Chapter Thirty-Six: The Caravan

At the edge of a vast forest, many travelers had gathered to rest. The old man gazed at the perplexed young man before him and smiled gently. “When you’ve come this way often enough, you naturally grow familiar with this land.”

“Uncle Jetton has been here longer than anyone,” remarked a man who seemed to be a leader; there was a note of wistfulness in his eyes.

“More than twenty years ago, when I was still young, I ran this road back and forth,” replied the old man named Jetton with a shake of his head and a wry smile. “Back then, the great God of Nature had not yet awakened from slumber, and the trade routes here were nowhere near as prosperous as they are now.”

At these words, the crowd around them fell into a brief, resonant silence.

“That’s right. There wasn’t even a proper road here in those days. It was only through the countless journeys of people like us that a path was eventually forced through,” someone else added, their eyes distant with memory.

“It was a painful time. I still remember how poor my family was—we could barely scrape together enough food to support my parents,” sighed another.

Hearing these memories, the young man grew curious. “Was this place so different twenty years ago?”

The others exchanged glances and smiled knowingly.

“Twenty years ago, this place was nothing like it is now,” someone said, shaking his head with a sigh.

The warrior among them stood, glanced north, then gestured toward the wagons behind. “In the north, under the protection of the God of Nature, every tribe is served by numerous priests. The God of Nature holds sway over all the world’s wilds, and his priests receive his grace and the power to commune with nature.”

“In the southern city-states, even on the finest and most fertile estates, a single acre yields little more than a hundred bushels. But here, thanks to the priests’ careful cultivation, even the poorest earth can yield five hundred bushels per acre—five times the southern yield. That’s the difference.”

The ‘bushel’ here was their measure of grain, each about equivalent to two pounds in the old world...

“It’s not just grain—there’s the linen from northern flax, rare fruits and seeds, and the excellent potions and herbs cultivated by the priests. All of these are scarce and expensive in the south, yet abundant and cheap here.”

“One trip here brings in enough profit to live in comfort for years,” the warrior added, pausing.

He moved aside and pointed to the ragged figures behind, some alone and others with their families, most dressed in tattered clothes. “These people are those who couldn’t make a living in the south—freemen from the southern domains, driven by hardship to seek acceptance among the northern tribes. Along the way, they earn scraps of food by helping merchant caravans transport goods.”

“In the past, before the God of Nature awakened, there was none of this. Life was truly hard.”

“So what was here back then?” the young man pressed, glancing with pity at the pallid, ragged faces around him.

“In the past?” The warrior let out a cold laugh. “Animal hides, a few local specialties, and endless strange phantoms and magical beasts.”

At his words, the crowd seemed to blanch, as if some dreadful memory had seized them.

“Speaking of corrupted beasts, just the other day, a village in the south was wiped out by a pack of them,” Jetton said with a sigh.

“Have you noticed how, in recent years, there are more and more corrupted beasts? Decades ago, such news was rare, but now, every few months, another southern village is slaughtered—everywhere except here.”

The company fell silent, gazing quietly at the landscape around them.

After some time, a few people wandered over to another spot, where a group was gathered in prayer.

“What are they doing?” someone new to the area asked.

The old man looked over and smiled. “Those are travelers and merchants who worship the God of Nature. Every time they reach this stream, they gather there to pray.”

He paused, then took a leaf-shaped badge from his chest. “Would anyone care to join me in prayer?”

At this, many around him smiled and rose to follow. Years of trading in the north had brought these people into contact with the God of Nature. Having witnessed his great power, most had chosen to worship him; those who did not still paid handsomely for blessings from the priests.

One by one, people stood until nearly half had gathered to pray.

Later, the travelers took out their stored provisions, ate with water, and continued on their way.

As dusk approached, led by old Jetton, the group caught sight of a small town in the distance.

Several watchtowers stood outside the town, with warriors clad in vine armor keeping watch. When the approaching caravans were spotted, two of the guards came down to meet them.

“Jetton, is it you again?” one of the warriors called in surprise.

Jetton nodded, a touch of resignation in his voice. “My three children—my eldest went south, and I haven’t heard from him. The other two are busy with their own affairs and couldn’t make the journey.”

“But I brought some of my clan this time—they’re watching the wagons,” he added after a pause.

A second guard grinned. “Ah, so your grandson’s come of age? Bringing him to meet the family, is that it?”

Behind them, the young man watched Jetton’s easy conversation with the guards and looked puzzled.

A companion laughed heartily. “Don’t be surprised—old Jetton is from one of the northern tribes. Of course he knows everyone here.”

Over the years, many from the northern tribes had come south to settle, for life in the north was unbearably harsh before the awakening of Chen Ming. After his awakening, those with old connections became the first merchants on these roads.

Inside the town, newcomers found the scene vastly different from the outside. Every house and building was solid and pleasing to the eye, a faint glow outlining their forms, with a pale green, tree-shaped crest carved above each door.

These buildings were crafted with divine arts, from foundation to material, and even after completion, a priest would be invited to bless them.

Within the town, flowers bloomed everywhere, great trees stood tall, and the plants were lush and neatly arranged, the whole place exuding a sense of careful design.

First-time visitors could not tear their eyes away, staring in wonder at their surroundings.

“Papa, it’s so beautiful here,” a little boy in tattered clothes exclaimed, looking up at his father.

His father smiled faintly, equally awestruck. “This is a place blessed by the gods, my son. Of course it’s beautiful.”

Soon, several warriors approached, led by a priest in a white robe who addressed the newcomers, explaining the rules. The priest then touched a softly glowing divine emblem and, with a murmured spell, sent a wave of healing light over the weary travelers, restoring some of their strength.

Afterward, the warriors led the travelers away.

Watching them go, old Jetton sighed. “The number of refugees arriving here keeps rising.”

The white-robed priest beside him nodded. “This year, the number of refugees is three times what it was before.”

“So many?” Jetton was startled.

“Yes!” a nearby warrior answered with a sigh. “The town is already full. I hear the high priest intends to expand it again this year.”

Jetton shook his head in resignation. “On the way here, I heard several southern city-states are about to go to war. If that happens, even more people will come north.”

His eyes then drifted to the unusually large number of guards patrolling the town. “But tell me, why has security increased so much here all of a sudden?”