Chapter 52: The Outcasts of the Realm

In an instant, several figures separated themselves from the crowd, stepping forward past the sea of onlookers. Clad in frayed, dirt-caked tunics and tattered breeches torn at the knee, their faces were smeared with soot and grime. Among them were impoverished men and worn women—some clutching gaunt, shivering infants wrapped in rags against their chests. With every step the group took toward the front of the avenue, the surrounding citizens recoiled, pinching their noses and sneering as if the mere presence of the destitute was an infection.

Exactly eighteen homeless outcasts gathered before the edge of the elevated platform.

"What is he thinking?" a heavy-set royal minister barked, adjusting his velvet mantle as he stepped out of line, intent on storming the stage to intervene. "Is he seriously offering crown-sanctioned housing to filthy vagrants?!"

Before the official could take two steps, a sharp metallic hiss echoed through the air. Sylvara’s sidearm cleared its scabbard, the gleaming steel blade pointing directly at the man’s throat.

"Step back," Sylvara said, her gaze ice-cold as she swept her eyes across the row of pompous, finely dressed nobles behind her. "I will take the head of anyone who steps onto this stage without permission."

The bearded official paled, his posture stiffening in outrage. "Sylvara! How dare you draw steel against the council! Have you forgotten who we are?!"

"Watch your tone during an official royal decree, old man," Sylvara replied, her voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal murmur. "You are nothing more than corrupt sycophants who spend your days groveling at the King’s feet for scraps of influence."

She eased her stance slightly, her blade remaining fixed in space. "Do you truly believe His Majesty values the whining of bloated bureaucrats over the judgment of his own daughter?"

"You—!" The official raised a trembling finger toward her face, his chest heaving with indignation. "You’re just an assistant! Do you think the high nobility fears a glorified bodyguard?!"

He made a sudden, aggressive move to push past her sword.

Flash—

A single, blinding arc of silver cut through the air.

With surgical precision, Sylvara’s blade sliced cleanly through the heavy blue fabric of his formal robe. The detached sleeve fluttered to the stone floor, exposing the official’s bare arm to the night air.

The minister froze instantly, his eyes wide with terror as a cold sweat broke across his forehead.

"If you fail to respect Princess Evelyn’s decree, I will decapitate you where you stand," Sylvara warned smoothly, returning her sword to a resting guard. "This is your final warning. Fall back."

Gritting his teeth in silent fury, the noble slowly retreated into the ranks of the official delegation. The remaining bureaucrats who had been preparing to voice their own protests immediately shut their mouths, standing frozen in place.

Verion sneered, watching the scene before turning toward Ren with a scoff. "Pure madness. Does this peasant seriously intend to build a sovereign territory using talentless street rats?"

He took an aggressive stride toward Ren, but before he could cross the stage, two arms crossed in front of his chest, blocking his path entirely. Both Evelyn and Elysia stood side by side, barring his way.

"Take another step, Verion, and I will ensure you regret it," Evelyn stated, her voice devoid of warmth.

Verion clicked his tongue, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "Princess Evelyn, look at what he’s doing! A newly established domain requires skilled craftsmen, wealthy merchants, and capable military strategists—not useless beggars who contribute nothing!"

"If you oppose his decision, Verion, then you are openly opposing me," Evelyn replied coldly, her gaze cutting into him like a honed blade.

Confronted by the princess’s absolute rejection, Verion let out a bitter, exasperated breath and took three deliberate paces backward. "Fine. Have it your way. I shall honor your decree... for now."

Off to the side of the stage, several royal adventurers broke into loud, mocking laughter.

"Look at that!" one of the armored heroes jeered, wiping a tear from his eye. "The former porter is gathering a guild of beggars! Is this a comedy show?!"

"Unbelievable," another adventurer chimed in, leaning against his greatsword with a smirk. "Gathering trash to build a domain of trash! I give it a month before the entire district collapses under its own incompetence. The moment a minor horde of Aberrants hits those walls, those beggars will be slaughtered like livestock!"

The toxic mocking echoed down into the crowd below, igniting a wave of cruel laughter among the citizens.

"Is that porter out of his mind? Choosing homeless vagrants for a new settlement?"

"Well, birds of a feather flock together, don’t they? A low-life porter gathering low-life beggars. It makes total sense!"

"A district filled with useless, untalented tramps... how long could a place like that possibly survive?"

Ren stood at the edge of the platform, looking down at the eighteen figures gathered below. His gaze lingered on the women holding their malnourished children, their sunken eyes reflecting a mix of faint hope and overwhelming fear.

Looking at them, a heavy ache settled in Ren’s chest.

He didn’t care about the insults hurling from the crowd. To him, the nobles and citizens sneering from their comfortable perches were simply products of unearned privilege—people born into stable families, insulated from the brutal realities of the world. But these outcasts had been thrown into the abyss from the start, forced to endure endless cold, hunger, and humiliation simply to survive another day.

Ren looked up at the night sky, where the cold radiance of the moon illuminated the stars.

’It’s the exact same as Earth,’ Ren thought, a deep, philosophical reflection surfacing in his mind.

Back in his past life as Elian, he had witnessed the same cruel mechanics of human society. The wealthy thrived not merely because they were superior, but because the system was engineered by elites to keep them elevated—granting them resources, networks, and generational safety nets. Meanwhile, the impoverished were trapped in a socio-economic quagmire, swallowed by a predatory structure that ensured the rich grew richer while the poor remained buried in the mud. Being trapped at the bottom was never proof of a lack of talent or intelligence; it was simply the absence of opportunity.

’Give them a chance, and they’ll prove what human resilience actually looks like,’ Ren thought, his jaw tightening with quiet resolve.

If he provided these forgotten souls with a real sanctuary, proper food, and structured training, they would not only build his domain—they would become the most loyal, fiercely dedicated citizens Lumiria could ever ask for. Unlike the arrogant elites laughing in the square, those who had crawled out of the mud knew the true value of a home.

Ren turned his head toward the princess. "Princess Evelyn."

Evelyn stepped up alongside him, her eyes softening as she looked down at the eighteen destitute citizens standing in the cold. A faint flicker of sorrow touched her quiet expression—the quiet weight of a ruler realizing that despite her power, her kingdom had still allowed its most vulnerable to fall through the cracks.

"I am taking them with me," Ren said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty over the lingering murmurs of the crowd. "They will be the first citizens of Lumiria."

Evelyn offered a slow, solemn nod. "Very well."

Ren looked out over the vast cityscape one last time, a cold, sharp ambition settling into his mind. This public assembly was merely the prelude. With the full framework of his system and an untapped territory under his command, he was ready to begin drafting the blueprint for a new era in this dark, unforgiving world.