NOVPUBAs the poison taster remained frozen, the council erupted in panic.
"See?! It's poisonous, Your Majesty!"
"We must exterminate that hog feed at once!"
"We would've died if we touched it!"
Claude's patience snapped. He slammed the table with a loud bang, silencing the room. The force echoed through the hall like thunder.
"Silence! Let him speak first!"
The room quieted instantly, all eyes snapping back to the taster, who stood stiff as a statue. A thick tension hung in the air.
Some of the nobles still whispered, doubting Claude's judgment, their mutterings like annoying flies buzzing in his ears.
Claude rolled his eyes at their theatrics.
Then finally, the poison taster swallowed and spoke.
"This is delicious, Your Majesty!" he exclaimed, eyes wide with genuine amazement.
"Smooth and soft… the saltiness of the cheese, the creaminess of the milk—it melts on my tongue!" n𝚘vp𝚞𝚋.com
He beamed. "I feel no trace of poison at all!"
Claude leaned back in his chair with a knowing smirk. "See? I told you, gentlemen." He picked up a fry and took a bite.
"The reason it becomes poisonous is due to improper storage or sprouting. Some wild varieties are indeed toxic, but this batch is completely safe."
He chewed thoughtfully, savoring the crisp texture. 'I really do love fries after all.'
The council still hesitated, eyes darting between the plates and one another—until Lloyd, ever the glutton, gave in to curiosity. He reached for a spoonful of mashed potatoes and brought it to his mouth.
His eyes lit up the moment it touched his tongue. "This is… delicious!" he gasped, then eagerly went in for another bite.
The others watched, stunned. One by one, they cautiously tried the dishes: boiled potatoes, fries, creamy mash.
Soon, the table was filled with the sounds of cutlery and quiet murmurs of awe.
Eldrich wiped his lips and nodded slowly. "I… may have misjudged this hog feed."
"Indeed," another agreed. "This would be a blessing for the poor. It's cheap, filling, and surprisingly versatile."
Claude smirked as he watched them eat, this round he won against whoever wanted to sabotage them and even got an advantage because of it.
It didn't take long before they reached a consensus: potatoes would be officially recognized as a staple crop.
Not only would they become a new source of carbohydrates, but they would also be introduced across the kingdom especially Cortinvar and Deepstone Quarry territory —bringing variety, nutrition, and resilience to their food supply.
All thanks to a food once fed to pigs and Claude knowledge from another world.
***
It started with silence.
No one moved when the overseer blew his morning whistle. Usually, the slaves would be lined up before sunrise, shoulders hunched, tools in hand. But that day, they stayed in the barracks.
The overseer—Jeb, a man who liked to swing his cane more than speak—stormed inside, roaring curses.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing? Get up! You think this is a holiday?!"
No one answered.
The eldest among them, a man with grey in his beard and a permanent stoop from years in the fields, stood first. He didn't raise his voice.
He simply said, "We're done breaking our backs for nothing."
Jeb's cane cracked down on the old man's shoulder. The thud echoed in the barracks.
But then someone grabbed the cane from behind. Another slammed the door shut. Jeb's shouting turned to gasps, then silence.
They didn't kill him. Just locked him in the storage shed, gagged and tied.
By the next hour, the roads were blocked with overturned carts and broken fence posts. Barrels filled with stones lined the paths, and the farm's few workhorses were released into the hills. No wagons could leave. No new ones could arrive.
There were no swords, no armor. Just sickles, shovels, and calloused hands. But it was enough.
Over two hundred slaves—men and women, young and old—stood guard at every road into Farrow Hill. No one shouted. There was no speech.
They were done asking.
They would eat the grain they harvested. Rest when they chose. And until someone tore it from their hands, Farrow Hill was theirs.
***
"Slave uprising?"
Claude's brow twitched. It was barely six in the morning, and he was still waist-deep in his bath when William burst into the chamber.
"Yes, Your Majesty! Around two hundred slaves have seized Farrow Hill!" William reported, breathless and pale.
Claude stood abruptly, water sloshing. "That's our main wheat storage—and our most fertile farmland!" he snapped. "Tell Llyold to mobilize his knights. We're taking it back."
"He's already on his way, Your Majesty, but... there's a problem," William hesitated, glancing aside. "Ezra is in his way. He's trying to stop him."
Claude's expression soured. "What? That soft-hearted fool… I should've appointed someone else to oversee the slave system."
He dressed quickly, fingers moving fast with frustration. A rebellion like this couldn't be allowed to spread. If word reached the other farms, this could spiral into something far worse.
Something like the French Revolution that inspired many revolution after it…
When Claude arrived at the meeting hall, the tension was thick even through the door. Raised voices leaked out into the corridor.
"We need to talk with them first—negotiate!" Ezra pleaded from within.
"Negotiate?! They're filth, Ezra! Why would we waste time talking to animals?" Llyold growled, fury in every word.
"They're people—people we've starved and beaten and forced into the dirt! This is the consequence of our own neglect!"
"They're slaves!" Llyold roared back. "Lower than cattle! They should be grateful they're even fed!"
Claude stepped inside.
"Enough."
Both men froze, spinning to face him. Ezra rushed forward.
"Your Majesty! Please, hear me—"
Claude raised a hand. "I understand your reasoning, Ezra. I do. This uprising stems from our failure to provide even the most basic rights. That much is true."
Ezra's face lit with brief hope.
"But you're still a fool," Claude said coldly. "Granting them rights? They aren't citizens."
"The only reason I maintain a slave workforce is to lower the cost of production. That's the reality."
Ezra's gaze fell, his voice lost. Claude rubbed his temple, annoyed.
He'd known someone like this once before. A woman with too much empathy, too much heart. She gave everything for others—and was crushed by the very people she tried to save.
His mother from his first life.
"Ezra," Claude said quietly, "Kindness is admirable. But kindness without boundaries? That's suicide."
Claude's red eyes pierced through him. "That's what destroyed your house, isn't it?"
Ezra opened his mouth, but no words came out. Everything Claude said was true. His family had crumbled because of misplaced compassion. A noble house fallen from naive ideals.
"…I understand," Ezra said at last, bowing his head. "I will follow your lead, Your Majesty."
Claude nodded. "Good."
Then he turned to Llyold. "Assemble your knights. We march to Farrow Hill. This ends today."
A cold smirk tugged at his lips.
'Let's see what their little rebellion is really worth.'
***
Claude, Llyold, and Ezra arrived at the outskirts of Farrow Hill accompanied by only ten knights. But for them, ten was more than enough.
The three of them were capable of toppling a small kingdom—an uprising of untrained slaves was hardly a threat.
Their horses came to a halt when the road was revealed to be blocked—stones, overturned carts, broken furniture, and farming tools formed a makeshift barricade.
As they approached, a volley of rocks flew toward them.
Yet none of the projectiles made contact. Claude and his entourage were protected by a magical barrier, the stones bouncing off harmlessly like rain on glass.
"Hmm. They're attacking from behind the blockade," Claude murmured. "That's surprisingly clever for slaves, wouldn't you say?"
"Tch! Lowly turds, the lot of them!" Llyold snapped, his grip tightening on the reins.
"How dare they throw rocks at the king! Let me deal with them, Your Majesty—just say the word, and I'll burn them to ash!"
"Calm down, Llyold," Claude said, raising a hand lazily. "If they die that quickly, no one will learn anything from this. Let me handle it."
Then, he raised his voice. "Bring me your leader!" he shouted, his words echoing across the field.
The attack ceased. Silence fell over the area, save for murmurs from behind the barricade. Claude's sharpened senses picked up fragments of their whispering—confused voices, cautious warnings.
Moments later, a man stepped forward. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, wearing torn, dirt-covered clothes.
His frame was thin, worn from hard labor, yet his eyes burned with defiance, hatred, and unshakable determination. And all of it was aimed squarely at Claude.
But he didn't come alone.
Behind him, several daemons—overseers who had once lorded over the fields—were being pushed forward.
They were forced to kneel on the ground with sickles pressed tightly against their throats. Their faces were bloodied, expressions filled with humiliation and fear.
"Free us!" the man roared, his voice cracked yet unwavering. "Send us back to our kingdoms!"
His tone carried raw desperation and fire. "We are free people—we refuse to serve under filthy daemons like them!"
With a final show of contempt, he spat onto the ground.
The insult was too much for Llyold. His aura erupted like a storm, the sheer pressure of his power shaking the air around him.
The slaves holding the sickles trembled, their hands barely able to stay steady under the crushing weight of his presence.
But they didn't back down.
"Hah! What a foolish gesture," Claude said with a smirk, tilting his head slightly, speaking before Llyold could explode with violence.
"Do you truly believe that killing these daemons will grant you freedom?"
The man didn't flinch. His grip tightened on the sickle.
"I don't care. Kill them if you want. Do your worst," he said, voice sharp as steel.
