Berserk: The Prophet

Hearing the commotion, Green went to the front yard to watch. He saw the chainmail knights guarding the tax carts were about to make a move, and this sight made him tighten his grip on the harpoon.

He suddenly remembered that Charles had said that this tax collector was originally a priest sent by the church, but was later bought off by the lord and became his henchman.

The chainmail knight's mocking laughter reached Green's ears: "Old man, you should thank the new lord for being so merciful! Last year, he even scraped three layers of salt off the fish pickling barrels."

"Hahahaha." The surrounding cavalrymen also burst into laughter. Watching these people, who were even lower than themselves, wallowing in the mud was a vulgar pleasure in their boring lives.

"The one-eyed Edgar owned 20 acres of salt fields, and was required to pay a land tax of 4000 copper coins, as well as a tithe of one-tenth of the salt production, which was ten bags of salt, each weighing 50 kilograms."

Speaking of Edgar, who is the village chief, the salt caravan that was selling salt was robbed by pirates, and the salt fields were submerged in the sea. I'm afraid he won't be able to produce so much salt for the time being.

"The salt fields are soaked in water..." The knight used his scabbard to pick up half a bag of clumps of salt, the brownish-yellow salt grains dripping into the mud. "But a tax is a tax."

The horses suddenly reared up, and Green heard a muffled thud behind him as a wooden barrel tipped over. Three shackled salt workers were being driven by the cavalry into the mud, their bare ankles still covered in the white frost of the salt flats.

"Chief Edgar's salt workers can be used to pay off his debts!" ​​The lead cavalryman flung a rope around the thinnest boy's neck. "At market price, one salt slave is worth twenty kilograms of salt—"

As the cavalrymen began seizing slaves, the tax collectors continued to collect taxes from the next household, following the instructions written on the parchment.

The tax collector slammed his parchment on yet another rickety wooden table: "The rye harvest is halved? Then use flax to offset the tax—three times the amount."

"Triple the amount?" the peasant woman being taxed suddenly shrieked, her withered fingers gripping the sack of flax tightly. "Last year during the locust plague, you said you'd pay with grain, and this year you want flax—"

The tax collector's quill made a harsh sound as it scratched across the parchment: "The rye crop is reduced because of your laziness; a threefold compensation is the lord's mercy."

His gaze swept over the trembling child in the corner. "Or, would you rather use your daughter to pay off the debt?"

The woman's silence and the constant complaints of those around her showed that, compared to the bundles of linen meant for weaving new clothes and woolen mattresses, the child was far more precious to the couple.

The woman reluctantly produced three sacks of flax and a few silver coins for paying the land tax.

"As long as the copper coins are used as taxes, the lord needs these copper coins to develop new weapons," the tax collector said matter-of-factly.

"But where would I get so many copper coins?"

"I don't care. As long as it's stipulated by the higher-ups that copper coins are used as currency for taxation, we'll take whatever copper coins each household has, and make up the difference with a silver coin if there's any left!"

"You—!" The peasant woman was about to lash out when her husband stopped her, and the farmer handed over all the loose copper and silver coins.

"Hmm, not bad, next one."

As the tax collector left, the peasant woman returned to her house with a mournful face. "Last year, my youngest son was conscripted and his fate is unknown. The endless exorbitant taxes year after year are unbearable. My eldest son bravely fought and died for his lord, and just when we finally received some compensation, he was conscripted again. If next year they collect all sorts of miscellaneous shield taxes, we really won't be able to survive..."

Through the crack in the door, the woman's cries reached Green's ears, and also the ears of everyone present.

The people around them also looked gloomy; under this heavy oppression, they had long lost hope for life.

An old man couldn't help but sigh, as if he had become accustomed to such things and felt utterly helpless.

Such is the way of the world.

...As the bottom layer of the chaotic world, they were lambs to the slaughter.

The tax collector soon arrived at the home of "old fisherman" Charles.

Charles is an old fisherman whose ancestors made their living by fishing. When the rye harvest was poor, the neighbors would have to borrow or exchange some food from Charles to make a living.

Unfortunately, both of his sons died in battle, and two other fishermen who used to live there were swept away by the sea. Now, he is the only one in the entire village who knows how to fish at sea and navigate back home.

The tax collector, who was aware of everything, immediately noticed the extra child in old Charles's family.

"Who are you? I've never seen you in this village before?" The tax collector's quill suddenly stopped on the parchment, and the ink droplet fell next to Charles Hawke's name, leaving a messy black stain.

“This is my nephew,” Charles said, his voice trembling slightly. “The storm last year swept him from Flanders.”

"I think you're really senile, Charles. Your brother is long dead, so where did you get a nephew from? Tell me the truth!"

The tax collector's sharp questioning echoed in the room, and Charles's face grew even paler. His lips trembled as he tried to defend Green: "Sir, he really is my nephew. The storm has taken everything from him, and I cannot refuse to take him in."

However, the tax collector remained unmoved; his indifferent gaze seemed to say that no lie could escape his notice.

"Nonsense! You are deceiving the lord, you are deceiving me!" the tax collector shouted.

"If you don't honestly tell me where this child comes from, I'll throw you and him into Rothschild's prison!"

Just as the tax collector's hand touched the whip at his waist, preparing to unleash a fierce attack, Green suddenly stepped forward, holding the harpoon horizontally in front of Charles.

"Enough!" Green's voice carried a hint of dissatisfaction; he had disliked the tax collector ever since he stepped into the village.

"What makes you think Uncle Charles is lying? Just because you're the lord's lackey, does that give you the right to frame innocent people?"

Enraged by Green's actions and words, the tax collector's face flushed red as he pointed at Green and roared, "You ignorant brat! How dare you speak to me like that? Today I'll arrest you all!"

No sooner had the tax collector finished speaking than he drew his whip from his waist and lashed it fiercely at Green.

Green was prepared and quickly dodged to the side. The whip grazed the hem of his clothes and struck the wooden table behind him with a crisp sound, sending wood chips flying.

"You little bastard, if I don't teach you a lesson today, you'll think I can't handle you!" The tax collector, enraged, lashed out with his whip several more times.

Green dodged left and right, seized the opportunity, swung the harpoon, and the tip hooked the whip.

He gave a strong tug, and the tax collector stumbled forward. Green then kicked the tax collector in the knee, and the tax collector fell to his knees with a thud.

"You...you dare to assault a tax collector! You're rebelling!" The tax collector, lying on the ground, shouted in terror and anger. He couldn't believe that in all his years, a child would hold a harpoon to his throat!

Upon seeing this, the chainmail cavalrymen around them drew their swords and surrounded the house.