The 'Extra' Lord (Unlimited Plunder) - Chapter 79

Upon returning, Owen was met with a cacophony of jubilation and celebration. The air buzzed with cheers, the weary sighs of relief, and the warm embrace of his people's gratitude. But beneath it all, Owen didn’t feel like a victor. The weight of loss clung to him, pressing down with an unforgiving force.

The first thing he did was pay his respects to the fallen—those brave souls who had laid down their lives defending the fledgling kingdom he had carved from the unforgiving sands. There was no evidence left of their sacrifice; the tidal wave that followed the battle had swallowed everything, washing away the pyres and traces of the funerals. Yet, Owen stood on the windswept sands, silent and still, letting the dry granules slip through his fingers as if bidding them farewell once more.

“They fought with everything they had,” Pyris said, her voice a steady anchor in the tumult of emotion. She stood rigid, her posture a testament to a life shaped by rigorous military discipline.

“I know,” Owen replied, his voice hoarse, as if every word scraped against the dryness in his throat.

The journey back had taken two gruelling days of relentless travel. Every moment, Owen remained tethered to the events unfolding at his home through the Emblem's connection. His General, Vestid, had orchestrated the defence with unparalleled precision, turning what could have been a bloodbath into a testament of resilience. Without Vestid's keen strategic mind, the loss of life would have been catastrophic.

Pyris was formidable in battle—a hurricane of strength and skill—but leadership was not her forte, and in that, she mirrored Owen. The weight of command, of ensuring safety and unity, was new and alien to him. He was learning to navigate this maze not through expertise but through the guidance of those whose experience far exceeded his own.

Owen knew what needed to come next: to move forward, as he had learned to do countless times in the brutal land that became his home. He walked to the heart of his territory—a stretch of compacted, wind-swept sands—and called forth the Units he had acquired through the brutal slaying of Jonah. The scene was almost surreal as over forty figures materialised, each bowing low, a silent acknowledgment of their new Lord.

Unlike the Orcen Lord's guaranteed orcish troops, Jonah's forces were diverse, just as Owen's were. Soldiers, artisans, and skilled labourers stood before him, some faces still haunted by their past allegiance. There was no anger in Owen's gaze, no bitterness at the losses they had inflicted. Instead, there was a strange, unsettling calm—a sense that this cycle of life and death had become all too familiar.

“Yesterday, you fought for a tyrant obsessed with power,” Owen addressed them, his voice unwavering. “Today, you fight for something greater—a collective, a nation not built on conquest, but on the strength and spirit of its people. You are not just soldiers here; you are the foundation of what we will become.”

A spark lit in their eyes—hardened warriors and crafters alike—hungry for a purpose beyond bloodshed. They were individuals summoned to a world teeming with chaos, yearning for significance and stability. Owen might not have desired endless war, but he now grasped the necessity of wielding strength when required.

“Those who have stood with me from the beginning, step forward,” Owen commanded, and Lome and his steadfast comrades moved without hesitation. Owen distributed the precious Skills and Fragments he had fought tooth and nail for, each gift met with reverent nods and gratitude. Then he turned to the orcs who had defended the kingdom valiantly, bestowing upon them tools of war and protection, untainted by prejudice or hierarchy.

Everyone's efforts were acknowledged—from the warriors who had bled for their home to the builders, miners, and even the eccentric Bimpnottin, whose ingenuity had proven indispensable.

But perhaps the most valuable boon from the recent battle stood quietly amidst the summoned units: a high-level alchemist, his robes speckled with stains of past concoctions. His mastery over anti-venoms and curative potions glimmered in his intense gaze. He would be vital, especially with the shadow of the Great Rot threatening the Cursed Lands. If not for this stroke of luck, Owen knew he would have been willing to part with a fortune in Credits to secure such expertise.

As he took in the sight of his new, multifaceted force, Owen’s chest tightened. The battle had been won, but the true challenge—the building of a nation that could stand against the dark storms yet to come—was only just beginning.

In the span of just a few weeks, Owen had transformed his domain into a flourishing stronghold. The simple water well he’d started with had been expanded into a robust system, its stone rim reinforced and surrounded by new storage tanks. Seven sturdy buildings now stood in neat formation outside the main settlement, fortified with mortar and topped with thatched and tiled roofs. At the summit of the mountain that housed his kingdom, a towering watchtower pierced the sky, its silhouette a sentry against the horizon.

There were some voices of concern regarding the watchtower, that it would guide others here. But Owen and Vestid had already gone through the pros and cons. The truth of the matter was that it was better to spot the enemy and prepare themselves before they stumbled upon their kingdom by chance. 

Bimpnottin, though initially grumbling under his breath, eventually joined forces with the other farmers to bolster the crop yields. Rows of hardy vegetables and grain now blanketed the rocky soil, green life defying the unforgiving landscape.

The hunting teams moved with tireless precision, tracking and taking down the scarlet crabs that scuttled across the sandy plains. Each hunt ended with Owen using Plunder to extract the valuable meat and materials, which Clarke the Cook expertly smoked for long-term storage. The downside: Owen's relentless use of Plunder no longer granted him any stat increases, and he had reached the Level cap of fifty. Progression would now have to wait until he ventured through a Gateway.

Departure loomed on the horizon.

His Units now numbered around one hundred, a bustling force of soldiers, craftsmen, and labourers. The once quiet paths of his kingdom were now alive with activity; wherever Owen walked, life surrounded him. The ease of constructing new barracks with Plunder kept up with the growing needs of his people.

Cindrelle’s forge glowed day and night, her mastery over molten sand yielding gleaming sheets of glass. Paired with polished metal, Owen had integrated tall light tunnels within the mountain’s interior. When the sun reached its zenith, the main corridors of his burgeoning palace shimmered with warm, natural light, casting an opulent glow across stone walls and intricately carved doorways.

But progress was soon marred by an ominous turn. The Great Rot came sweeping in far sooner than expected, its reach swift and merciless. Bimpnottin was the first to show symptoms, skin paling and voice rasping with unnatural groans. Yet Owen, ever the strategist, was prepared. Over the past weeks, he had worked tirelessly alongside Rizael and the new alchemist, mass-producing an antitoxin tincture designed to stave off the disease.

The illness was monstrous, devouring flesh and warping the mind until its victims became mindless husks, driven only by the need to spread their affliction.

Owen’s first instinct was to profit; the demand for a cure would be insatiable. But a flicker of conscience burned through that thought, one he couldn't ignore. He opted instead to price the anti-toxins affordably, ensuring that survival wasn’t a luxury but a right.

Within days, other merchants flooded the market, offering their own concoctions at sky-high prices. The slow pace at which Rizael and the alchemist could produce the tinctures left a painful void in the supply. Buyers watched the market with hawk-like vigilance, and every batch Owen released was snapped up in minutes. By the fifth day, Owen had to halt his sales; scalpers had begun hoarding the anti-toxins, reselling them at grossly inflated rates. The profiteers’ greed gnawed at him, but for now, he would focus on what mattered most—keeping his people safe and his kingdom standing.

With the threat of disease vanquished, Owen turned his full attention to strengthening the lives, power, and home of his people. The kingdom thrived under his care, but he knew that vigilance was key. He had already begun expanding the network of watchtowers to nearby mountains, where signal fires served as their primary form of communication. If something menacing approached, Owen needed to know instantly.

Preparations complete, Owen stood at the massive war table, surrounded by his trusted Generals and the newly integrated humans from Jonah’s castle. The room was filled with a quiet tension, the light of torches casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.

Hands braced on the table, Owen met the eyes of those gathered, giving a nod to Justin and the other humans. “Next week, I will be departing alongside the other Lord Candidates to search for an Outpost. I don’t know how long this journey will take—weeks, perhaps months. During my absence, Vestid will oversee the army, and Balthus will manage all other affairs. If there are any concerns, now is the time to speak.”

A hand shot up, bold and eager. Rehan, with a mischievous glint in his eye, leaned forward. “I have one big, mighty concern,” he declared, a grin stretching across his face. “We’re going to miss you.”

Laughter rippled through the room, and Owen’s heart swelled. He took a moment to look at the faces around him—the warriors, the builders, the people he had fought for, bled for. They were more than just a kingdom; they were his family.

A smile broke across Owen’s face, warm and genuine. “And I’m going to miss you all too,” he said, voice steady but soft, carrying the weight of his promise to return.