Chapter Ten: The Doctrine of the Fist

On the western slope of the village, surrounded by villagers, Olina laid the old village chief’s body in the grave and covered it with the first shovelful of earth.

The villagers were deeply saddened. An elder was essential to the community, especially the village chief. His vast knowledge and experience had helped them through crisis after crisis, and now he was gone.

Standing on the outskirts of the group, pinching her nose with clear distaste, Aimoa looked at the half-naked, wild-looking villagers and said, “He wasn’t even your father—do you really need to be so sentimental?”

Olina made no response, continuing to bury the earth.

The villagers quietly shifted away, gathering on the opposite side, doing their best to keep their foul-smelling bodies from offending this noble lady.

Qin Le watched it all in silence, offering no comment.

Perhaps this was the truest form of the ancient world: the lives of commoners counted for little, the upper classes never regarded the lower classes as people, and the lower classes did not see themselves as people either.

They were numb to everything—the world, themselves, and those around them. Like animals, as long as they had enough to eat, they remained unresponsive no matter how much others oppressed or exploited them.

This princess’s behavior was odd—so strange it bordered on uncanny.

“You, come here.” Aimoa pointed imperiously at a villager who looked less frail than the others. “Fetch some water so the foolish princess can wash the mud off herself.”

“Yes... yes, milady.” The villager immediately turned and sprinted away toward the mud-walled houses.

“Truly ignorant peasants—they can barely speak,” Aimoa muttered, stepping further back until she stood beside Qin Le.

Noticing Qin Le also keeping his distance, she remarked offhandedly, “Seems we’re the same—both disgusted by these filthy fools. Olina really is something, always mingling with the commoners despite being a princess. No wonder the human nobility shuns her.”

“They’re not what I dislike,” Qin Le replied with a slight shake of his head.

No one is born knowledgeable; all people come to understand and transform the world through a lifetime of labor and experience. In ancient societies, to maintain stability, the upper classes invented fictitious gods and a false sense of sanctity to make the masses believe their oppression was natural.

It wasn’t that the people could not resist, nor that they were stupid—only that their environment shaped them so. From birth, the entire world told them everything was predestined: a farmer’s son would always be a farmer, a carpenter’s son a carpenter, a noble’s son a noble.

It seemed that even in this fantastical world of supernatural powers, the kind of romantic, beautiful world he remembered from his previous life could not exist.

“No one is born noble, no one is born wise—we’re all just two-legged creatures in the end.”

He finished and found his own philosophical musings a little ridiculous.

The truth was, he didn’t feel much sympathy for these people, nor did he have any intention of liberating them. His own people, his own country were still in danger; he had no mind to save outsiders.

With the problem of the arcane law still unresolved, they had no energy to rescue these peasants.

Perhaps this was what set him apart from his teacher and the others—he always thought of himself first.

Aimoa looked thoroughly confused; she found the high humans’ words difficult and rather baffling.

The guns, and the sudden appearance of nine new people, had convinced her these were high humans. At first, she suspected their black hair and eyes were some kind of technological disguise, but such terrifying weapons as firearms could not be faked.

From the various firearms each of them carried, she could see that these guns were standard-issue—like swords for them, not rare treasures.

In the past, Aimoa would never have believed such fearsome weapons were not rare magical items.

Just then, the villager who had run off returned, carrying a battered wooden bucket filled with clear water.

“Milady, here’s the water you asked for.”

“Put it on the ground.” Pinching her nose, Aimoa took a few copper coins from her pocket and tossed them at the villager. “This is your reward. Don’t complain it’s too little—if I gave you more, it might cost you your life.”

The villager stared dumbly at the coins lying in the dirt, his filthy expression frozen.

“What, not enough?” Aimoa frowned slightly, thinking this fool didn’t know what was good for him.

“No, no!” The villager hurriedly knelt, quickly gathering up the coins before kowtowing several times. “Thank you, milady, thank you!”

He never imagined fetching a bucket of water would earn him copper coins that could buy precious food. This lord was truly generous.

Aimoa waved him off in disgust, and the villager, after a few more bows, retreated into the crowd, envied by the others.

“Olina, you fool, when you’re done burying him, come out and wash the mud off—we need to get moving!” Aimoa called, pinching her nose.

...

Half an hour later, a rickety wagon set out from the village. The cart moved at a steady pace, flanked by fully armed soldiers jogging on either side.

The horses pulling the cart wore iron armor, an odd pairing with the battered wagon—these had belonged to the knights who’d been killed.

Driving the cart was the same farmer who had fetched water for Aimoa; he was the only one in the village with any experience handling a wagon.

Inside sat Qin Le, Falcon, Fishhead, Olina, and Aimoa.

“Why can a knight take one look and kill an innocent person?” Qin Le repeated the question Olina had suddenly asked him.

“Do you happen to know why?” Olina looked at the fierce-faced man with black hair, her eyes full of hope.

Perhaps the high humans could resolve her confusion.

Why could knights and nobles decide the fate of others at will? Even when a person had done nothing wrong, knights and nobles could kill the innocent on a whim. This was a question that had always troubled Olina, especially after entering the palace and becoming a princess—it came to her more and more often.

“In the past, I thought it was because they were born noble, that they had the right to decide others’ lives. After all, the kingdom’s laws say serfs are the lord’s property. But it doesn’t seem right, does it? We’re all just people with two legs—why should anyone be born noble?”

Qin Le didn’t answer right away. He stared at Olina, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “I remember you’re a princess—why would you think this way?”

One’s station shapes one’s mind. Nobles rarely consider what life is like for the lower classes; their own interests are all that matter.

Now, the gravest malady of this society was voiced by one of its highest nobles.

Qin Le couldn’t imagine why a princess, lofty and privileged, would harbor such doubts—even if she loved her people dearly. In this world, nobles and commoners weren’t even seen as the same species; to decide a peasant’s life or death was a right and a benefit. Those who benefit rarely question their own interests.

Olina replied, “I wasn’t born a princess.”

Not born a princess? Qin Le’s confusion deepened.

Aimoa explained, “Olina was just a commoner until she was ten. Then, for some reason, it was discovered she had royal blood, and she was brought to the palace as a princess.”

Now Qin Le understood. No wonder a princess would raise such a pointed question.

“Because the nobles’ fists are bigger—big enough to keep the commoners beneath them,” Qin Le answered, though he didn’t give the real answer.

Perhaps, because of her own experiences, this princess had ideas far ahead of her time—or perhaps these were merely a young girl’s musings. She wouldn’t understand the real answer, and Qin Le had no interest in explaining.

Besides, this was a world with supernatural powers—its social structure was nothing like the two worlds he’d known. He had no right to judge it by his own experiences.

Perhaps the nobles didn’t rely on fabricated sanctity or systemic exploitation, but on absolute violence. Did that mean a people’s uprising was impossible?

Even if the lower classes united, they still might not be able to overthrow the upper class—the power gap was simply too great.

“Because their fists are bigger?” Olina echoed, then asked blankly, “So if my fists were big enough, would people have to listen to me?”

“In theory, yes,” Qin Le nodded.

If your fists are big enough, you can suppress anyone—but whether they truly submit is another matter.

“I see,” Olina murmured, falling into thought. The high humans hadn’t given her the answer she’d hoped for.

An odd silence filled the wagon. No one knew how much time passed before the driver called out, “Sirs and ladies, we’ve arrived at Daina City.”