“Hurry up, hurry up, damn big oaf, stop dawdling! Are you looking for trouble? The lord wants to take stock of your household—move it! Put on your clothes, bring your wife and children, and gather on the open ground up ahead. If even one person is missing, watch out or I’ll break your legs!”

The patrolman swaggered as he banged on the thatched hut’s door, shouting into the house.

Very soon, all the farmers of Barley Hamlet came out of their homes and, under the patrolmen’s scolding, gathered on the open ground.

They whispered in small groups.

From time to time, they glanced at the table in the center of the clearing. Behind the table sat a forty-year-old woman in a well-fitted dark green dress, organizing a stack of thick parchment. Behind her stood a young maid, helping to dissolve ink in a teacup.

“Who’s that?”

“Never seen her before.”

“Idiot, she’s obviously a maid from the castle!”

“Yeah, yeah, look at her clothes—definitely ironed. Only the lord’s maids get to wear such neat and clean clothes. Not like us, all stinky and wrinkled.”

“What does the lord want? I heard from the lackeys that they’re taking a census… a census of what again?”

“It’s a population census.” An elderly farmer, chewing on some plant root, replied, “Ten years ago, the count sent people to do a census. Back then, Barley Hamlet had… had… a lot more serf households than now. Sigh, that big snow seven years ago starved so many people to death.”

At the table.

The patrolman, who had just been swaggering, was now bowing and scraping to the two maids: “Mrs. Mason, Miss Megan, all the serfs of Barley Hamlet have gathered.”

“I’m not a ‘miss,’ I’m just a maid from the castle.” Megan Niuweiba was actually quite pleased to be called ‘miss.’ She smiled and asked, “Is everyone here? Don’t miss a single person, or the lord will punish us—including you.”

“Of course, of course, I guarantee it. They wouldn’t dare hide.”

Mrs. Mason nodded. “Alright then, have them come up one household at a time. Once a household is registered, they can go straight home—no coming back to register again.”

“Understood.”

The patrolman began leading the serf households up to the table, one by one.

Following the checklist prepared in advance by Edward Thompson, Mrs. Mason asked, “Are you the head of the household? What is your name?”

“H-Hope, ma’am.”

“Don’t be nervous. Give your full name, including your surname, Mr. Hope.”

“Oh, o-okay. My name is Hope Souwater.”

“Well then, Mr. Hope, is your whole family here? There are five of you in total? What is your wife’s name? And your two sons and daughter, what are their names… How old are you? What is your occupation—what are you responsible for? And your wife, is it the same for her? Has your eldest son started working?”

Soon, Mrs. Mason finished her questions and began recording the information on the thick parchment.

Head of household—Hope Souwater, age 37, grows barley, all limbs intact; wife—Simon Souwater, age 34, grows barley, all limbs intact; eldest son—Robo Souwater, age 20, grows oats, lame; second son—Peter Souwater, age 17, grows barley, all limbs intact; daughter—Lily Souwater, age 15, raises chickens at home, all limbs intact.

After recording the information, Mrs. Mason double-checked it.

Once she was sure it was correct, she said gently, “Mr. Hope, ma’am, your family may go home now.”

“Oh, o-okay.”

This scene lasted only a day. Stack after stack of thick parchment was sent to the castle, to Edward Thompson’s desk, marking the completion of the census in Flower Town.

“Edward Thompson, it’s truly incredible. Such a difficult task, and you handled it so easily. You will be a qualified lord, I’m sure of it.” Henry Clark praised.

“Henry Clark sir, save the compliments for later. Tally up the numbers from each hamlet and give me the summary.”

“Happy to oblige.”

Perhaps Edward Thompson’s decisive actions put pressure on Henry Clark, making this follower—who had failed to become an advisor—rarely work late into the night by candlelight.

Early the next morning.

The compiled data was already in front of Edward Thompson, who had just finished breakfast and his knightly training.

“Master, Lord Henry Clark stayed up all night. When he delivered the documents, his eyes were bloodshot,” said Carter, holding the thick parchment.

“Good food and drink always deserve some return. Flower Town needs to develop—I don’t want my domain to be as lifeless as it was in the past.”

Carter seemed a bit dazed, and only after a few seconds did he respond, “Master, I feel as if I’m seeing the count in his youth again—an ambitious young viscount who, in five years, rose to count and established the Tulip family’s rule over Coral Island. With you as lord, Flower Town is truly fortunate.”

“Maybe so.” Edward Thompson did not feign modesty.

He quietly flipped through the thick parchment. Despite the hefty stack, there wasn’t much content. Even written in tiny script with a quill, it still couldn’t record much.

“Thick parchment really is backward.”