Chapter 2 : Chapter 2
Chapter 2: Fifty Wastes and a Dragon Egg
Stepping out of the council hall, the glaring sunlight made Caesar instinctively squint.
He took a deep breath of the castle's free yet frigid air, and the pent-up frustration in his chest seemed to dissipate somewhat.
On the training grounds outside the castle, his so-called "pioneering expedition" had already assembled.
The scene was a hundred times more miserable than the worst-case scenario he had imagined.
Fifty guards stood in scattered formation—rather than calling them an army, they looked more like a motley collection scraped together from a refugee camp.
The Baron's "loyal" men, translated plainly, meant "the old, the weak, the sick, and the crippled."
Most were around forty years old, gaunt and sallow-faced, their eyes numb and hollow. Their leather armor was so worn it looked like rats had gnawed on it, and their weapons were a chaotic assortment—rusted old swords, chipped axes, and some even carried sharpened wooden sticks.
One old soldier leaned against the corner of a wall, coughing violently as if trying to hack up his lungs.
Another used his spear as a crutch, barely supporting his tottering body.
The entire formation reeked of despair and waiting for death.
Nearby sat ten creaking wagons, their wheel ruts shallow in the ground. They were covered with oilcloth, but from what peeked out at the edges, there was nothing but moldy hay and a few sacks of unidentifiable grain.
The corner of Caesar's mouth curled into a cold sneer.
What a dear father. What a wonderful elder brother.
They truly weren't planning to leave him any way out—they couldn't even be bothered with keeping up appearances.
His gaze swept across this ragtag bunch of misfits before finally settling on the iron tower of an old knight beside him.
Roland.
Roland the Skullcrusher, once the sharpest blade under his father's command. Because he had contradicted Lucius during a conflict, he'd been stripped of his chief instructor position and thrown to guard the warehouse.
Now he'd been tossed to Caesar like garbage.
This man would be, for a very long time to come, his only—and strongest—guarantee of martial power.
"Knight Roland."
Caesar spoke, his voice not loud but crystal clear.
"My lord."
Roland had already removed his helmet, revealing a head of gray-white cropped hair and that vicious scarred face.
Looking at the formation before him, those eyes that had once been sharp as an eagle's were now as calm as stagnant water.
"What do you think of our expedition?"
Caesar asked with interest.
Roland fell silent for a full half-minute, as if searching for words that wouldn't be too hurtful.
"My lord, they… at least they're still breathing."
Far from being angry at this response, Caesar actually laughed quietly.
"Breathing is good enough."
He nimbly mounted a black horse the steward had brought over—this horse was actually the only "quality item" in the entire lot.
He surveyed those fifty numb faces and called out clearly.
"Then let's depart. Our new life can't wait any longer!"
In Roland's stagnant eyes, a trace of surprise finally flickered.
He had imagined this young master might fly into a rage, might weep and wail, might even collapse on the spot and give up struggling.
But he hadn't expected Caesar's reaction to be so calm—calm with an undertone of… excitement?
"Move out! Destination: the Wailing Wastes!"
Roland suppressed his doubts and roared with all his strength.
The formation slowly lurched into motion. The wagon wheels ground across the stone-paved road with tooth-aching creaks, like a long and hopeless funeral dirge.
Caesar sat on his horse, turning back for one last look at that towering castle.
His father and brother stood atop the highest tower like two cold black dots, looking down on this shabby death march as it departed.
Caesar didn't wave farewell. He simply gave them a mental middle finger.
「Just wait. Once I've cobbled together firecrackers out in the wastes, the first batch is coming back as your New Year's gift.」
He withdrew his gaze and sank his consciousness into his mind.
"System, open the Beginner's Gift Package."
【Ding! Beginner's Gift Package opened!】
【Congratulations, Host has received:】
【1. "God's Eye" Survey Technique (Basic): Can survey all resources within a hundred-meter radius, including type, reserves, and quality.】
【2. Territory Construction Basic Blueprint Package: Contains design plans and construction methods for over ten basic structures including lumber mill, quarry, farmland, simple dwellings, wooden watchtower, etc.】
【3. High-yield crop "Earth Potato" seeds x 100 kilograms. (Note: Extremely high yield, highly adaptable, suitable as staple food.)】
【4. Unique Talent: Hundredfold Amplification (Passive). Effect: All numerical gains the host obtains through the system (such as resources, experience, etc.) have a small chance of triggering a random amplification effect of 1-100 times.】
Caesar's breathing nearly stopped in that instant.
Survey technique! Building blueprints! Potatoes!
These three items were practically a custom-made pioneer starter kit!
Especially the "Earth Potato"—wasn't this just the potato from his previous life?
In this medieval-background world with its low productivity, this thing's value was comparable to gold!
And what made his heart race most wildly was that unique talent called "Hundredfold Amplification"!
Random amplification? One to a hundred times?
What did that mean?
If he planted 100 kilograms of potatoes and triggered a tenfold amplification, he'd harvest a ton? If he triggered a hundredfold, that's ten tons?!
Caesar forcibly suppressed his urge to throw his head back and laugh maniacally, but he couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from curling upward.
This wave—he wasn't just breaking even! Blood profit!
Where was the exile in this? This was clearly a god-tier opening, a dragon's rise!
The formation marched for most of the day, stopping to make camp by a small stream as darkness approached.
The grizzled veterans listlessly built fires, unloaded a few sacks of blackish wheat-bran bread from the wagons, distributed one piece per person, and swallowed them down with stream water.
Caesar sat by the fire, gnawing on the equally tooth-breaking black bread, but his gaze kept drifting to Roland.
The old knight wasn't resting. Instead, he meticulously patrolled the camp's perimeter, checking the sentries and correcting the half-hearted defensive works those undisciplined soldiers had thrown together.
He was like a tireless machine—even with a squad full of wastes under his command, he would never lower his own standards.
This was a true soldier.
Caesar reached a judgment in his heart.
He wiped his hands, stood up, and walked toward Roland.
"Knight Roland."
"My lord."
Roland stopped and turned.
"Sit."
Caesar pointed to a clean rock nearby.
Roland hesitated for a moment, then sat as instructed.
"Do you hate my father?"
Caesar cut straight to the point, the question stabbing like a blade at the vital spot.
Roland's body went rigid, those hawk-like eyes locking onto Caesar.
"My lord, please watch your words! Baron Anjou was my master!"
"Yes. Was."
Caesar calmly corrected him.
"Now, your master is me."
"He threw you—this old blade that fought for him for twenty years—away like garbage, making you accompany me, this waste, to our deaths."
"If it were me, I'd hate him."
Roland's breathing grew heavy. The scar on his face twisted in the firelight like a living thing.
He clenched his fists and fell silent.
Caesar smiled, pulled out a heavy leather pouch from his breast, and tossed it over.
"Inside this is the startup capital the Baron gave me. One hundred gold coins."
Roland instinctively caught it, the weight making his heart skip.
"My lord, what are you—"
"Fifty coins. They're yours."
Caesar's tone was as indifferent as discussing the weather.
"Take this money and leave right now. Find somewhere no one knows you, buy a small farm, marry a wife, have a kid, and wait for death in peace. That's better than following me and dying in some nameless corner of the wastes."
Roland's hand gripping the pouch bulged with veins.
He stared hard at Caesar, trying to see through what kind of trick this youth with his still-childish face was playing.
This was a test. A naked gamble.
Caesar was betting that an old soldier's final honor and dignity wouldn't be bought for fifty gold coins.
He wanted to use this method to sever all of Roland's ties to the past, to make him see clearly who was truly worth his loyalty now.
If he lost the bet, he'd lose a powerful knight—but he'd see into a man's heart.
If he won, he'd gain a truly loyal companion he could trust to watch his back.
Time crawled by second by second. The firewood in the fire pit crackled and popped.
The fifty old soldiers in the camp also noticed the commotion and turned curious gazes this way.
Finally, Roland slowly stood up and respectfully placed the pouch—heavy enough to secure his comfort for the rest of his life—back at Caesar's feet.
Then he knelt on one knee, right hand to his chest, and lowered that proud head he had never truly lowered to anyone before.
This time, his voice was no longer merely raspy—it carried a kind of unburdened determination.
"My sword, my life—from this day forward, they belong only to you, Lord Caesar."
Caesar smiled. His first genuine smile of the day.
He personally helped Roland to his feet.
"Welcome aboard, Roland."
But he didn't stop there.
He turned around, his gaze sweeping across those fifty old soldiers craning their necks to watch the show, and his voice suddenly rose.
"I know what you're all thinking."
Caesar's voice carried across the small camp.
"You think you're garbage abandoned by the family. Sent here to die alongside me."
"You're right. In their eyes, that's exactly what you are."
A stir ran through the crowd. Several old soldiers' faces showed humiliation and anger.
"But!"
Caesar's tone shifted sharply.
"From today onward, you no longer serve the Valerius family!"
"Your indenture contracts are in my hands! Now, you fight for me—Caesar Valerius!"
He picked up the remaining pouch and with a metallic clatter, poured all the coins onto the ground.
Fifty gleaming gold coins flickered with fatal temptation in the firelight.
"Here are fifty gold coins! One for each of you!"
Everyone was stunned, including Roland, who had just sworn his loyalty.
"Take them!"
Caesar pointed at the coins on the ground.
"This is your first wage! I don't care if you were thieves, drunkards, or cowards in the past!"
"But from today onward, you are my soldiers! My soldiers get paid!"
He paused, looking at those faces frozen in shock, and raised the stakes.
"This is just the beginning! Once we reach the Wailing Wastes, every house we build, every inch of land we cultivate, every monster we slay, every ore we dig up—everyone gets a share of the profits!"
"Follow me, and you're no longer undisciplined soldiers waiting to die—you're founding heroes! You'll have your own land, your own houses. Meat at every meal, drink at every meal!"
"Of course."
The corner of Caesar's mouth curled cunningly.
"You can also take that gold coin and scram tonight. I won't stop you."
"But I should warn you—out here in the wilderness, how long a deserter clutching a gold coin can survive depends entirely on your own luck."
With that, he stopped looking at the crowd and turned toward his tent.
The entire camp fell deathly silent.
A moment later, the oldest soldier trembled forward, picked up a gold coin, clutched it tightly, and then clumsily saluted Caesar's retreating back.
With the first, came the second, the third…
All fifty old soldiers silently stepped forward, each picking up a coin.
They looked at the coins in their hands, then at each other. In their numb eyes, for the first time, a small but real flame ignited.
That flame was called hope.
Inside the tent, Caesar listened to the sounds outside, his smile deepening.
He carefully pulled out a dragon egg covered in black scale patterns from his breast. In the firelight, the markings on the shell seemed to flow slowly.