School Transmigration: I, Chosen as the Saint by Dragons at the Start-Chapter 166 --The Decaying Dragon Territory

Man needs food as iron needs steel; skip a meal, and the hunger feels real.

Owen pointed at the steamed buns, "Fancy a couple more?"

"Been eating these all the way here, aren’t we fed up yet?" Berkeley grimaced, "Let’s head into town for a meal instead."

Though they could hunt for meat at any time during their journey, their staple food was limited to steamed buns, which they had grown thoroughly tired of.

Just then, the county magistrate arrived, inviting the leaders of both troops to a feast in town, a gesture of welcome for the officers.

Timothos naturally accepted the invitation—why pass up a good thing?

However, he still sought Owen’s opinion, to which Owen gestured for him to go ahead.

With a grin, Timothos followed the magistrate.

Owen and his party decided to dine out elsewhere.

The county was small, with fewer than two hundred houses and shops combined, and even the main street spanned just over two hundred meters—a short walk could take one through the entire area.

Moreover, the place was dusty, with buildings covered in a layer of grime.

The town had only one tavern, which the county magistrate had reserved to entertain Timothos, so Owen’s group preferred not to join that gathering.

After wandering around, they found very few shops and not many pedestrians, but there was a queue at a public well.

Owen’s face was stern, silent.

Isaac inquired, "What’s wrong?"

"It’s pitch-dark, hardly a few homes have lights on," Owen sighed.

Lamp oil and candles cost money, which the poor are loath to spare.

The residents here probably dine early and go to bed as soon as it gets dark.

"People here are too poor," Berkeley also expressed his helplessness.

This is a common problem in the territories under the advanced races; unlike humans, they lack the organization to engage in production and expand commerce effectively.

As a result, the residents of these territories live in poverty.

Though they attempt to emulate the bureaucratic systems of the human race, without genuine effort, how could they possibly succeed?

This is a point of criticism among the major races.

Aside from the Westro Fairyland and the five human nations, other areas tend to embrace the law of the jungle, leaving the lower beings to live miserably.

However, since Berkeley and Isaac serve Owen, they would not dare to openly criticize how hopelessly incompetent the dragons are.

With a stern face, Owen said, "The further north we go, the grimmer it gets. The dragons are already in a weakened state; can they really defeat the angel race under these conditions?"

Naturally, Berkeley and the others didn’t dare to join in on such a topic.

Discussing such matters was akin to courting trouble.

Erin, however, seemed indifferent and murmured, "Master, they surely can."

Owen fell silent.

It was only through this journey that he truly understood how bleak the outside world was.

The further north they traveled, the poorer the beings became, the fewer the households, the more desolate the lands, the less the officials did their jobs, and the more the beings withered...

He had seen impoverished families at markets, offering their sons and daughters for sale, boasting to anyone who would listen about how little their children ate and how much they could work, desperately pleading for someone to buy them.

Families were emaciated, and when children were sold, their expressions were blank, their eyes devoid of the innocence children should have.

Amidst this poverty and chaos, the entire territory under the dragons was in turmoil, no wonder the dragons’ realm has been unsettled lately.

Only in Dragon Echo Valley did peace seem to prevail, with gold and jewels scattered everywhere, but this was merely a façade of tranquility.

Owen grew more silent, and everyone else exchanged looks, too afraid to speak.

Ahead, a restaurant emitted light and the fragrance of food, prompting Owen to say, "Let’s go in."

Lifting the wind-blocking cloth curtain to enter, the group noticed the eatery’s simplicity, with old tables and chairs.

Fortunately, the place was fairly spacious, able to accommodate seven or eight tables, and there was already one table of customers dining.

Settling down, Isaac called out, "Bring us something to eat."

The owner, with a pained expression, replied, "We only have sour noodles and mixed flour buns."

Berkeley, having already noticed the sour noodles on other customers’ tables, swallowed his saliva and said, "Since we’re here, just add whatever you have."

The dishes were quickly prepared, almost ready-made, and in about six or seven minutes, five large bowls were served to their table.

The sour noodles consisted of just three ingredients: coarse flour, pickled cabbage, and peanuts.

No meat?

But it couldn’t be helped, as no one wanted to venture outside the county to hunt spellbeasts.

Berkeley, while eating, struck up conversations with the other patrons.

Being a merchant himself, he easily engaged everyone in lively discussions, quickly uncovering that they were all traders looking to do business, albeit in these hard times.

Owen, on the other hand, enjoyed his meal thoroughly.

He wasn’t picky; he could relish a feast as much as he could accept coarse food.

...

Rewinding to three days prior.

Bernie Brown knew that with the death of three constables in his home, he would inevitably become a wanted man.

Therefore, when leaving, he dared not peek out of the window, fearful of being recognized.

After all, the town was small, where everyone was familiar with each other, neighbors recognizing one another on sight.

It was unclear how Green Wilson and his companions managed it, or perhaps it was because no one discovered the dead bodies in his courtyard, but their caravan left Aquaspirit Town smoothly, without undergoing any inspection.

Further north, the main road became increasingly deserted.

After traveling four kilometers, they came upon an open-air drinking pavilion.

Such pavilions are mostly set up beside wells or rivers, where passersby can drink hot water.

If one is willing to spend a little more, they could even brew a pot of tea to alleviate the fatigue of travel.

Tired horses could also drink from troughs, of course, at a cost.

Aside from the attendant pouring water, there were only three humanoids in the pavilion.

As soon as Green Wilson’s caravan arrived, they mounted their horses and left.

Bernie Brown urged him, "Hurry up and fill the water, we need to catch up with those three ahead."

Green Wilson nodded, filled two skins with hot water, and urged the coachman to speed up, always keeping a consistent distance behind the three humanoids.

In the territories under dragon control, most are humanoids, these are "spellbeasts" with bloodlines, mostly capable of taking human form while retaining unique racial traits.

After another two kilometers, with no one else on the road, Bernie Brown untied his horse and rode after them.

The three humanoids were discussing the capture of a fugitive when the rapid, urgent sound of horse hooves made them turn back.

The leader was the official from the town who had executed the young grain thief.

Unaware of the homicide that had occurred in town, he recognized Bernie Brown and expressed surprise, "Bernie Brown, how did you end up here?"

Bernie Brown smiled and replied, "Someone asked me to find you."

"Ah? Who?" The official looked bewildered.

"Peggy Morris," Bernie Brown said.

Peggy Morris was the name of the young humanoid who had been beheaded first.

The official was taken aback, then angrily retorted, "What nonsense are you spouting?"

"He said he would slow down and join you on the road," Bernie Brown stated.

One of the official’s subordinates roared in anger, "What crap are you spewing?"

As he raised his sheathed sword to strike the tall man with a slap.

But then, he was sent flying, crashing into a tree trunk thick as a bowl some three meters away, which broke upon impact.

Midair, the subordinate spat out blood, and upon landing, he breathed his last.

His chest caved in, forming a large hole that could perfectly fit a fist.

Another one of the leading official’s men, truly loyal at heart, seeing Bernie Brown’s ferocity, only stepped back two paces and shouted, "Watch out, boss..."

He had barely spoken when something rapidly approached him, enlarging in his field of view before striking his face.

He fell backward, struck down.

The object that felled him was the blade belonging to the first victim, still sheathed.

Only then did the leading official feel fear, drawing his waist sword and shouting, "What are you doing? My actions were in accordance with the law; those three were guilty of stealing grain and deserved death."

Bernie Brown ominously retorted, "Today, on the sixth of June, you set out to suppress bandits yet achieved nothing. Instead, you captured innocent people to claim rewards. Is that also written in your laws?"

"Such a thing never happened, don’t falsely accuse me..."

His face darkened, his voice becoming sharp and strained.

With a "whoosh," his speech abruptly ended, his eyes wide as he stared at Bernie Brown, who paid him no heed and turned to walk back to the carriage.

Three steps later, the official’s upper body suddenly slid off, cleanly sliced from the left chest to the right rib.

Witnessing his legs still standing on the ground, he screamed in agony as blood gushed out, soaking the sandy soil beneath him.

Being cut in half does not result in immediate death; those with a stronger constitution might suffer excruciatingly for the time it takes to drink a cup of tea before finally expiring.

Bernie Brown climbed into the carriage, glancing outside the window, "Let’s go."

Killing someone so casually as if unsheathing a sword, he considered it a closure to this Chapter of his past.

Green Wilson clapped in admiration, "General Brown’s blade remains as sharp as ever."

He watched intently yet still couldn’t discern how the slash was made.

Bernie Brown grinned, "Am I that old?"

Free from vows and the weight of misfortune, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

This was what it meant to be alive.

The past few years had been nothing more than a living death.

An hour later, the carriage arrived at the outskirts of a farm.

This particular farm, located near a forest plantation and far from the main roads, was seldom approached by strangers.

Though called a farm, it was in reality more of a fortress, encircled entirely by sharp, outward-facing stakes designed to keep out bandits and marauders.

Green Wilson disembarked from the carriage and called out with practiced ease.