Chương 375: 375：The Orc Spy in the Camp

Naturally, the heavy burden of guarding the territory fell squarely onto the shoulders of the Intelligence Captain, Meyer. At this moment, on the outermost northern defense line of Greywater Town—just beyond the continuous stretches of trapdoor poison-spike pits—a temporary forward screening camp stood tall amidst the howling blizzard. In the freezing wind, hundreds of newly arrived wanderers and mercenaries stood in four long, strictly ordered columns.

The air was thick with the sour stench of sweat and anxious, guarded breaths. Meyer, who was in charge of frontline screening, sat behind a black nanmu wood desk. His eyes, sharp with the [Chameleon] trait's vigilance, scrutinized every single person before him. The terrifying, oppressive aura emanating from behind him was the sole reason these violent, battle-hardened vagabonds and mercenaries were queuing so obediently, not daring to step out of line! Thud! Thud!

Accompanying the perfectly synchronized footsteps, exactly thirty of Greywater Town's frontline elites stood in a horizontal row behind Meyer. Clad in heavy armor, they exuded an impenetrable, overwhelming presence! Every one of them was fully equipped in [Dark Silver Plate Armor]. Forged from a blend of mithril and black steel, the metal gleamed with a dark luster, encasing them so seamlessly that only a narrow breathing slit remained on their visors.

The guards on the left wielded [Geared Heavy Repeating Crossbows]—weapons that required a winch to draw—their lethal bolts aimed directly at the throats of the crowd. The guards on the right gripped 2. 5-meter-long armor-piercing heavy halberds, resting the massive, broad blades so heavily onto the frozen ground that spiderweb cracks fractured the ice beneath them!

Having all ingested the [Basic Troll Serum], the sheer vitality radiating from these thirty elites coalesced into a suffocating pressure that blanketed the entire camp.

"Gods... is this really a human army?" Within the ranks, a burly mercenary who often boasted of his three years as a heavy-armored swordsman in the Ironpeak Duchy stared at the frontline elites. His legs trembled unsteadily, his back drenched in cold sweat. In the outside world, a man who could afford iron half-plate was already considered a lord.

Yet here, even the gate guards assigned to maintain order in Greywater Town were clad in composite armor so advanced he had never even seen its like—a single glance was enough to shake him to his core! Under such overwhelming martial deterrence, despite the massive and diverse influx of refugees, the lines remained perfectly orderly. The surroundings were so dead silent that not a single person dared to cause even the slightest hint of a disturbance.

Just then, a scrawny wandering swordsman stepped up to Meyer's desk. Bound tightly to his waist with strips of cloth was a sharpened fine-steel longsword—the very weapon he relied on to survive.

"The rules are written on the wooden sign," Meyer said, not even bothering to look up as he gestured to the side with his ink-stained quill. His tone left absolutely zero room for negotiation.

"No weapons allowed. Any personnel not officially affiliated with Greywater Town who wish to take even a single step into the territory must surrender their personal swords, heavy crossbows, and even concealed magic scrolls. Toss them all into that iron basket." The wandering swordsman subconsciously gripped his hilt. In this world, giving up your weapon was tantamount to handing your life over to someone else.

"My lord..." the swordsman gritted his teeth, attempting to bargain.

"This sword is a family heirloom left behind by my late father! I swear my undying loyalty to Lord Soren, but this sword... I promise I won't draw it within the territory. Could you make an exception and let me bring it in?" Thinking it would add weight to his plea, he hastily added, "I'm a Gale Swordsman! My combat prowess will be of great use to you!" The moment the words left his mouth— Thrum! Without a single wasted word, one of the frontline elites behind Meyer sharply raised his arm.

The [Geared Heavy Repeating Crossbow] was aimed dead center at the wandering swordsman's forehead! The mechanical creak of the winch ratcheting tight echoed through the silent camp, sounding like a grim reaper's death sentence. If he pulled the trigger, the heavy bolt—powerful enough to pierce a heavily armored Earth Dragon—would blast the swordsman's entire upper torso into a mist of blood!

"An exception?" Meyer slowly raised his head.

"In Lord Soren's territory, there is only iron law. There are no exceptions." Meyer delivered his verdict, articulating every single word.

"I don't care if you are a serf or a knight! If you want to enter Greywater Town, if you want a mouthful of the Swamp Tubers we grew with our blood and sweat, if you want to enjoy the sanctuary granted by the Lord!" The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Then you will obediently put down your weapon, strip off your armor, and accept the labor arrangements we assign you!"

"And if you insist on bringing threatening weapons into this territory..." Meyer suddenly stood up, pointing aggressively toward the toxic mist of the swamp behind them as he roared, "Then get the hell out! Go back into the swamp and feed the Two-Headed Demon Crocs!" A suffocating, lethal killing intent locked onto the wandering swordsman. This was a man who had killed and seen blood out in the world, yet under the crushing disparity in strength, his psychological defenses crumbled in an instant.

"I yield! I surrender them! My lord, don't shoot!" he shrieked in terror. Fumbling in panic, he unbuckled the sword at his waist and even hastily dug out a boning knife concealed in his boot, tossing them far away into the iron basket already brimming with discarded weapons. Faced with such tyrannical screening methods, no one else dared to test Greywater Town's bottom line. The entire crowd became exceptionally docile, devoid of even the slightest hint of defiance.

Having resolved the armed threat, Meyer picked up his quill once more and opened the thick registration ledger. At that moment, his innate talents—[Linguistic Mimicry] and [Photographic Memory]—went into overdrive!

"Strict registration! Next, step forward!" A middle-aged man, trembling with fear, shuffled up to the desk.

"Name? Place of origin? Which Lord did you previously serve? What combat skills do you possess? Do you have any trade skills?" Meyer fired off the questions in rapid succession, his piercing gaze locked onto the man.

"This lowly one... I am called Bart. I was originally a third-class serf from the outskirts of Redrock City in the Ironpeak Duchy. I n-never served a major lord," the man stammered.

"I swung a greatsword for two years, and I used to help the lord repair the city walls, so I know a little stonemasonry..."

"Redrock City?" Meyer's mind immediately went to work. His brain contained comprehensive intelligence on every major province in the North.

"The soil in Redrock City is red, and the region suffers from year-round drought. Serfs from that area have a strict habit of sprinkling two drops of water on the ground to honor the Earth Mother before drinking! When you received your ration of relief water in line just now, why did you gulp it all down in one breath?"

"Furthermore, why does your Common tongue have the distinct rolled 'r's typical of the northern Orcs near Abysswater Keep?!" Meyer's voice suddenly spiked in volume, ringing so loudly it made the man's eardrums tingle. The middle-aged man jerked violently. He never imagined that his casually fabricated cover story wouldn't even survive a single second before being mercilessly dismantled by this terrifying interrogator!

"I... I..." The man tried to formulate a lie, his jaw tensing as he prepared to bite down on the poison capsule hidden in his back molar. Bam! Gary, the Trap Captain who had been standing quietly to the side, lunged forward with explosive agility. He delivered a precise, vicious hand-chop straight to the man's carotid artery! The man's eyes rolled back. Without so much as a squeak, he slumped limply to the floor. A false tooth coated in lethal poison slipped from his slack jaw and rolled onto the ground.

The crowd erupted in a hushed uproar; the refugees gasped in unison.

"A human lapdog trained by the Orcs! Trying to pose as a refugee to infiltrate Greywater Town and spy on us?" Meyer crushed the poison tooth beneath his boot, sneering coldly.

"Tie him up! Drag him to the holding dungeons in the rear. I will personally extract the Orcs' upcoming defensive movements from him!" This brutal, uncompromising display of punishment shattered any illusions held by other spies or traitors hiding in the crowd. More importantly, it gave every genuine refugee seeking asylum a profound realization of just how ironclad and efficient Greywater Town's administration truly was!

"Next!" Meyer flattened his ledger once more. Every rapid stroke of his pen served a single purpose: comprehensively converting this influx of population into detailed statistics. Blacksmiths were assigned as assistants in the Hobgoblin Luger's military workshop. Those who knew archery were handed over to the sharpshooter Ein for evaluation. As for the able-bodied who only knew how to swing a hoe, they were funneled directly into the recruit camp commanded by Felix.

Bright and early tomorrow morning, they would be sent to dig the foundations for the grand stone walls! Looking at line after line of demographic data—representing robust productivity and fresh troops now firmly in Greywater Town's grasp—Meyer felt the profound weight of the monumental responsibility resting upon his shoulders.