Damn, I recarneted As A Judge in Fantasy World

Thanks to Abel's wit, the group was able to pass through the gate without any inspection. Now, all that remained was to find out the public sentiment of the Marquisate of Yeats. In any case, all rumors were bound to gather in taverns or mercenary guilds.

But since they weren't real mercenaries, they settled down in a shabby bar. Abel was planning to leisurely gather information while drinking.

As expected, people's recent interest was in the collection contingent.

"Not only did they imprison His Majesty the Marquis, they even raided the granary of the estate."

"They say that in the capital, you open your eyes and get your nose cut off. Isn't this really too much?"

"That's right. How much help has our Lord Yeats provided to the Empire?"

"Your Majesty the Emperor is so heartless. Tsk tsk!"

The people seemed disappointed with the Empire's actions. The story circulating was that the Marquis Yeats had done nothing wrong. Abel looked back at the group with a puzzled expression.

"Isn't that impossible?"

"That person's usual behavior is a bit… off."

The general evaluation of the Marquis Yeats was that of a typical tyrant—arrogant and prone to extreme violence when drunk.

However, even the lower classes on the mainland supported their lords. It was something incomprehensible. The Marquis was a man who committed all sorts of evil acts under the pretext of being a first-class public servant.

"Let's listen a little more."

"Yes."

They focused on the noise around them. But before long, the tavern was enveloped in an eerie silence. How could a place where everyone was chatting and drinking together become this quiet? As that question arose, someone shouted.

"It's them! They're the contingent of tax collectors who've come to rip off our country's finances!"

People jumped up from their seats at the sudden outburst. They all had ominous expressions on their faces. It was a situation even more absurd than the remarks of the common people defending the Marquis of Yeats.

'The soot on your face has been washed away, but your disguise remains the same?'

Abel thought as he observed the crowd.

They had only been passing through and came into a crowded establishment—a place with a shabby bar in one corner, full of noisy drunks. It was a tavern that could be found anywhere.

But how, in such a place, could they know that Abel's group was part of the collection force?

"The situation seems very strange, Your Majesty," one of the knights remarked.

"I think it's because of Sir McNeill," Abel replied.

"No, why me? I painted my face black and did everything you told me to do," Sir McNeill protested.

"You said that just now. 'Your Majesty.'"

"Ah?"

"How many people in the world get to hear such honorifics?"

It was certain that no one in the Marquisate of Yeats would hear that title. Cordell McNeill looked foolish, as if only now realizing his mistake. He had been addressing Abel like that all along, but Abel had no intention of blaming him.

"Just kidding. You didn't say much anyway. Besides, who cares what other people are talking about? Everyone is busy with their own conversations."

"Ah, I see!"

"It seems like this was a planned incident from the beginning," Abel observed. Things had been strange ever since they entered the Marquisate of Yeats.

'Aren't you going to get stoned out of nowhere?' Abel wondered. It felt like everyone already knew they were a collection contingent.

'Come to think of it, there was something strange about the soldiers' eyes.'

It was as if they were looking for someone in particular. It was likely that the information about their entry into the city had leaked from there. Up to this point, the situation was fairly clear.

'So what should we do?'

At this moment, the situation was on the verge of a battle. What could they accomplish by fighting against people who, by all appearances, were just wage laborers?

Not only was the original goal of gathering information difficult, but even the collection mission could become more complicated. They might even get arrested for being rioters who started a fight.

"Oh, what should I do?" McNeill asked, clearly worried.

Abel frowned at the question. No matter how much he thought about it, there was only one answer.

"Sir McNeill?" Abel said.

"Yes?"

"Can you subdue them without causing any harm?"

"It's going to be difficult. The space is limited, and the number of opponents… is more than eight times our size."

"Sweep them away?"

"I am enough on my own."

"Then what are you worried about? The answer is right there," Abel responded calmly.

"Huh? Are you going to cause trouble here?" McNeill asked in surprise as he turned to face Abel, who smiled broadly and shrugged.

"Of course, it should stand out."

"Aha! That, that's right?"

"Except for Sir McNeill," Abel added.

"Huh?"

"Please hold them off for a bit while we get out."

With those words, Abel quickly slipped away. It might be difficult, but McNeill probably wouldn't die. After all, Cordell McNeill was a black agent of the Imperial Guard. Abel trusted that McNeill could handle the situation.

He opened the back door of the tavern roughly. Bam! But he couldn't just run away like that.

"No, why don't you go, Your Majesty?" one of the knights following Abel asked, confused. Instead of answering, Abel motioned to show the situation.

A veritable wall of humanity stretched before them.

"It feels like we're surrounded."

"Oh no! What should we do?" the knight exclaimed.

It seemed like the people had come out of the Marquisate of Yeats specifically to target the collection force. Abel stopped the knights who were about to draw their daggers. He stepped out with a solemn face to try and resolve the situation.

"Everyone? Can we just talk for a moment?"

He asked hopefully, but there was no answer. Well, then, there was nothing else to do. Abel really hated violence, but if the people continued to show force, he had no choice but to respond in kind.

"If you continue to show off your strength, we will have no choice but to demonstrate ours."

Those were sincere words. If Abel pulled out his gavel, there would be a disaster. It didn't matter how many enemies there were. Abel Carriers had been through much darker times. But the townspeople didn't seem to understand that.

"Phehehe! This is a show of force? Can't you see our numbers?"

"No matter how strong you are, one hand can't defeat ten hands."

"No, make that a hundred hands," the leader taunted.

There were only five people in Abel's group, while the number of opponents was in the hundreds. The numerical gap was at least one hundred to one. But numbers didn't determine the outcome of battles.

'If you break their will to fight, the battle is already won,' Abel thought.

Fear could grip even the most elite troops, rendering them unable to continue. Abel and his knights only needed one strong move to crush their enemies' morale.

"Okay, let's get the facts straight first," Abel tried again, but the crowd ignored him.

"I have a question for everyone here. How much are you paid for your work?" Abel asked loudly, hoping to shift the focus.

"What the hell are you talking about?" one man snapped.

"I'm just asking. How much is the salary, and how much do you pay in taxes?"

Asking about their economic situation was a rather rude question, but it was one that could provoke interest. Abel added a more troubling remark to fuel their curiosity.

"You're not earning less than four shillings a month, are you? There's a country called Deliat under the Empire, and the average wage there is just about that."

"Well, we have enough…," the man began but quickly fell silent, likely realizing they weren't paid that much.

'The general wage in the old imperial capital was two shillings a month,' Abel mused.

Now, wages had risen to over 10 shillings, thanks to rapid economic growth and new job opportunities.

But what about the Marquisate of Yeats? It was likely worse off than the old empire. Most of the industry here was agricultural, and wages were stagnant. Many likely didn't even earn one shilling a month.

"You said it was enough, so I'll ask again. How much do you earn for your work?"

"… About two Ceylon," the man finally admitted.

"Is accommodation provided?"

"No."

"What about taxes?"

"It's 12 cores."

One Ceylon equaled ten Cores, so if they earned twenty coins, twelve went to taxes—a tax rate of 60%. Even in these times, such high taxes were absurd, especially when more would be extracted under different pretexts.

"More than half?" Abel pressed.

"There's nothing we can do. We're part of the Empire now."

This place had once been an independent country until Emperor Charon took the throne. The Marquis of Yeats had secured power as a first-class contributor by giving the country to the Empire.

However, it seemed that the people here didn't know the full story.

"Do you pay such high taxes just to fund tribute to the Empire?" Abel asked.

"Of course. How else would we fund the military force necessary to subdue a place like Yeats?"

At first glance, the answer seemed logical. The Empire did try to subjugate all surrounding countries.

But these people only knew half of the truth, not the whole picture.