Eric told the truth. After all, there was no point in lying at a time like this.
"Alright, Priest, I sympathize with your plight, but please respect my post. We can't let you pass without something to prove your Identity.
After all, it's like me saying I'm the Pope. You just happen to be wearing a cassock."
The guard waved his hand, indicating he didn't want to hear any more and motioning for Eric to leave.
Eric sighed and walked away from the crowd.
'Damn it. If I ever see that Welsh thief again, I'll make her regret it.'
'Looks like I'll be stuck in Xialing for a few days. Every day in the city is another expense.'
The guard watched Eric leave, then looked back at the long line of suitors.
He sighed.
Just as he sat down, he realized the ground beneath him was wet.
"Huh? Where's my lance? Where's my lance?"
"Hey! My lance is gone too! Who stole my lance?!"
...
Mills were the most notorious grey area of the entire Middle Ages. They existed not just to process grain and make flour, but also for—fencing stolen goods.
Every village or small town had one or two mills. There weren't many Mill Masters, but they all possessed very flexible moral standards, and each was a master of their own unique craft.
"What? You're telling me all this stuff is only worth nine silver pence? Are you kidding me?! This is worth at least thirty silver pence. Look, there's even a gold ring in here."
Eric slammed his hand on the wooden table, leaving a palm print on the solid wood. With his left hand, he arched his fingers, seizing the old man by the neck and temple and forcing his head down onto the table's surface.
"I could snap your neck in the next second! You insatiable fiend!"
His withered, short body looked like a scrawny chick in front of Eric.
With the slightest exertion, Eric, who had the strength to shatter a wooden table, could break his neck. And yet, facing Eric's intimidating presence, the old man's expression remained unchanged.
"Eric, you know there's no point in this. I know you're not one of those Normans who only relies on brute force."
The old man was something of an acquaintance to Eric; he was Eric's usual go-to for fencing stolen goods.
It wasn't that Eric particularly trusted the old man—in fact, no Mill Master was trustworthy. But these cunning Mill Masters never intended to be trusted in the first place. The people who dealt with them were mostly desperados, thieves, and robbers. These sly Mill Masters had long since banded together, forming a Mill Master organization, much like the guilds in the cities.
If you refused to fence your goods locally, Mill Masters elsewhere would also refuse your business. Thus, using various means to drive down prices was a common occurrence.
He'd let the lowballing slide the last few times, but this time he desperately needed the money. The stolen package had contained not only last year's market permit but also his credentials as a Cultivator.
And as a Cultivator, he was exempt from taxes wherever he went.
Due to the endless rebellions against King William in England, the King had allowed the Nobility to set up numerous checkpoints throughout the land, which the Prefects, Counts, and Barons below them used to rake in exorbitant profits.
For the past two years, the only group that could move freely through England without restriction or cost was the clergy. This was why Eric had never relinquished his status as a Priest; he wanted to grind his Level up in the Newbie Village and save up enough gear before setting out.
The convenience of a Priest's Identity led many merchants to start impersonating clergymen, transporting goods in the name of Monasteries and Churches.
As a result, checkpoints now required Priests to show their credentials. Having lost his, Eric could neither meet the Count to exchange for a new market permit—in fact, he had just gone to the Count's castle at noon, only to be thrown out immediately upon revealing he had no credentials—nor could he return to the Monastery without being charged hefty tolls at the checkpoints. This meant his entire trip would be for almost nothing.
"Brother Eric, none of this is by my design. It's that detestable King William who authorized the Nobility to set up checkpoints everywhere. The goods you brought can only fetch half their usual price at best now, and whether we even get that much depends on the mood of the tax collector."
"Whose mood?"
"The tax collector's, of course."
"Wait a minute. You're a Mill Master fencing stolen goods, and you have to worry about the tax collector's mood? What happened to your 'flexible moral standards'? You really think you're a law-abiding citizen now?"
"This Count of Hereford is a greedy hypocrite, always inventing new kinds of taxes. Nowadays, you even have to pay a tax for gathering firewood on barren land. In a little while, he'll probably start taxing the air we breathe."
Seeing that Eric wasn't letting go of him despite his "grievances," the old man knew it was time to "yield."
After all, if Eric really lost his temper, he could easily snap his neck. Not a single juror would press charges on behalf of a Mill Master, and those Norman Judges, with their prejudice against the English, would absolutely side with Eric.
"Alright, Eric, I know about your recent run of bad luck. I can give you an idea. If you're skilled enough—which, of course, is beyond doubt—you could earn a reward far greater than thirty silver pence."
"I'm listening."
'This was what he'd been waiting for.' People like the Mill Master always played the victim, but their real goal was to drive down the price. They always left themselves an escape route, and it was precisely these kinds of people who had endless ways of making money.
Therefore, if you squeezed them a little, you could always get something out of a Mill Master.
The Mill Master pointed to a rather crude-looking stall not far from the mill. A conspicuous word was written on a wooden plank next to it: TOURNAMENT.
The rewards section listed: The victor will receive 1,000 silver pence, a full set of riveted Chain Armor, a Fine Forged Lance, a Warhorse, and a full Horse Harness.
(1 silver pence can buy enough bread for a poor person to live on for a week.)
Registration fee is 5 silver pence. Well-trained English Heroes and Norman Knights, the time has come to prove yourselves! Show your valor to God! May Saint George protect you! Blessings upon the strongest!
"Are you taking me for a fool? Only Nobility can participate in tournaments."
"With that damn King locking down all of England, it's a wonder Hereford can even hold a tournament at all. They don't care if you're Nobility or not. A shoemaker competed yesterday. Those noble ladies just want to see rivers of blood."
"The registration fee..."
"Don't worry, don't worry, don't worry! I'll pay! I'll pay!!!"