98: Chapter 98 Promotion, Contracts, and the Enemy's Flag

Levi closed the ledger in his hand, his knuckles lightly tapping on the rough parchment cover, producing a dull, rhythmic "thud, thud" sound.

The sky outside the window had completely darkened. A pale moon hung over the jagged mountain peaks, its cold light filtering through the narrow window panes and casting a sheet of icy silver frost onto the floor.

The study was quiet, save for the occasional "crackle" of firewood burning in the fireplace.

Evelyn sat opposite him, checking the final stack of material requisition forms from the dwarven engineer Borin. Her beautiful brows were slightly furrowed, clearly unsettled by the staggering rate of consumption.

Over the past month, the Blackstone Territory had been like a worn-out machine forced into operation and pushed to its maximum power, running with unprecedented efficiency amidst ear-piercing roars and precarious tremors.

Levi hadn't set foot in the quarry again, but several times a day, he received progress reports and data briefings compiled by Evelyn.

He was like a programmer hiding backstage, monitoring the operation of the "humanity algorithm" he had personally written through lines of cold data.

The results were unexpectedly good.

After the initial days of chaos and resistance, the output of the prisoners showed a steep upward curve.

The troublemakers led by Cayden, after experiencing several rounds of isolation, being reported, having points docked, and floggings, finally recognized reality. They either erupted in silence, choosing to work twice as hard for a pittance of extra food, or perished in silence, completely left at the bottom of the social hierarchy by the widening gap in points, where no one would even look them in the eye.

When the pressure of survival was quantified into every stone and every shovel of ore, so-called noble glory became a completely laughable, worthless luxury.

In this cruel game of hyper-competition, the one who took the lead was none other than the figure numbered "001"—Graham Byron, his former grand-uncle, now the "Employee of the Month."

"Thud, thud." Levi's knuckles stopped tapping.

He looked up at Evelyn. "It's about time. Go and bring him here."

Evelyn put down her quill and nodded. She stood up with crisp, efficient movements, without a single word of nonsense.

As the Chief Operating Officer of this emerging management system, she had fully adapted to Levi's result-oriented work style.

The study door closed again. Levi walked to the window alone and pushed open the heavy casement.

A biting mountain wind instantly rushed in, blowing his short black hair into a wild mess and making the firelight in the fireplace flicker unsteadily.

He looked down at the quarry camp at the foot of the mountain, illuminated by torches; it looked like a massive, strictly hierarchical anthill.

Graham stood at the very front of the crowd, expressionless as he listened to the overseer read out his undisputed first-place rank in a raspy voice.

The gazes directed at him were complex to the extreme—envy, resentment, fear, and even a hint of... fawning.

During this month, he had worked in an almost masochistic manner.

He utilized his extensive knowledge of military engineering to push the efficiency of the quarrying operations to the limit.

He divided the prisoners into blasting, mining, transport, and finishing teams based on their physical strength and past skills, establishing a rigorous assembly-line process.

To gain the overseer's tacit approval and some trivial priority rights for tool usage, he proactively handed over his self-authored "Manual for Rapid Identification of Rock Structure and Efficient Mining."

To maximize team output, he ruthlessly squeezed every bit of stamina from his team members, shortening their lunch breaks by half a quarter-hour and establishing internal secondary point-based reward and punishment rules.

He became more like an overseer than the overseers, more like a demon than the demons.

The young people who had once tried to secretly sabotage him, like Cayden, soon discovered that all their small tricks would be used by Graham against them, repaid tenfold through the rules.

An "accidental" tool breakage resulted in Cayden's team being forced to use the shabbiest tools for three consecutive days, causing their points to fall far behind.

An incitement to slack off was reported directly to the overseer by Graham, resulting in a flogging that left everyone trembling with fear.

Gradually, no one dared to challenge his authority anymore.

They began to obey him, fear him, and even rely on him, because everyone realized that following Graham—even if squeezed like a dead dog—always meant earning a few more points than others, which translated to a bowl of thicker gruel.

Using the rules Levi had established, he had completely turned his former colleagues and kin into tools for him to earn points.

"Number 001, Graham Byron!" The overseer finished reading the rankings and shouted loudly, "The Lord summons you. Follow me!"

The crowd parted like a split tide, automatically making a path for him.

Under the gaze of countless eyes, Graham silently followed the overseer, stepping up the stone stairs leading to the main keep one by one.

His pace was steady and his back was ramrod straight, as if he weren't going to face an unknown judgment, but rather to attend a victor's coronation.

The heavy oak door was pushed open before him by the guards. The warm firelight from the fireplace rushed out to meet him, dispelling the chill and the smell of stone dust from the quarry that clung to him.

Levi sat behind the large desk. He didn't stand up, but simply looked at him calmly and made a gesture for him to sit.

Graham didn't stand on ceremony; he pulled out a chair and sat opposite Levi.

This was the first time in a month that the two had looked at each other from such a close distance.

He appraised his nephew and noticed that the other seemed a bit leaner, but those black eyes were deeper than before, like two pools of unfathomable cold water that prevented him from reading any emotion.

Levi didn't speak either. He simply pushed a thick document, bound with fine hemp rope, gently to the center of the desk.

"This is the data summary for the quarry over the past month," Levi's voice broke the silence, as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "Everything from daily stone output, tool wear, and food consumption to records of conflicts between prisoners, injury rates, and the routes and shift times of the night patrol guards is in there."

Graham's gaze fell on the document, but he didn't flip through it immediately.

He smelled a conspiracy, but he remained impassive.

"Based on your past experience leading troops," Levi's finger tapped on the document as he posed a question Graham hadn't anticipated, "which part of this report still has room for optimization?"

This didn't seem like an interrogation of a prisoner; it felt more like a performance review for a subordinate.

Graham's pupils contracted imperceptibly.

He finally raised his hands, covered in old calluses and new wounds, and flipped open the first page of the report.

He read very slowly and very carefully.

Every line of data and every chart was rapidly converted into three-dimensional, dynamic scenes within his experienced mind.

It was as if he were back in a military tent in the North, deducing the course of a battle on a sand table.

Except this time, the enemy was no longer bloodthirsty orcs, but "cost" and "inefficiency."

Time passed minute by minute, and the only sound in the study was the "rustle" of turning pages.

After a long while, Graham closed the report and looked up, a sharp glint flashing in his cloudy eyes.

He didn't waste words and directly held up three fingers.

"First, the tool distribution is irrational," his voice was raspy but powerful. "The heavy pickaxes of the mining group and the steel chisels of the blasting group have the highest wear rates, yet they are mixed with the crowbars of the transport group and the stone hammers of the finishing group for uniform maintenance and replacement. This leads to excessive wear on high-value tools and causes low-value tools to occupy unnecessary maintenance resources. A graded tool management system should be established, with differentiated maintenance and replenishment based on the type of work and wear rate."

Levi nodded without speaking, signaling for him to continue.

"Second, there is redundancy in the night patrol routes." Graham's finger traced a circle in the air. "The west side of the camp borders a cliff, and the east side is the only exit, which is heavily guarded. Yet your patrol spends nearly half its time and manpower patrolling back and forth under the non-threatening western cliff face. This is a classic waste of forces. This manpower should be redeployed to strengthen cross-patrols at the eastern exit and inside the camp, which would effectively reduce nighttime brawls and the hiding of tools."

"Third," he paused, his tone turning somewhat cold, "the food distribution process is chaotic, causing unnecessary conflict and wasted time. Every evening, everyone huddles at a single window to queue, arguing and pushing for a better position, wasting at least half an hourglass's worth of time. Food should be collected collectively by the team leaders and distributed back at their respective rest areas. This would not only save time but also further strengthen the authority of the team leaders, allowing them to better manage the men for you... for the territory."

After he finished, the study fell into silence once more.

The three points Graham raised were precise and lethal, hitting the core essentials of management.

He hadn't held anything back, as if he truly were the manager of this quarry, offering counsel to his lord.

A satisfied smile finally appeared on Levi's face.

He slowly opened a desk drawer, took something out, and placed it gently on the tabletop.

"Thud."

With a soft sound, that ring made entirely of Mithril and engraved with the Byron Family lion crest emitted a soft yet cold luster under the firelight.

Graham's breathing instantly became ragged.

His gaze was like it was caught by a magnet, pinned firmly to that ring.

The thing he had yearned for day and night, even at the cost of betraying his companions and squeezing his kin, was now placed so casually before him, within easy reach.

His hand instinctively rose, his fingertips trembling slightly with excitement.

However, just as his hand was about to touch the ring, Levi's other hand pushed another parchment scroll next to it.

"This is your ring," Levi's voice was as calm as ever, yet it carried a cold, irresistible force. "And this is the contract appointing you as the Director of the 'Blackstone Territory First Mining Management Office'."

Director?

Graham's movements froze.

This was a title he had never heard of, filled with strange terminology.

"Accept it, and you will officially lose your prisoner status and be responsible for managing all labor matters at the quarry. Your treatment will be equal to that of a castle steward, with a monthly salary of ten gold coins, and you will receive a five percent commission on all ore output exceeding the base quota."

Every one of Levi's words was like a heavy hammer, pounding hard against Graham's heart.

A five percent commission!

Graham's brain buzzed.

With the current output efficiency of the quarry, that would be a figure that even he found heart-stopping.

"Reject it," Levi's tone didn't change in the slightest, as if stating an established fact, "and you can take your ring and leave this room right now, back to your cell. From tomorrow, you will remain prisoner '001', struggling for an extra piece of black bread."

Graham's hand hovered in mid-air, stopped between the ring and the appointment letter.

On one side was the family ring symbolizing his past identity and noble glory.

It represented bloodline, tradition, and that trampled dignity.

On the other side was a humiliating "contract" reeking of capitalist greed.

It represented power, money, and a visible, tangible future.

His hand began to tremble violently in the air.

Cold sweat seeped from his forehead, sliding down the wrinkles of his cheeks.

He could feel Levi's gaze like a scalpel, cutting open his chest and examining the greediest, truest desires deep within his heart.

Time seemed to stretch out at this moment.

Finally, that callus-covered hand slowly and firmly moved past the glittering ring and landed on the appointment letter filled with humiliating terms, yet also filled with enticing benefits.

He didn't look at the dense clauses, because he knew they weren't important.

What mattered was that he had made a choice.

Levi pushed an inkpad box over.

Graham picked up the appointment letter and, without looking, pressed his right thumb heavily into the inkpad and then slammed it down onto the signature line at the end of the parchment scroll.

A bright red, clear thumbprint, like a searing brand, was forever etched upon it.

The very instant he pressed his thumbprint—

"Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!—"

The castle's alarm bell was suddenly rung at an unprecedented, frantic frequency!

That was no ordinary warning; it was the blood-colored alarm representing the highest level—an enemy attack!

The bell's toll was shrill and piercing, penetrating the thick walls and echoing wildly over the entire Blackstone Territory, like a pair of invisible hands choking everyone's throat.

The study door was slammed open, and a blood-covered scout, supported by two guards, stumbled in.

There was a horrific hole in his breastplate, and blood soaked his entire leather armor, dragging a terrifying blood trail across the floor.

He looked up, his bloodshot eyes staring fixedly at Levi, as he squeezed a roar from his throat with the last of his strength:

"Lord! The northern border... it's the Duke of the North's Iron Cavalry Legion! Their vanguard has already crossed our outposts!"