Chapter 157: Recruiting Refugees

Northern ancestral names like Odaro, Lavad, and Basaka are much like common surnames anywhere, branching out over centuries to form countless settlements. Centuries ago, the Basakas refused to become part of the empire; after their defeat, they fled into the sea of forests in the Wolf-Driving Plain to become wildlings. Yet, over the following hundreds of years, quite a few branches migrated back out, assimilated into common subjects, and became citizens of the empire. Those in the south called themselves Basakars, while those in the north called themselves Basalovs—both names simply meaning "descendants of Basaka."

The moment Leo saw the name, he connected it with the Basakas. Among the wildling hunters of the Riverbend, there were also a few with similar names; although the pronunciation varied slightly, when spelled in the imperial alphabet, they too were Basalovs.

Leo asked with some curiosity, "Do the Basakas also believe in the Holy Light?"

Even after spreading through the northern realms for centuries, the Church of the Holy Light was only relatively widespread along the southern bank of the Anzeno River, and even then, mostly as a superficial faith. Further north, believers in the Holy Light were extremely rare; you could hardly find a church, let alone in the countryside. By the banks of the North Ice River, where Leo was stationed, people had never even heard of the Holy Light.

Basalov hurriedly waved his hands. "We don't believe anymore! We don't believe!"

Standing well over six feet tall, the burly man tried his best to shrink his frame, making himself look as harmless as domestic livestock. At the same time, he plastered an old, ingratiating smile across his weathered face as he looked toward a younger member of his clan.

Such expressions and gestures frequently appeared on Ulyan. Therefore, Leo knew very well that a man like this would resort to any means necessary for the sake of his kin. Harm his people, and he would exhaust every possible method to drag you down to hell with him. But give his people a way to survive, and he would treat you like an ancestral deity. Most of the refugee leaders Leo had met shared this exact demeanor. They had usually served as soldiers, taken lives, seen the world, possessed decent martial prowess and sharp minds, and held a remarkably flexible moral baseline. Without these foundations, it would have been impossible to lead a hundred odd people and survive until today.

Leo couldn't help but smile. "In my domain, as long as it doesn't conflict with the decrees issued by the lord, every subject has freedom of belief."

"I allow you to follow any doctrine, but you must not proselytize in public spaces, nor may you compel others to believe."

"Yes, yes!" Basalov was extremely excited, nodding repeatedly. "Merciful lord, may the Holy Light protect you!"

As a follower of the Holy Light, what he feared most was a lord who opposed the faith, thereby generating animosity toward him and his kin.

"Settled in here first, and take good care of your people. When I have some leisure time, I will take you back to the Riverbend Territory; you have kinsmen there as well."

Leo stood up to see his guest out. "Dinner time is approaching. Prepare to eat; I've already had food arranged for your people."

Basalov felt a hint of doubt. They hadn't even started working yet, and they would be fed? But he was a shrewd man and didn't press the matter, instead offering profuse thanks as he stepped out of the military tent.

Before dusk fell, the cook in charge of the construction site hauled a wagonload of provisions to the refugees' tent encampment. He climbed onto the cargo bed, hoisted a large iron ladle, and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Line up! Line up! Get ready to eat!"

Upon seeing the wagon brimming with provisions, the refugees surged forward like starving wild dogs. Several robust young men had already rolled up their sleeves, entering a combat stance. Although more than half of them were kin and the rest had lived and died together through thick and thin, their animalistic instincts surfaced completely in the presence of food, bearing no resemblance whatsoever to civility or restraint.

To their surprise, they were intercepted by fully armed infantrymen. Confronted with cold steel blades, bows, and crossbows, the refugees huddled together in terror.

The cook was long accustomed to this and continued shouting, "Line up! Line up! Line up properly! There is food for everyone!"

Some of the cleverer refugees had already begun forming a queue, but more than half stood stupidly in place, as if they couldn't understand human speech. Basalov rushed forward immediately, directing his clansmen to form a long, orderly line.

Sure enough, once they formed a line, the infantrymen maintaining order finally yielded a space, allowing only one person to pass at a time. While distributing the rations, the cook kept shouting without pause.

"Maintain the queue! Each person receives only one portion of food! No collecting rations for others, and no snatching anyone else's food!"

The refugees who received their food were directed to a separate area to eat, and they were required to maintain a distance from one another, forbidden from gathering close where disputes might arise. Under the cook's allocation, each adult male among the refugees received a barley cake and a bowl of meat soup. The elderly, the weak, women, and children each received half a barley cake and a bowl of meat soup.

While they ate, the cook continued lecturing on the camp's rules as the refugees devoured their meals voraciously. Anything they couldn't finish could be tossed into the slop barrel for leftovers, but sharing with others was strictly prohibited. Anyone who remained hungry had to endure it; picking up even a single crumb dropped on the ground was forbidden. Even the wounded and sick refugees were carried over by their companions and finished their meals under the cook's watchful eye before leaving.

These rules were lessons accumulated from the Riverbend refugee camp. While certainly not the optimal solution, their greatest virtue was effectiveness. Without clearly defined rules, the dominant groups would always find ways to take food from the vulnerable, while the vulnerable would always "voluntarily" surrender their shares.

Looking at the barley cakes the size of a human face, along with the meat soup dotted with grease—which actually contained a piece of meat—the refugees found it hard to believe until the food reached their stomachs. The barley cakes and meat soup even had salt in them!

The portion distributed to each person was not particularly large, enough to fill them to about seventy percent capacity. A few robust young men with bottomless stomachs could easily have eaten three more barley cakes, but the cook had already departed with the remaining provisions.

Another day passed. The newly arrived refugees were assigned some simple collective labor and fed two more meals before Leo granted Basalov another audience.

"My lord, what do you need of me?"

This time, the respect on Basalov's face was replaced by genuine emotion, devoid of the fawning expression that could make a kobold sneeze. Three meals had proven more effective than any words, directly winning this refugee leader's sincere allegiance. As long as he wasn't ordered to march his people to their deaths, even following this lord to become outlaws in the hills wouldn't be out of the question. He had even mentally prepared himself to be conscripted into the army as cannon fodder.

"I want you to take some men and head back to the western watchtower to recruit more workers. Start with people you know and trust."

The progress of Riverbend's labor recruitment among refugees had been slow, yielding meager results. Every day, only a handful of refugees were willing to try their luck, while the tightly knit groups of refugees simply didn't believe such good fortune could be real. Especially when some Riverbend laborers walked into the refugee camps with a savior complex and an arrogant demeanor, almost sparking hostility with the newcomers. The refugees had mistaken them for slave traders looking to acquire free labor. Had they not possessed superior numbers and fled at the first sign of trouble, those maladjusted Riverbend laborers might well have been beaten to death by an angry mob.

The returning laborers constantly complained about the refugees lacking sportsmanship and basic civility, their words dripping with exclusion toward outsiders.

Leo found this utterly absurd. Just two months prior, these laborers had been refugees themselves, living the exact same plight, and ought to have shown mutual aid. How had they fallen into class antagonism the moment their own status changed?

Leo decided to completely shift his strategy. He called the Riverbend laborers back to participate in construction and instead dispatched newly arrived refugees like Basalov to handle recruitment. Those men undoubtedly still had acquaintances wandering outside, and their words would carry some weight. Consider it like multi-level marketing—using familiar faces was always the most effective way to close a deal.