Chapter 147: Expelling the Refugees!

The northern refugees arriving in Isenpol were, on average, of a somewhat higher caliber, with a steady stream of artisans and able-bodied young laborers being absorbed by the town's workshops and surrounding territories.

Furthermore, under the call to action by Rigolav and another banneret, many lords began doing their utmost to absorb the refugees and share the burden.

This world was rarely peaceful; large-scale wars broke out roughly once every thirty years, while minor conflicts emerged every three to five years.

Invasions by the wilderness demi-humans, skirmishes between lords, and raids by bandit gangs happened every single year—they barely even qualified as wars anymore.

Therefore, not every noble was a fool. Particularly the border lords, who had experienced man-made disasters and natural calamities alike, possessed a keen sense of impending crisis.

The gathering of refugees posed no threat to Isenpol, a fortified town with stone walls, but to the surrounding knightly domains—which featured only wooden palisades and local militias—it was a bomb ticking away, ready to detonate at any moment.

Yet, as long as the orcish invasions continued unabated, the influx of refugees would never cease.

Situated at the southernmost tip of Count Vrelov's domain, Isenpol was in a relatively better position. Even with the World Tree Avenue serving as a grand highway, most refugees lacked wagons or beasts of burden and simply could not travel that far.

Further north, near the crucial military stronghold of Valangel and the count's capital of Frovold, at least fifty thousand refugees had accumulated without any means of assimilation.

Rigolav’s efforts were not in vain; at least the total refugee population had not increased further.

Even so, nearly ten thousand refugees remained clustered in Isenpol's northern suburbs.

Their presence severely disrupted Isenpol's public security, commerce, and sanitary conditions.

The tents of the refugee camp practically blocked the road leading to the northern bridge, while the docks were swarming with laborers seeking work and elderly or infirm beggars; theft, robbery, and murder were on the rise with each passing day.

Consequently, Tarik Vrelov made a decisive resolution: he would expel these refugees beyond the Western Watchtower.

That was right—they were neither to be driven northward nor toward the lower reaches of the Anzenor River, but rather out into the wilderness beyond the Western Watchtower.

Driving them north would not only choke the Isenpol Bridge, but after a short while, the refugees would simply trickle back.

Meanwhile, the lower reaches of the Anzenor River constituted the largest agricultural zone in the entire domain of Count Vrelov, boasting tens of thousands of hectares of fertile farmland along both banks of the great river, alongside a thriving fishing industry and river transport.

An influx of the refugee tide would inflict catastrophic damage on local production and commerce, and could even jeopardize Isenpol's food supply.

Beyond the Western Watchtower, however, lay nothing but deep mountains and pristine wilderness, virtually uninhabited.

Flanked on one side by the sheer precipices of the Grand Barrier and on the other by the steep Borokbak Mountains, with the Bak Pass blocking the way two hundred miles out, it resembled a giant valley with a dead end, leaving no need to worry about the refugees scattering.

The intentions of Lord Tarik were blatantly obvious: drive these refugees into the wilderness to either starve to death or turn into outlaws.

This simultaneously solved Isenpol's refugee problem and earned him a massive haul of military merits in one fell swoop.

It was simply perfect.

Only a traditional noble like Rigolav would stand up to voice opposition, hypocritically preaching knightly morality.

Yet, in the blink of an eye, he was the first to muster his troops and spearhead the expulsion of the refugees, instantly turning himself into a laughingstock among Isenpol's aristocratic circles.

The four knightly domains of the Petukhov family all lay at the foot of the mountains south of Isenpol. However, the other three did not adjoin the World Tree Avenue and were shielded by several other knightly domains lying ahead, so they were free from the harassment of refugees.

Rigolav mobilized the armed forces of the family's three older knightly domains and summoned pennon-holders willing to obey him, assembling a force totaling one thousand men to take the lead in participating in the refugee expulsion.

Similar forces included three other bannerets from the vicinity and several independent minor knightly lords.

Even some propertyless knights, mercenary bands, and slave traders brought their own entourages, eager to grab a share of the spoils.

Along the way, Rigolav did his utmost to maintain military order, prepared vast quantities of grain, set up disaster relief stations along the route to distribute food, and pacified the refugees.

His logic was exceedingly simple: if he could not prevent Lord Tarik’s decision, he would strive to execute it as well as possible.

From a humanitarian standpoint, Lord Tarik’s policy was overly brutal, but from the perspective of a feudal ruler, it was beyond dispute.

The refugee tide was like a malignant tumor growing on the body; if left untreated, it would only grow larger until it finally threatened life itself.

If it could not heal on its own, one had no choice but to bear the pain and excise it.

During the assembly of lords held in Isenpol, a single retort from Tarik had left Rigolav, who fiercely opposed the policy, completely speechless:

"Do you have a better solution?"

A better solution certainly existed; the grain stored in Isenpol was entirely sufficient to feed those ten thousand people. If his proposal were followed and every knightly domain absorbed several hundred souls, the refugee tide would dissipate instantly.

However, that was pure utopian talk. Only a third of the lords in Isenpol supported him, and an even scarcer few were willing to put it into practice.

Besides, not all refugees were able-bodied laborers; there were plenty of the elderly and infirm. Why would anyone lead such burdens back? Even Rigolav himself did not want them.

And by his own strength alone, he was utterly incapable of handling the problem.

Therefore, he could only actively respond to the policy, using his influence to safely shepherd the refugees into the wilderness to fend for themselves rather than letting them run rampant as a disaster.

Between the lives of the refugees and the lives of his own subjects, he had no choice of which side to take.

Regrettably, agents in the shadows continuously stirred up panic and plotted riots among the refugee masses.

Openly, the other military detachments did not treat the refugees as human beings at all, driving them along as if they were a swarm of rats.

Some impatient lordly forces even charged ahead to assault the refugee columns, raining volleys of arrows down upon the crowds.

Ultimately, the main body of refugees failed to reach the Western Watchtower as intended. Within a mere sixty-li stretch of road, riots broke out, eventually fracturing the mass into several factions that launched assaults on the villages lining both banks of the World Tree Avenue.

In an instant, the entire western region of Isenpol plunged into a quagmire of chaos!

Rigolav could only do his utmost to drive one faction of the refugees safely beyond the Western Watchtower, before personally garrisoning the tower to corral and pacify the rampaging crowds as best he could.

Across this five-hundred-square-kilometer expanse, every village, every patch of forest, and every mountain hollow transformed into a paradise for soldiers and rioters, and a hell for the weak.

Unarmed rioters could not defeat the fully armed lordly forces and dared not assault the heavily guarded knightly domains, leaving them no choice but to vent their frustrations on small refugee camps and natural villages.

Various bandit gangs seized the opportunity to grow in power or simply integrated directly into the lordly armies.

Overnight, they transformed into guardians of order, joining in this killing frenzy.

Such was the state of the world, differing very little from the laws of the wilderness.

Big fish eat small fish, small fish eat shrimp.

The weak suffered bullying by the strong, and genuine resistance against tyranny was a rarity; yet, countless were those who, harboring bitterness, vented their fury upon the even more helpless.

The manor construction of the Soloviev Knightly Domain had to be suspended, turning instead toward reinforcing village defense facilities and bracing for what was to come.