Wizard: I Have a Cultivation System

Chapter 376: Chapter 82: The Price of the Rising Wind

In midsummer, the northbound road was scorched white by the blazing sun.

The carriage carrying Murphy and his family left the relatively prosperous and peaceful Temeris Duke Domain and entered the border region between the Northern Kingdom and the central territories. This was Duke Stuart’s sphere of influence.

Compared to the prosperity surrounding Violet City, the fields here, though vast, yielded poor crops. The roads were also in disrepair, causing the carriage to jolt frequently.

Inside the carriage, Eleanor was focused intently on a thick notebook of Magic Models.

Aurora, meanwhile, gazed out the window, observing the changes in the passing scenery.

Murphy rested with his eyes closed, his body swaying gently with the carriage’s rocking.

Just then, the carriage slowed noticeably before coming to a complete stop.

"My lord, my lady," the Guard Captain rode up to the carriage window, his voice tinged with hesitation. "Ahead is Baron Valen’s Domain, within the Stuart Territory. The road is... blocked by some people. The situation looks a bit chaotic."

Murphy opened his eyes, his gaze calm. "Go take a look."

Aurora gently squeezed his hand and said in a low voice, "Eleanor and I will stay in the carriage."

Murphy gave a slight nod.

He reached out and picked up a seemingly ordinary hardwood cane that was leaning against the carriage wall.

He planted the cane on the ground, used it as leverage to push himself up, and settled into the wheelchair a guard had prepared beside the carriage.

The scene before him was starkly different from the relatively smooth main roads they had traveled so far.

What should have been a crossroads for a small market was now in complete disarray.

Several flatbed carts for hauling goods lay overturned by the roadside. Mud-stained sacks were scattered on the ground, revealing the half-molded grain inside.

In the middle of the road, twenty-some raggedly dressed peasants, armed with simple pitchforks or wooden clubs, were in a standoff with seven or eight guards in faded uniforms, holding rusty spears.

The peasants’ faces were a mixture of anger and fear. The guards, on the other hand, put on a brave front but were inwardly timid, shouting continuously but not daring to actually advance and drive the crowd away.

A little farther off, in front of a simple, whitewashed village chapel, an even larger crowd of sallow and gaunt villagers had gathered. They were men and women, mostly silent, their eyes either vacant or filled with anxiety.

A cultivator in his early thirties, dressed in a plain, faded monk’s robe, was standing on the steps at the chapel’s entrance, trying to say something to the crowd, but his voice was completely drowned out by the shouting and crying from both sides.

"Hand it over! Hand over the grain!" a peasant in the lead roared, his voice hoarse as he brandished a wooden club. "Deacon Byron said that’s the church’s last reserve for the famine! It’s a gift from Oriane for all believers to survive! What right does your Baron have to take it away!"

"Insolence!" A guard who seemed to be a squad leader mustered his courage, stepped forward, and struck the ground with the butt of his spear. "The Lord Baron has given an order! During this emergency, all grain within the domain is to be uniformly allocated! The church’s reserves are also the domain’s property! If you dare to obstruct us again, it’s treason!"

"Uniformly allocated? Allocated where? Our grain jars have long been empty! My children are too hungry to even have the strength to cry!" a peasant woman rushed out from the crowd, her voice shrill. "What about the Baron’s storehouses? Why not use the grain from the Baron’s storehouses? Why must you seize this life-saving bit from the church!"

"Exactly! Deacon Byron told us before the year was out that the rains weren’t right this year and to eat sparingly. The church’s grain was meant to be the last resort to save our lives! If you take it now, you’re just leaving us to die!"

More voices joined in, and the crowd began to grow agitated.

The young cultivator on the steps was so anxious that his forehead beaded with sweat. He raised his voice and shouted, "Quiet! Everyone, be quiet! Don’t be rash! We can petition the Lord Baron again..."

But his plea was like a snowflake in boiling water—it vanished in an instant.

Just then, the guard leader, seemingly enraged by the peasant woman’s accusations or feeling his dignity had been challenged, suddenly raised his spear and viciously swung the shaft at the peasant at the very front!

THWACK! With a dull thud, the peasant cried out as he was knocked to the ground, blood streaming from his forehead.

That single blow was like lighting a powder keg.

"They hit someone!"

"Let’s fight them!"

The peasants’ crimson eyes stared wide, their knuckles white as they gripped their crude weapons, looking as if they were about to swarm forward at any moment.

The guards, terrified, backed away repeatedly, their formation falling into disarray.

At that critical juncture,

"Stop."

A voice that was not loud, perhaps even a bit flat, rang out.

The voice was not loud, yet it strangely pierced through the noise and chaos of the scene, reaching everyone’s ears clearly.

Everyone instinctively looked over. At some point, a group of people had appeared at the crossroads.

In the lead was a wheelchair, in which sat a black-haired man with a tranquil expression and profound eyes.

Behind him followed several guards who radiated competence and were well-equipped, a stark contrast to Baron Valen’s ragged guards.

The man did not look at the guards, nor at the agitated crowd. His gaze first fell upon the groaning, injured peasant on the ground, lingering for a moment before slowly rising to meet the young cultivator on the chapel steps.

Deacon Byron had clearly also noticed these unusual newcomers. The equipment and bearing of their guards, in particular, were far beyond that of any ordinary traveler.

He hastily straightened his monk’s robe, hurried down the steps, and passed through the gradually quieting, bewildered crowd to stand before the man.

He first glanced at the guards behind Murphy and the obviously expensive carriage in the distance. A flicker of barely perceptible shock and doubt crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper worry. He respectfully made the sign of the Holy Emblem over his chest and bowed slightly: