Chapter Fifty-Three: Forced Pull

Wildfire Town changing hands was nothing unusual. Yet to have it occupied by the regular army of Byzantium—that was rare indeed.

Shaya was a bit perplexed, but didn’t bother to investigate further; after all, the incident had little to do with him. No matter who the occupiers were, Wildfire Town would remain Wildfire Town.

But when he walked to the city walls and saw the guards clad in the regulation leather armor of the Byzantine Empire’s infantry, he was taken aback. These men were the very mercenaries who had occupied the town before! On his last visit, they were still soldiers in a mercenary band, and one had extorted Shaya’s last copper coin as a tax for entering the town.

Shaya remembered clearly anyone who took money from his pocket! How could these fellows, in just a few days, transform into official soldiers of Byzantium?

As Shaya stood in astonishment, he heard the sound of hooves behind him. A small squadron of Byzantine cavalry, light armor gleaming, axes and spears in hand, rode in formation—evidently returning from patrol. They entered through the city gates with disciplined bearing, each face marked by the seriousness and order that only regular troops possessed—something mercenaries lacked.

Dressed plainly, Shaya’s entrance drew no attention. Only after he entered Wildfire Town did he notice how different it had become.

The streets were noticeably desolate. The square at the gates, once bustling with traders from all nations at the horse market, was now sparsely populated. Gone were the crowds of merchants; even many taverns and inns along the roadside were shuttered.

Inside the town, squads of Byzantine infantry patrolled, boots striking the cobblestones in a murderous rhythm. Black Street, too, was quiet—carpets lining the street were reduced to a third of their former number, and several shops were closed.

Shaya was puzzled. Did the Byzantines intend to ruin Wildfire Town? The town had been occupied by authorities before, but never had it fallen into such decline.

He was quite displeased. He had come with a fortune, eager to indulge himself, only to find the shops deserted. Even the store where he had once signed a contract for a magical beast cub was closed.

Turning off Black Street, he entered the street of powder and rouge—a place he had long dreamed of. At first glance, his rustic heart lifted halfway: once, this street was lined with carriages and flower houses, red sleeves beckoning from every window, the air thick with fragrance. Now, the street was empty, a gust of wind lifting only a few withered leaves. Occasionally, a mangy stray dog staggered across the road.

Women? You’d be lucky to find a female dog.

Shaya was furious.

A man arrives full of ambition, only to encounter such disappointment—anyone would be upset, especially a bachelor who’d been pent up for more than ten years.

He walked two blocks to a tavern he frequented and strode in. The tavern’s door was half-open; despite being in business, the vast hall was nearly deserted, with only two or three tables occupied.

At the counter stood a tall, thin man with one eye, polishing a glass with a dry rag. He glanced at Shaya, nodded, and rasped in a hoarse voice, “Young Shaya, you haven’t come for a drink in ages.”

Shaya had often visited this place—not just because their rye ale was the cheapest in town, but most importantly: the one-eyed man behind the counter had once been his rival in love for three years—before Shaya came of age.

Because…this one-eyed fellow was Aunt Sophia’s husband.

Of course, the man had no inkling of Shaya’s tangled feelings. Shaya bore him no enmity now, and casually took a seat, tossing a gold coin onto the counter.

The one-eyed man picked it up, regarded Shaya with his single eye, bit the coin hard, then grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Made a fortune, little hunter?”

He turned to fetch a bottle of fine tequila. “Here, the best we’ve got. All yours.”

Shaya had never tasted such fine liquor. He bit off the cap, took a swig, breathed out contentedly, and asked in a low voice, “Hey, what’s going on in town? How did those mercenaries become Byzantines?”

The one-eyed man glanced warily at the door, then smiled. “You don’t know? Those mercenaries were Byzantines all along. They disguised themselves as mercenaries and took the town, acting as a vanguard for the Byzantine army. About ten days ago, a Byzantine regiment arrived—just two days after you left. The army took over, the mercenaries swapped their gear, and the town was declared property of the Byzantine Empire. Announcements were posted on the walls.”

“But why is business so miserable?” Shaya frowned. “Can they get away with this? Aren’t they afraid the townsfolk will drive them out?”

Such things had happened before. Years ago, a reckless band of thieves occupied the town, flaunted their strength, imposed heavy taxes—the people of Wildfire Town wouldn’t stand for it.

To most here, it didn’t matter who ruled, so long as their livelihoods weren’t disrupted. But if anyone dared to go too far? Hah—Wildfire Town had no gentle folk; anyone chosen at random was a fierce desperado!

That band of thieves, thinking themselves wolves amidst sheep, soon learned they’d entered a den of wolves. Within half a day, hundreds of townsfolk—each a cutthroat—banded together and slaughtered the thieves. Their leader was hung from the great tree outside town for a month, picked clean by crows until only half a skeleton remained.

Since then, no one dared to cause trouble in Wildfire Town.

Want to occupy it? Fine. Be the administrator. But keep the peace!

To put it another way: if you hanged everyone in Wildfire Town, some innocent souls would suffer; but if you killed half and spared half, some villains would slip through.

Take the one-eyed tavern keeper, for example—not a decent sort. The deep scar on his neck was carved by a blade, damaging his throat and leaving him perpetually hoarse. Shaya had heard he was neither Odin nor Byzantine.

He wasn’t from the continent at all, but from the seafaring kingdom of Landis to the west—the “Pirate Nation.” He often wore a headscarf, the kind pirates favored.

Would a respectable citizen bear a knife scar on his neck?

“Isn’t everyone reacting to the lack of business?” Shaya asked, perplexed.

“Of course, but what can we do?” The one-eyed man sneered. “This time, a whole regiment’s stationed on the southern edge—a regular army, not something we can resist. Besides, haven’t you heard? War’s brewing between Byzantium and Odin! On the first day, the Byzantines imposed martial law, patrolled the streets, and ordered many shops closed for allegedly selling military contraband. They haven’t looted stores yet—that’s already restraint.”

“And…what about the street of powder and rouge?” Shaya asked, embarrassed.

The one-eyed man cursed, equally indignant. “Damn those Byzantine dogs! They took all the girls from the powder street—turned them into army camp women. Hell! Soldiers have needs, but don’t we? Infuriating!”

Shaya inwardly scorned the man. He had a beauty like Aunt Sophia, yet still coveted the powder street—shameless!

After half a bottle, Shaya tossed it onto the counter. “Leave the rest here—I’ll have it next time! Don’t you dare steal it!”

The one-eyed man laughed and cursed, watching Shaya depart.

Leaving the tavern, Shaya’s interest evaporated. Byzantium or Odin—it didn’t matter, their wars had nothing to do with him. He was neither Byzantine nor Odin. Now, thanks to Byzantium’s occupation and the ruin of his plans for pleasure, he felt a certain fondness for the Odin Empire.

He wandered to the northern plaza, intending to leave town, when he saw a platform in the corner. Several men in officer’s uniforms shouted through metal tubes, surrounded by a sparse crowd.

“Thirty copper coins! Thirty a month! Free meals, all you can eat! Work like this isn’t easy to come by!” the officer cried. “If you want in, step right up! Hurry, hurry! Opportunity knocks!”

Below the platform, a squad of wolfish Byzantine infantry stood with swords and shields, keeping order. Occasionally, a few in the crowd were tempted enough to enroll.

But most merely watched, faces marked with sneers.

So—they were conscripting laborers. Shaya found it amusing.

Those who signed up were mostly loafers, petty thieves, and conmen—now unemployed thanks to the town’s decline. The rest of Wildfire Town—mostly pirates and criminals—would never work for thirty copper coins a month.

The officer shouted for a long time, but had barely recruited a dozen—far short of the hundred he needed. The recruits looked frail, unlikely to satisfy his superiors. Frustrated, he let malice creep into his heart.

Damn it, if volunteers won’t come, I’ll just drag them! This isn’t Byzantine territory; these aren’t Byzantine citizens…

He signaled his men, who understood instantly. Press-ganging labor was common in the army. A squad drew swords and charged into the crowd, causing chaos.

The crowd scattered instantly, Byzantines shoving and dragging people, turning the scene into a mess.

Shaya was just passing by, but the officer on the platform spotted him—strong and sturdy—and pointed, shouting, “That one! The big guy! Grab him, bring him here!”