smiled darkly.

This winter’s barley harvest was going to be interesting.

*****

Woof! Woof!

Near the royal hunting grounds outside Aras, the capital city…

King Lothar III watched as a pack of hunting hounds chased down a fleeing stag.

As the deer bolted across the clearing, the king extended a hand, prompting one of his royal guards to hand him a preloaded crossbow.

Taking aim at the escaping prey, Lothar III pulled the trigger.

Thunk!

The bolt struck the stag squarely in the neck.

“Bullseye, Your Majesty!”

“As expected, your skills as a master marksman remain unmatched!”

Despite the flattery from his retainers, King Lothar III did not seem particularly pleased.

Sigh… If only I were ten years younger, I would have drawn my own bow and shot it myself… But I no longer have the strength for that.

“Your Majesty, considering your age, you are still in excellent health. Please do not be disheartened,” one of his aides reassured him.

“That’s enough. Let’s return to the palace.”

Ending his rare hunting trip, Lothar III and his retinue turned back toward the royal palace.

That evening, Lothar III chewed his venison steak slowly, savoring each bite.

After finishing his meal, he stood before a mirror, studying his reflection.

His face, now deeply wrinkled, was covered in liver spots, and his once-thick hair had turned completely white.

With a long sigh, the king muttered to himself.

‘If I die like this and Karl ascends the throne, the nobles won’t obey him…’

His grandson Karl was still young, and there were those secretly eyeing the throne.

Among them were his cousin, Volzard, and his own daughter, Princess Amelia.

Volzard, a duke, commanded the largest and most powerful military force in the eastern territories of the kingdom.

Meanwhile, Amelia, who had married the third prince of the neighboring kingdom of Vesvallen, had already secured the allegiance of many northern nobles with the backing of Vesvallen’s king and her husband.

‘Tch. If I had known things would turn out like this, I should have dealt with them earlier.’

Volzard should have been locked away in a monastery, and Amelia should have been married off to some distant land.

But it was too late now.

The hunting hound he had once used to keep the eastern nobles in check had grown into a cunning wolf.

The daughter who had vowed to dedicate her life to peace with Vesvallen had become intoxicated with power.

To make matters worse, even the central nobles—who once acted as his hands and feet—were growing hesitant, using his old age as an excuse to quietly refuse his commands.

‘At least I’m still in good health despite my age.’

He wasn’t suffering from any serious illnesses, and he still had the strength to go hunting, as he had earlier today.

‘Three years… No, five more years. If I can just hold on until Karl comes of age… I need to take better care of myself.’

At that thought, a conversation from a few days ago surfaced in his mind.

His royal physician had mentioned something intriguing—somewhere in the western territories, there was a hot spring with extraordinary healing properties.

‘They say it cures everything from skin diseases to joint pain.’

Rumors had already spread among the nobility.

Even Countess Adrienne, who had suffered from excessive sweating and body odor, had reportedly bathed there and emerged completely cured.

‘Those conniving bastards! They kept it to themselves and didn’t even tell their own king!’

Lothar III resolved to visit the hot springs soon.

Just as he made up his mind—

A shadow cast by the crimson moon flickered across the window, and with a faint clatter, the window creaked open.

“Was that the wind?”

The king walked over and shut the window.

Yet, something felt… off.

A strange chill ran down his spine.

‘I don’t like this…’

Then, his gaze returned to the mirror.

And what he saw made his breath hitch.

The mirror wavered like rippling water—

His reflection changed.

Staring back at him was not an old king, but a man with bat-like red eyes and horns curling like a yak’s. His expression was cold and merciless.

‘No…!’

Panicking, Lothar III turned to call for his guards—

But before he could utter a sound—

The figure in the mirror summoned a crimson sword, dripping like fresh blood, and lunged.

“Guhh!”

The blade shot out of the mirror and pierced the king’s heart.

Lothar III shuddered violently before collapsing to the ground.

Yet—

There was no wound on his chest. Not a single drop of blood spilled.

“Your Majesty?! What happened?!”

Hearing his cry, the royal guards burst into the room.

They gasped at the sight of their king lying lifeless on the floor.

Rushing to his side, one knight pressed a hand to his neck, but there was no sign of breathing.

“Fetch the royal physician and the High Priest immediately! Call the chamberlain and the Captain of the Royal Guard as well!”

Moments later, the royal physician and the High Priest arrived in a flurry—

But Lothar III never woke again.

The mirror reflected the frantic figures of the physician, the High Priest, and the confused knights—

And in the far corner, just for an instant, it also reflected the man with crimson eyes and horns.

‘Heh… Everything proceeds according to His will…’

With a final smirk, the sinister figure vanished from the mirror.

The sudden death of King Lothar III sent the Arteria Royal Palace into complete chaos.