The son of the God-Emperor in Warhammer Fantasy

 The lake goddess selected a champion at the wedding ceremony of Count Ryan of Glamorgan just two weeks ago, and the entire kingdom has not yet emerged from the festive atmosphere of this century's wedding. Within two weeks, from the most remote peasant serfs in the kingdom to the knights in the palace of the Kingdom of Corona, everyone was discussing Ryan's grand wedding.

The buzz had not yet subsided when another divine decree from the great cathedral of the lake goddess reverberated through the entire kingdom of Brittany. Groups of Holy Grail knights carrying golden iris banners brought the lake goddess's decree to the mortals.

"Lady's Oracle, dark forces invade, northern barbarians with eagle eyes and wolfish stares, utterly vicious, eastern greenskins wreak havoc without limit, their crimes deserve thousands of deaths, undead corrupt the land and usurp the soil, enemies surround us on all sides, to save the people from fire and water, and defend against enemies outside the national gates, it is hereby permitted for the dukes of Brittany to select pious and steadfast volunteers and grant them the title of knight."

—Lake Witch Morgiana

This oracle from the lake goddess, like hot oil in a pan, completely ignited the entire kingdom. From serfs and freemen to knights and nobles with titles, it sparked a huge sensation. Under the cover of night, countless serfs gathered together, frantically discussing the miracle that even serfs could be promoted to knights.

Many serfs wept with joy; they hadn't expected the Lady to care so much about them, the lowly ones, to actually decree that they could be promoted to the ranks of knights. After work, people gathered in dilapidated taverns, drinking cheap, sour barley beer and eating roasted bread, loudly discussing who might have the chance to become knightly lords, especially the sergeants and rangers, who, as soldiers and lower-ranking officers who spent the most time with the knights, became highly sought after. Every day they were thronged by serfs, all asking how to become a knight and if they still had a chance.

Facing the lake goddess's oracle, the great nobles of Brittany were unusually silent, even if some nobles opposed, it was just for show, with many opting not to comment. When they heard that there were only three slots per year, many great nobles, especially the conservative dukes, simply suggested to Morgiana that one or two per year might be more reasonable.

A very important reason why the dukes did not vehemently oppose is that the chaos invasion at the beginning of the year had severely damaged the northern part of the kingdom, with many duchies even facing a shortage of knights. Peasant infantry regiments and sergeants and rangers were also severely understaffed.

Ryan seized this perfect opportunity to let the lake goddess issue this oracle. The great nobles would not strongly oppose because the smart ones among them knew that this oracle was very beneficial for their replenishment and for motivating the serfs. The possibility of three slots per year also posed no threat to the possibility of shaking noble rule.

The goddess's oracle originated from the county of Glamorgan, so discussions were most heated in this area.

As early winter approached, the county began to be enveloped by snow and ice. This year's winter arrived a few days earlier than usual. When the sun's rays were obscured by dark clouds, when winter wheat was covered by snow, when trees wilted and their bare branches stretched weakly towards the sky, when villages fell into depression and silence, when people always had to huddle by the fire at night, even the serfs knew that winter had arrived.

Jean Town had more vitality than other places; even in the dead of winter, many residents could be seen walking on the well-paved stone streets, though most hurried along, as no one wanted to stay out long in the dreadful weather.

The streets were full of small merchants and peddlers strictly confined to a small area in front of the shops along the street, not allowed to obstruct the pedestrian pathway. Yet these peddlers always cunningly squeezed towards the middle of the road, selling their wares. Once a patrolling squad passed by, they quickly retreated back behind the "safety line." The daily "battle" between the merchants and the guards had become a routine in the town, and residents were no longer surprised.

The town's largest commodity purchasing and trade center was the "Oliver Commerce Guild," located not far from the count's castle. The merchant Oliver from the empire presided over the sale of a variety of

 goods, with traders from all over flocking there daily.

At five in the afternoon, the sunset's afterglow slowly fell behind the Hieroglyph Mountains, marking the end of another day. Raymond, an escaped serf from the Duchy of Lyonnesse, dressed in a not inexpensive leather outfit and wrapped in a cozy bear skin coat that marked him as someone of status, was a regular pike soldier in the Pike Camp, weaving through the streets alone. Snowflakes settled on his brown hair.

This escaped serf from Lyonnesse was now a regular soldier in the Pike Camp, having just undergone a very strenuous training that day, tougher than the labor he performed for the knightly lords in Lyonnesse.

But the treatment here was much better; at least he was well-fed. At noon, he had tasted a thick corn meat soup, with a bone for everyone in the soup, Raymond had gnawed all the meat off his bone clean, licked the surface of the bone, and even sucked the marrow dry.

Exhaling a breath of cold air, the young pikeman hesitated for a moment, then decided not to head towards the bustling market but moved towards a less crowded area of the town.

Now, the most expensive real estate in Jean Town was Champion Avenue near the count's castle, crowded with densely packed buildings, many of which were rented out to merchants and nobles, and also to many ranger knights who settled there. The houses there, all built of stone tiles and oak structures, were beautiful and sturdy, highly sought after by many knights and merchants, and many sergeants also dreamed of buying a house there.

The further from the city center, the newer and more simplistic the houses became, still many with wooden structures. It was said that construction would continue soon, as the town had already been expanded twice but was still overcrowded. Rumors of a third expansion were rampant, perhaps starting after the New Year.

After walking a few streets, Raymond found himself on a street lined with double-story houses, a typical half-residential, half-commercial street with few pedestrians, many of the houses with their doors tightly closed, only the light of fires inside and the black smoke from chimneys indicating that people lived there.

If it was this kind of street... Raymond looked around and indeed found a house. This house had a wooden sign hanging in front by a rope, featuring an ugly cartoon that looked like a cross between a dog and a bear, thankfully there were words below.

"The Bear Dog Tavern."

In Jean Town, almost every street had a tavern, which served the triple function of inn, restaurant, and retail store. This Bear Dog Tavern looked ordinary, with human voices occasionally coming from inside, the tavern door half-open. Perhaps the owner was agonizing over whether to let the cold wind in by opening the door or keep customers out by closing it, eventually settling on this half-open, half-closed approach, both welcoming and unwelcoming.

Raymond didn't care; there was beer and roasted meat here, and that was enough.

"Thump~" The door was gently pushed open, and Raymond entered the tavern.

Thick straw covered the wooden floor, candles made from animal fat lit up the dim interior of the tavern, and at least one waiter was vigorously wiping the greasy bar with a cloth. Behind the long bar, a matron was pouring drinks, two rows of shelves filled with all kinds of liquor, from the worst Brittany barley beer to Empire black beer, Kislev vodka, mead, and whiskey, and even inferior grape wine from Wintfort—everyone knew that Count Ryan's wife, Lady Sulia, was the legitimate daughter of the Duke of Wintfort, a duchy famous for both its high-quality and low-quality grape wines.

Fine wines were for the nobility to drink, and inferior wines were for the lower classes, which seemed fair enough.

Inside the tavern, the long bar was filled with patrons, with only one or two spots left. Two wooden tables also had quite a few people. When Raymond pushed open the door, almost everyone turned their eyes towards him; most were middle-aged men in black or brown cloaks with unkempt beards.

His bear skin coat and youthful appearance seemed out of place in this tavern, but as Raymond firmly believed, this would not hinder his enjoyment of a good drink here.

"It's the count's soldier!"

"He's one of our count's pikemen!"

"I've heard of them, these soldiers of the Pike Camp are brave men, they once faced the chosen warriors of the northern barbarians in the battle of Lyonnesse!"

"Cheers to you, brave man!"

The patrons and drunks in the tavern quickly recognized his identity from the badges and military uniform on Raymond. In the Glamorgan count's territory, the count's soldiers were always respected and adored; every serf longed for someone in their family to become a sergeant or ranger and gain the status of a freeman.

This was Raymond's confidence

, his confidence in his own identity, a sense of respect he could never have felt when he was a serf in Lyonnesse.

"Welcome, Mr. Pikeman of the Count, what can I do for you?" The matron, who had been busy pouring drinks and counting coins in her jar, looked up as Raymond approached the bar and managed a forced smile.

"Beer." Raymond found a stool in front of the bar and stated directly.

"Local barley beer or something else?" The matron seemed to be testing him.

"Empire black beer." Raymond, of course, knew what local barley beer was; it was for those content with mediocrity, not for him, a soldier of the count.

"A glass, or a small barrel?" The matron, knowing she had a connoisseur, continued.

"A small barrel." Raymond's gaze fixed on the beer barrels in the cabinet, which might store seven or eight liters of beer. He didn't know how much water was mixed in, but it shouldn't be too much—if a tavern watered down its beer too severely, it wouldn't have so many customers.

"Hmm?" The matron, who looked no older than thirty and fairly attractive, spread her hands.

Raymond handed over a silver coin.

The silver coin instantly disappeared into the matron's sleeve. She gave him twenty copper coins in change, then took out a huge wooden beer mug, filled it to the brim with a dark brown liquid, and set it in front of Raymond. "Anything else, sir?"

"That's all for now." Raymond took the beer mug, which was what they called a "small barrel," about 650 milliliters. If it had been "a glass" of beer, that would have been a mug, about 150 to 200 milliliters.

The Empire's black beer exuded a rich aroma, with foam on the surface of the beer, very comforting to drink, at least much better than the local sour barley beer.

One gulp, and a third of the large mug was gone. Raymond was about to say something when the door opened, and the wind and snow swept in. Raymond frowned and instinctively looked towards the door.

A figure appeared at the tavern door, dressed in a green sergeant's cloak, chain mail, and a lavish robe, with a large bow on his back.

"Ah, good to see you, Mr. Bertrand! What wind brings you to my little shop today?"

"Start me off with an Empire black beer, Marty."

"Right away."

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