Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest-Chapter 269 - 5: Interview

"When will the witches stop wandering?" Roman asked her.

The Nightmare Witch was struck dumb for a moment.

She had been asking herself the same question.

So had the other witches.

But they were a forest on the move, never able to grow their own roots.

"Until the end of life." Her voice was soft, not scared to face the answer.

Roman’s chest puffed up instantly, as he took in a breath.

Closed his eyes, opened them, spread his hands, started to speak, then stopped, not knowing what to say.

"Is that it?"

Shasta suddenly wasn’t sure of his stance—as if Edith were here, she might have been able to glimpse a corner of his heart.

"Yes, that’s it."

"Witches! You disappoint me, you have neither program nor plan... Ah, why am I telling you this, looking at you, I thought you’d be smarter."

Shasta blinked.

She did have a face that seemed shrewder and more capable.

Roman suppressed his exasperation, "Let’s put it another way, if I enable you to stop your wanderings, how would you repay me?"

"...Can you do it?"

Roman shook his finger and said, "Don’t answer a question with a question, it’s disrespectful to me—it’s my business whether I can do it or not, it has nothing to do with you."

Shasta was both amused and annoyed by this arrogant and unreasonable statement.

She said, "As long as you don’t send us to our deaths, we can do anything."

"Then your demands are few."

"Because even that is out of reach."

"Nothing else you desire? I would think the Witch Forest would have more grandiose goals."

"Those grand visions have long dissipated, we’re just losers..." Shasta’s face turned somber.

Roman had had some unpleasantness with her before.

But he had to admit, back then she truly possessed a mysterious and elegant charm, dangerous like a rose with thorns.

And now, she seemed like a bitch with a broken spine, still struggling, yet with a sense of resigned submission.

"Then offer me your loyalty, as long as you obey me, I will protect you. This promise is forever valid, how does that sound?"

Shasta looked intently at him.

She really wanted to say the Church Court will not let you off, the Silver Moon Lord is a warning to you, you don’t know how many believers the Church Court has, the Black Iron King will also pressure you, you can’t resist their endless assaults...

But in the end, she just said,

"I need to discuss this with my sisters."

...

The only reason for the witches’ failure.

Was that their fists weren’t big enough, lacking the power to overturn the table.

They were fundamentally a formal organization reformed after the dissolution of the court witches, with a comparatively intact organizational structure.

Quite strong, but not that strong.

To say they weren’t strong is relative to the whole earth.

To say they were strong is because Roman thought the Witch Forest that Shasta spoke of could carry off a Black Iron Duke and his power—this was no joke.

He could also understand now the weight of what Shasta said two years ago about calling a few witches to visit him.

Forget his initial arrival at Sige Town, even Origin City at present couldn’t accommodate the Witch Forest.

Too big, simply unbearable.

Whether he could still control Origin City was another matter.

But Origin City and the Witch Forest had no conflicting interests.

Roman needed the witches as his support.

If he could have both, why walk alone?

Now it was even easier to negotiate.

Like stray dogs with nowhere to go, Roman took them in, he just had to provide dog food and a doghouse.

But these fellows were different from other slaves, Roman had to inspect them personally.

There were seventeen witches in total, who followed Shasta to Origin Manor.

Six seriously injured, seven with minor injuries, and five in better condition.

No delicate ladies, what Roman saw was a band of ragged Beggar Gang members.

Among them all, Shasta looked somewhat better, her black robe was not too noticeably dirty, showing she cared more for cleanliness.

"Ey, someone’s actually willing to take us in, and it’s a lad from the Riptide Family no less. You’ve got more heart than Alster."

The witches’ conversations were noisy, like a flock of ducks.

Roman watched the scene before him coldly and said, "This is an interview! Anyone who doesn’t satisfy me can get out! Of course, it’s a two-way choice, so if anyone finds me unsatisfactory, they can also get out!"

His words had an immediate effect.

The chaotic scene fell suddenly silent.

Some witches may be ill-mannered, crude, uneducated, and foul-mouthed like they were raised by whores.

But they weren’t fools.

Those who went against noble authority never ended well.

They had come here mainly because they believed Shasta wouldn’t lead them to their doom.

The severely injured witches were sent to the hospital; the selected nuns and medics would tend to their wounds, and they’d talk when their conditions improved.

So there were only twelve witches present, of varying heights, standing in a row.

Roman somehow felt like he was choosing a princess.

"From left to right, answer whatever I ask," Roman said as he pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil.

"Name?"

"Gwen," the witch smirked.

"Age?"

"Oh, my Lord, would you rather I tell you about all the men I’ve had?"

Roman immediately threw the pencil away.

Smack!

It hit her right in the forehead!

Gwen stood lazily, the pencil sliding off.

"My lord, she’s just a crazy hag. Why don’t you ask me instead? My name’s Monica," another witch said ingratiatingly as she picked up the pencil from the floor and placed it earnestly back on the table.

Roman looked at her: "Did I ask you to speak?"

Monica shrugged, "No."

Shasta was fuming, glancing at Margaret.

Margaret, in her blood-red dress with her hair disheveled, said lightly, "Have you had enough?"

Instantly, an even quieter hush fell over the room.

The previously disorderly witches all stood up straight, their expressions solemn.

Roman glanced at Margaret in surprise.

"62 years old," Gwen said honestly.

"What are you good at?"

"Defensive Magic. You may come from the Riptide, but your archery is unlikely to scratch me."

Roman lost interest in her.

"Next."

"My name is Edith."

"Age?"

"39 years old."

"What are you good at?"

"Reading minds, I guess. I can catch some fuzzy thoughts."

Roman asked, "Do you know what I’m thinking?"

Edith said with a giggle, "Heh, of course. You think we’re all a bunch of dumbasses!"

Roman turned and left on the spot.

It wasn’t long before he returned.

Edith said with regret, "Ah, you’ve got some Amber on you, and more than one piece at that. Now I can’t read anything."

"Next."

"Margaret."

"Age?"

"I can’t quite remember." She said.

Shasta interjected, "She’s 34 years old. Margaret is the youngest Seat Witch of the Witch Forest."

"What are you good at?"

"Blood Magic. I can hear the wails of souls; the Netherworld is calling for them..." Margaret placed her hand to her ear, as if listening.

Roman took another look at her, but he had no time to delve deeper and continued to make identity records for the witches.