Wizard: I Have a Cultivation System

Chapter 407: Chapter 87: A Story of Mortals

"Did someone help you a few days ago?" Murphy interrupted the man’s halting narrative, asking directly.

The man froze for a moment, and the other refugees nearby exchanged glances.

A woman holding a child spoke up timidly, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes... yes, there was a kind young lady... about... ten days ago? She had a few people with her and stopped here for a little while... She gave us some rye cakes, and a small jar of ointment for frostbite and scrapes..."

As she spoke, she subconsciously touched a scabbed-over wound on the face of the child in her arms.

"What did she look like? What did she say?" Murphy asked.

The woman struggled to remember, and a slightly older man next to her added, "The young lady... she wore a veil, so we couldn’t see her face clearly, but her eyes were very bright. They were black, and her hair was black, too, like... like a pitch-black night sky. She didn’t say who she was, just asked what we needed most and checked on a few sick children... Oh, and she specifically asked about Old John’s boy who had a fever. She gave him some herbs and taught us how to brew them into a tea."

He pointed to an old man dozing in a corner, who was tightly holding a boy with a flushed face.

"And then?" Murphy’s voice betrayed no emotion.

The gratitude on the man’s face was quickly replaced by a deeper bitterness. "And then... then she left. We rationed the cakes, but they only lasted us four or five days... The ointment ran out, and the child’s fever came back after breaking... The day before yesterday, Old John went to town to look for work, but they beat him and threw him out, saying he was too weak and a waste of food... We... we have nowhere else to go. All we can do is stay here, and we don’t know for how much longer..."

His voice trailed off, becoming nearly inaudible.

A few suppressed sobs could be heard from the people around him.

The middle-aged man who had first spoken buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently.

A dead silence fell over the barren hill, broken only by the mournful cry of the cold wind as it blew past the tree stumps.

Murphy watched all of this in silence.

’The fleeting aid Eleanor had left behind couldn’t resolve these people’s suffering, and what he could offer now was similarly just a drop in the ocean.’

’He might even attract greater danger to them by revealing that he had supplies.’

But in the end, he spoke, instructing Luke, who had been waiting by the carriage, "Give them a portion of the rations and emergency medicine. Also, leave a few Gold Coins."

"Yes, my lord!" Luke carried out the order without hesitation, quickly retrieving the supplies from the baggage wagon.

When the coarse but thick wheat cakes, limited jerky, a small pouch of basic herbs, and a few faintly gleaming Gold Coins were placed before the refugees, the brief, dead silence gave way to an incredulous commotion.

They fell to their knees, kowtowing desperately toward the carriage and shouting incoherently, "Thank you, master," "Thank you, my lord," "May Oriane bless you..."

Murphy did not respond to their gratitude. He didn’t even spare them a second glance, simply closing the carriage window softly.

"Continue on." His voice, still as impassive as ever, came from within the carriage.

The carriage started moving again. The guards swung themselves onto their horses, and the convoy set off once more toward Riverbend Town, and further south, toward the Holy City.

The further south they traveled, the deeper the scars of the famine became. But what was even more alarming was the speed at which order was collapsing.

Most of the small towns and villages they passed along the way were desolate and depressed.

Occasionally, they saw patrols of guards, but their eyes were shifty. When they questioned travelers, their intent was clearly more extortion than maintaining order.

Checkpoints were everywhere, levying a dizzying array of "transit taxes," "repair tolls," and "defense contributions," each one piling on top of the last.

When Knight Davies presented the banner of the Monte Territory and invoked Murphy’s name, these tax collectors’ faces would often change drastically. They would hastily let them pass, not daring to ask for a single coin. But their attitude—that shift from arrogance to subservience, terrified of bringing trouble upon themselves—only made Luke and the others feel more oppressed.

They saw a farmer’s wife wailing beside the ruins of a burned-out granary, clutching scorched ears of wheat.

They saw crowds of people brawling over a mouthful of murky well water.

They saw freshly made mounds of earth by the roadside, with just a few dry weeds held down by a rock to serve as a grave.

Not all Lords were doing nothing.

They also passed through one or two relatively peaceful villages. Upon asking around, they learned that the local Baron or Viscount had reduced some taxes, opened up parts of the forests for villagers to forage and hunt, and even distributed some old grain from their own storehouses as relief.

But these efforts seemed so isolated and feeble in a land that felt as if its life force had been completely drained away.

More common were Lords like Count Hoffman, who not only failed to provide relief but took advantage of the situation to raise taxes, enforce forced labor, and even allow their subordinates to forcibly buy up the last bits of farmland the peasants depended on for survival at low prices.

One night while making camp, Luke couldn’t help but whisper to Knight Davies, "My lord, this whole way... it doesn’t feel like a natural disaster. It’s more like... like the entire Continent has fallen into chaos."

Knight Davies, the old Knight who had been through battle and witnessed the wickedness of the human heart, added a log to the campfire. The flames danced across his weathered face. "The natural disaster was just the trigger, Luke. Once human greed is unleashed, it’s more terrifying than any flood or beast."

He glanced at the silent carriage not far away and lowered his voice even more. "Some people are probably hoping for the water to get even murkier so they can fish in it."

Inside the carriage, Murphy was not asleep.

He gazed through the window at the heavy darkness outside.

The words of Davies and Luke reached his ears clearly.

Yes.

This was no simple natural disaster, nor was it a mere coincidence of concentrated outbreaks of mismanagement.

This was a meticulously planned and tacitly coordinated "harvest."