novelraw Chapter 475: The Battlefield of Public Opinion and the Voice, the Future Belongs to Me, Garoth!
Chapter 475: The Battlefield of Public Opinion and the Voice, the Future Belongs to Me, Garoth!
"The Aola Kingdom isn't as terrifying as the rumors say. This recruitment notice... perhaps I could... give it a try."
Once this thought took root, it burrowed deep into his heart.
For the next three days, Caleb wrestled with his inner turmoil.
He walked the familiar streets, watching Aola soldiers maintain order, seeing shops gradually reopen, observing the commoners lining up for food rations—their faces slowly losing fear and gaining a glimmer of hope.
He also saw those who attempted theft or caused trouble swiftly subdued and taken away, reportedly to be judged according to the newly issued simplified laws.
Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, Caleb made up his mind.
He carefully sorted through his meager belongings, tuned his harp, and following the address on the recruitment notice, arrived at a former inn in the eastern part of the city, once used to accommodate traveling merchants and now temporarily requisitioned.
A room on the inn's second floor had been converted into an interview space.
The room was sparsely furnished, containing only a thick wooden table and a few chairs. The window was open, letting in the morning light and the faint murmur of street noise.
Sitting behind the table was a male werewolf.His face was lean, with a prominent muzzle covered in fine, dense gray-black fur. His amber-yellow eyes were exceptionally sharp as he looked down at the documents in his hand.
When Caleb entered, the werewolf lifted his gaze. That look made the poet's heart clench, and he almost turned to flee.
"Sit." The werewolf's voice was flat and uninflected as he pointed to the chair opposite.
His Common Tongue was flawless, devoid of any accent. If not for his appearance, Caleb would have thought he was facing a human bureaucrat.
Caleb sat down, carefully placing his harp by his feet.
"Bard, Caleb Rust."
The werewolf glanced down at a sheet of paper before him, which seemed to contain some simple notes. "Four days ago, in the afternoon at the central square, you played and sang a tune for the Aola ladies distributing food. My people were nearby and heard it."
Caleb's heart tightened.
So, he had been noticed long ago.
This seemingly peaceful place seemed to hide many watchful eyes...
"No need to be nervous." The werewolf looked up, his gaze direct. "We are recruiting precisely people like you. Those who know how to move hearts with sound and story, who understand what kind of words make people remember, what creates resonance."
He interlaced his fingers and placed them on the table, his posture relaxed, but his eyes remained sharp.
"Let's be direct. We need new songs, new stories. Content about His Majesty the Red Emperor, about the Aola Kingdom, about the new order and future of this land. Content that ordinary people can understand, are willing to listen to, and even willing to pass on."
Caleb licked his slightly dry lips. "Specifically... what kind of content is needed?"
"A few directions." The werewolf's voice was unhurried, clearly having explained this many times. "First, His Majesty's power and great deeds."
"Rising from the Northern Frontier, establishing a kingdom, shattering natural barriers, sweeping through enemy armies... These facts, rendered and spread in the way you bards excel at. Emphasize His Majesty's strength, wisdom, and inevitable victory."
"Second, the order and justice of the Aola Kingdom."
"Stress our attitude towards those who submit. Like distributing food at the square, like maintaining street security. The chaos has ended. The new rules will guarantee everyone's safety and basic survival. For those who abide by the rules, regardless of their former status, they will be protected, and may even have the opportunity for a better life."
"Third, the futility and foolishness of resistance."
"The greed and incompetence of the old Theo nobility led to defeat and the people's suffering. Continued resistance will only bring more destruction. Following the tide, accepting the new rulers, is the only path to survival, and may even be a chance to change one's social class or improve one's status. You can appropriately include examples of those who submitted and gained benefits, real ones or reasonably fabricated ones are fine."
The werewolf paused, observing Caleb's reaction, then continued. "We will provide the basic sequence of events and key points. There will also be some former Theo officials or scholars who have submitted, providing background information."
"What you need to do is weave these materials into catchy, easily spread songs, heroic epics, or short, concise stories. Then perform and tell them in taverns, street corners, marketplaces, relief points—anywhere people still gather."
"We will have people observing and assessing the effectiveness of the dissemination."
Caleb remained silent.
He was not a fool. He understood clearly what the werewolf meant.
This meant he was to become Aola's mouthpiece, singing praises for the conquerors he once feared, persuading his own countrymen to accept the new rulers.
An intense sense of betrayal surged in his heart, mixed with complex feelings towards the old kingdom, making his stomach churn.
He abruptly stood up, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor with a grating sound.
He glared at the werewolf, wanting to say something to defend his dignity.
"Don't be hasty." The werewolf's expression didn't change, as if he was accustomed to such reactions.
He took a small leather pouch from under the table, untied the cord, and poured its contents onto the table with a clatter.
Not silver coins. Gold coins!
Five exquisitely minted, sharply edged gold coins glittered seductively in the sunlight streaming through the window, almost blinding Caleb.
He had never possessed this many gold coins at once in his entire life.
"This is an advance payment. Prove your worth, accept this job, and they are yours."
The werewolf said calmly. "Afterwards, based on the quantity and quality of the works you submit, and the feedback we receive on their spread, we will settle accounts weekly. Basic remuneration can be paid weekly in silver coins, or converted into equivalent necessities like grain, cloth, salt, etc."
"Outstanding results will be rewarded with additional gold coins."
Caleb opened his mouth, wanting to righteously refuse, to say he would never betray his kingdom, never sing praises for invaders.
But then, he remembered the ogre's indifferent gaze; remembered the Centaur Woman's gentle eyes and her words, "We don't eat people"; remembered the cold faces of the nobles during tax collection; remembered his own empty purse and his often-growling stomach; thought of what these gold coins could bring him...
Thus, the impassioned speech that had rushed to his lips got stuck in his throat.
He stood there, body trembling slightly, his gaze shifting back and forth between the gold coins and the werewolf's calm face.
Finally, he silently sat back down.
A glimmer of understanding flashed in the werewolf's eyes, but there was no trace of mockery or smugness. He simply pushed the five gold coins forward.
"Write a hymn of praise to the great Emperor Ignas, as a test of your skill. No specific format is required, but it must have power, must be memorable."
The werewolf took a sheet of paper and a quill from a drawer and pushed them over.
The bard was silent for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and picked up the quill.
He didn't write immediately, but closed his eyes. The scene of the Red Emperor descending upon Iris City that day replayed in his mind.
The enormous crimson dragon shadow sweeping across the sky, the shadow of its wings seeming to cover the entire city, that majesty and power truly inspiring awe.
He also remembered the various legends about the Red Emperor.
Rising from the Northern Frontier wilderness, unifying chaotic tribes, establishing a kingdom, personally retrieving a satellite from the heavens, crushing the fortifications Theo was so proud of... like a legendary being living in reality.
Countless inspirations surged in his mind.
When he opened his eyes, his gaze had become focused, even carrying a hint of the creator's fervor.
He dipped the quill in ink and began writing swiftly on the paper, occasionally pausing to weigh his words.
The werewolf didn't rush him, simply waited quietly.
About a quarter of an hour later, Caleb put down the quill and turned the paper around.
He cleared his throat and, using his best recitation tone, read the verses he had written.
"Oh, Thou who sits upon the Molten Iron Throne, whose wings span the northern skies, we are granted to gaze upon the sunlight ablaze upon Thy scales.
Thou wert born of flame and steel, dividing the borders of night and day with Thy dragon's breath.
Beneath Thy shadow, the tides of chaos are calmed; where Thy gaze falls, the foundations of order are laid.
"Thou hast spoken: All who submit to My law shall find shelter; all who pledge loyalty to My banner shall know peace. Beneath My wings, there is no pointless hunger; within My domain, unjust plunder finds no home.
Those who heed this command: The craftsman shall find fulfillment of his skill before the forge; the farmer shall see the waves of abundant grain in his fields; the scholar shall discover the patterns of truth within the scrolls; families shall continue their lineage and warmth within sturdy stone houses."
"Oh, as crude iron is purified in fierce fire, so is the soul strengthened in loyalty.
Our descendants shall sing Thy name, as they sing the turning of the seasons;
Our blades shall defend Thy path, as they defend our own thresholds.
Only by following the trail of that crimson star can the soul escape the frozen soil of confusion and reach the undying dawn.
"Ah, there is no need to praise the sun in the sky, for, the great Red Emperor, the great Emperor Ignas, He is our true sun.
May Thy flame burn eternal, may Thy kingdom endure forever,
From this moment, until the end of all ages."
After the last syllable faded, the room fell quiet.
The werewolf silently read the words on the paper, then savored the recitation once more.
After a moment, he nodded, a look of approval appearing on his face.
"Acceptable."
The werewolf collected the paper. "This proves you have the ability we need."
He took out a sheet of slightly better-quality paper from under the table. On it was written, in the Common Tongue, a simple contract with terms and several lines of more specific creative guidelines, including certain events that must be mentioned, sensitive topics to avoid, and encouraged thematic directions.
"Sign it, or just press a thumbprint. This is your first formal task list. It requires three poems and two short stories. Submit the first drafts within five days."
The werewolf pushed the contract forward. "You may take the advance payment."
"Remember, the breadth of dissemination and the degree of acceptance will directly affect your subsequent remuneration and bonuses. We will have people in the taverns recording audience reactions and collecting rumors from the streets."
"I... what if the stories I write aren't exactly according to the points you provided, if I add some of my own... embellishments? To make the stories more vivid."
The bard asked tentatively, trying to preserve a shred of creative freedom and professional dignity.
The werewolf's pupils contracted slightly, but his tone remained even. "The core content cannot deviate from the key points."
"As for embellishments... we encourage embellishments that make the story more attractive, easier to spread. Provided they serve the message we want to convey, not weaken or distort it."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone gaining a hint of undeniable pressure.
"Mr. Poet, this is a job, a task.
"We are purchasing your skill, not your faith. You only need to produce products that meet the requirements. As for what you think in your heart, we don't care. We only care about what people hear, remember, and are influenced by."
Having said that, the werewolf didn't press further, just leaned back in his chair, watching him quietly, waiting for the decision.
Finally, Caleb reached out. His fingers brushed over the five gold coins, then gathered them before him.
"...I need to see those guidelines, and the specific contents of the contract."
He said slowly.
The werewolf's lips curved slightly, revealing what could be called his first smile.
"A wise choice." He nodded. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Caleb."
"From today, you are one of the collaborators of the Aola Kingdom's Propaganda Department. Report your progress here every Monday morning to receive new tasks or adjusted requirements. If you need any assistance with materials or information, you may also make requests."
Similar scenes were playing out in major towns throughout Aris Province.
Aola's newly formed Propaganda Department was systematically recruiting bards, down-on-their-luck scholars, even literate beggars, building a propaganda network covering the newly occupied territories.
They offered money, food, safety, and protection in exchange for texts and performances that met their requirements.
Some who originally feared and hated Aola, under the pressure of survival and real-world observation, began to waver, compromise, and ultimately became the voice of the new order.
Dusk, on the rooftop terrace of the former governor's mansion in Iris City.
The red iron dragon stood at the edge, overlooking this human city whose style was utterly different from the wilderness.
Whoosh!
The sound of wings beating the air rang out. An iron dragon, much smaller in size, folded its wings and landed on the terrace.
"The initial takeover of Aris Province is complete. Many stubborn resisters have been eliminated, and the remaining ones pose no significant threat." Sorog's voice was low as he continued, "The first batch of taxes and goods levied from nobles and wealthy merchants has been tallied."
"Part of it is allocated according to plan for civilian relief, another part is assigned to the Propaganda Department as expenditure for the 'voice' aspect."
"How is the effect?" Garoth didn't turn around, still gazing at the city.
"Smoother than expected, though not without its trivialities."
Sorog walked to a position slightly behind and to the side of the red iron dragon, also looking out over the city.
From this height, the people on the streets moved like ants. Cooking smoke rose from some chimneys. Dusk was settling in.
"The common people of humans and the wilderness tribes aren't fundamentally that different. They are accustomed to being ruled. As long as the rule provides basic safety and survival guarantees, their fear subsides faster than we anticipated after a change of rulers. Especially when we demonstrate order and provide the most basic food security."
He paused, then continued his report. "However, their thoughts are also more complex."
"Underlying doubts, nostalgia for the old kingdom, and those concepts of loyalty, integrity, and such... these cannot be eradicated in a short time. It may take generations to truly change them."
"For this purpose, many people have already been recruited in several major cities of Aris."
"The songs and stories they've composed have begun to spread in taverns, marketplaces, and relief points. The first round of feedback shows that content about food distribution and order maintenance is the most popular and easiest for people to accept."
"Additionally, we have selected a group of well-behaved, relatively mild-mannered warriors—mainly centaurs, serpentfolk, and some werewolves. After brief training, they are engaging in limited contact with local residents, helping distribute supplies, answering simple questions, and displaying a friendly side."
"The effect... is passable. At least the human children are less afraid of us now."
At this point, the iron dragon Sorog tilted his head slightly, the scales on his neck rubbing together with a faint rustling sound.
He looked at his blood brother and voiced a question that had been on his mind for some while.
"Garoth, what I don't quite understand is, why place such importance on the 'voice'? The funds allocated to the Propaganda Department could arm our warriors, or be used to build defensive works, reinforce city walls."
Sorog flicked his tail, continuing to express his thoughts.
"I believe true rule relies on claws and fangs and power."
"As long as the army is strong enough, the laws strict enough, rewards and punishments clear enough, people will eventually get used to it, will obey. Just like the direwolves in the wilderness eventually bow to a stronger alpha."
"As for songs and stories, those are embellishments after a conquest victory, pastimes during leisure, entertainment at banquets."
"To spend so many resources actively cultivating such things? It feels somewhat wasteful. Our warriors need new armor and weapons more."
He candidly shared his view.
Garoth was silent for a moment.
The evening breeze swept across the terrace, carrying the scent of distant cooking smoke and the city. He faced the wind and spoke slowly.
"Brother Sorog, your words are half right."
"Strong military force and strict order are indeed the foundation of rule, the unshakable baseline. Without them, everything is empty talk. Any beautiful promise would turn to dust in chaos."
"We are able to stand here precisely because of our strength and power."
"But," the red iron dragon turned his head to look at Sorog, "relying solely on these is not enough to make rule long-lasting and stable."
"Especially given the premise that our image as evil dragons, monsters, savage races is deeply ingrained in their minds."
"Fear can make people obey, but it also accumulates hatred, breeds hidden resistance. When our main military forces shift to other fronts, this hatred may erupt."
"The 'voice,' those bards, those stories and songs, their existence is crucial, indispensable."
"Power tells them 'what they cannot do.' Order tells them 'what they must do.' And the voice, public opinion, must tell them 'what they should think,' and make them believe it comes from their own hearts."
"This battlefield, if we do not occupy it, then others will."
Garoth raised a foreclaw, using one sharp hooked claw to gently tap the side of his own head. The scales made a crisp tapping sound.
"Thought. The change here is what matters most."
The iron dragon Sorog listened quietly, the confusion in his eyes gradually replaced by contemplation.
He was not dull, just had never considered the problem of rule from this angle.
In the wilderness, power was everything. Those wilderness creatures were also accustomed to being ruled by power. But now they ruled not just the wilderness, but human cities with complex social structures.
In the future, there would be more such places.
"So, this expenditure is not feeding useless singers."
The iron dragon said thoughtfully, "This is forging another kind of weapon. A weapon concerning consciousness and thought."
"It fights on the battlefield of the mind. Its goal is to strip the soil from resistance, to let loyalty sprout spontaneously, to make submission the natural choice. It will save us countless losses for our true rule. In the long run, this is the most cost-effective investment."
As Sorog spoke, his gaze grew brighter.
"When people accept us from their hearts, the cost of maintaining order will greatly decrease. Conscripting soldiers, levying supplies will also go much smoother. Even... the next generation of humans might take pride in being Aola citizens and forget about Theo."
"Exactly so."
Garoth nodded with satisfaction.
His brother had great talent in military matters, and was quick to grasp other aspects as well. Very reliable, worthy of sharing a similar bloodline.
Then, the red iron dragon turned his gaze back to the city in the twilight, shifting the topic.
"Is the draft for the peace negotiation demands ready?"
Sorog nodded, his expression turning serious. "The basic framework is drafted."
"Demands for reparations in gold coins, land, mineral resources are all negotiable. The amounts can be flexible. The key lies in the restrictive clauses on Theo's future military development."
His tone turned cold. "I have two core demands that must be written into the treaty."
"First, strictly prohibit the Theo Kingdom from constructing, researching, developing, or possessing any strategic-level weapons similar to satellites in the future."
"Second, strictly limit their resource investment in cultivating Legendary-level powerhouses. This includes, but is not limited to, research funding for spellcasters, supply of secret potions for warriors, and any rituals or experiments that might give birth to Legendary beings."
"We need to establish inspectors for regular verification."
These two restrictions essentially strangle the throat of Theo's future military development.
Without strategic weapons, without top-tier powerhouses, Theo would find it very difficult to pose a substantial threat to Aola again.
Garoth listened quietly.
He understood clearly in his heart that the ruling class of the Theo Kingdom probably would not easily agree to such terms. Even if forced to agree on the surface, they would absolutely not cooperate honestly in private. They would definitely try every means to preserve the seeds of counterattack, hoping that one day in the future they could surpass Aola.
Regarding this, Garoth wasn't particularly concerned.
The future?
He slightly parted his jaws, revealing a serene smile belonging to a long-lived species.
One must know, those favored by time have always been long-lived species like dragons.
For a human kingdom to cultivate a Legendary, with good luck, it might take only a few decades or even a hundred years. That is their advantage. But a human Legendary's peak period passes quickly. Whereas a dragon, once achieving Legendary status, can endure for millennia, forever at its peak.
Theo can place their hopes in the future.
But Aola, especially he himself—the future will belong to him.