The Exiled Lord: My Maid is a Battle Goddess-Chapter 108: Regin’s investigation

Any bright and spirited woman longs to be admired—admired without the entanglement of politics or gold.

It is vanity, yes, but also the comfort of being cherished. Together, they bring a double delight.

Rosalia suddenly looked enlightened. "I know. It must be the way you’re feeding me that’s wrong!"

Phield frowned. "What does the method of feeding have to do with the taste of the food itself?"

"Hmph, of course it does. It’s missing the ’aura of the living.’"

She guided Phield’s hand to rest on her waist. Then, like a teasing little cat, she pressed herself softly against him, exhaling a faintly cool breath against his skin.

"Your body temperature is intoxicating. Now, my servant—feed me with your mouth."

Good heavens. I can’t keep up with her pace at all.

Phield nearly choked. He had not expected Rosalia to take the initiative like this.

Only a fool would refuse such an advantage. His hand immediately began to roam.

The inward curve of her lower back traced an exquisite line, and lower still was an astonishing fullness. This was only her maiden form, yet her figure already scored ninety-nine out of a hundred. Phield dared say that in her mature form, it would be one hundred and twenty—the kind of S-shaped silhouette where loosening the sash would cause the dress to slip halfway down, never quite falling to the floor.

Phield’s mind went blank as he leaned in.

"Creak—!"

The sudden sound of a door opening cut through the air.

A faint breeze brushed past him. In an instant, Rosalia vanished back into the Greatsword of Gluttony, leaving him without so much as a single strand to touch.

"I’ll retire for now, dear Lord."

Her sweet laughter echoed beside his ear. Then silence.

"I truly give up."

"Hehe—ah hahaha! Tomato soup’s here~"

Arlya entered, tray in hand, radiating a sense of accomplishment.

Phield was speechless. Rosalia had stirred his thoughts into chaos and fled without warning, leaving behind a sharp sense of emptiness.

"Sigh. The food’s here. Why aren’t you eating?" Arlya tilted her head, her expression cooling again. "Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind."

"I’ll drink it. I’ll drink it."

Phield downed the soup in one gulp, nearly dying from the sourness.

"Perfectly balanced. Delicious."

"Even if it tastes good, you don’t have to drink it like that." Arlya scratched her head shyly. Having her cooking praised still made her genuinely happy.

"My lord, we’ve found villagers who were not corrupted. What should we do with them?" A guard’s voice came from outside.

"Give me a minute. I’ll take a look."

Phield stood by the window for a moment, letting the night air cool him completely before opening the door.

He followed the soldier to the pigsty.

Yes. The pigsty.

Phield even paused in disbelief.

The first thing he saw were two brown pigs—barely a quarter the size of modern pigs, with pointed snouts and long faces, almost like wild boars.

Then he saw something that filled him with fury.

More than thirty women were huddled in the northwest corner of the sty, their bodies smeared with filth and mud. They had been tortured beyond recognition. Many were missing arms or legs. Their expressions were vacant, broken.

"Those damned cultists."

Phield clenched his fist. "Killing them was too merciful. Next time, they should be tortured to death."

"Clean up the survivors first. See if we can obtain any useful information. Give them some food. When Regin arrives, we’ll hand them over to him."

After taking the village, there was more food than they could possibly finish. Even after loading the supply carts to capacity, plenty remained. Sharing some cost nothing.

Phield then visited the wounded.

In this battle, Nightfall Domain had lost one soldier and suffered one critically wounded. The temporarily conscripted troops had lost thirteen, with six severely injured—they had nearly broken. Thanks to ample potions, minor injuries would heal quickly. As for the severely wounded, that would depend on luck.

By the time guard rotations were arranged, it was already deep into the night.

Phield felt exhaustion seep into his bones.

"I’m so tired. If only Ashina were here. She could shoulder so much of this."

War was not a game. You could not simply box-select soldiers and command them to attack.

Managing both battlefield formations and logistics alone was already draining. As for finer details—reconnaissance, terrain evaluation, timing—Phield knew he did not excel.

Ashina, on the other hand, was exceptional at scouting and surprise strikes.

"I can only improve through battle."

He rubbed his temples and lay back on the bed, murmuring, "I need to cultivate a quartermaster soon. Let him handle logistics. But who? He must be literate—and absolutely loyal."

Sam and Ben were loyal, but they only knew how to fight.

Kaor could read and write—but was unreliable.

"I’ll think about it later."

At dawn the next morning, Arlya shook him awake.

"Phield. Lord Regin has arrived."

"So soon? Give me a moment."

Without a maid, it took Phield quite some time to wrestle himself into his elaborate attire.

When he opened the door, he saw Regin approaching with a formidable knightly order.

A hundred riders moved in flawless unison. A solemn, lethal aura rolled toward him. Blue plumes were fixed atop their helms. Each looked capable of charging through enemy lines and scattering crowds. Their azure armor gleamed with magical luster. Their long spears shimmered with enchantment.

But most eye-catching were their mounts.

Blue... raptors?

They had slender claws, and elegant feathers adorned their forearms and crests.

"All third-tier auras. Both knights and mounts," Rosalia whispered to Phield.

"It’s fine."

Phield remained unperturbed. A glance at the minimap showed no hostility.

"They’re likely the guard of some Divine Chosen."

"Baron Phield, I’m relieved to see you safe."

Amid the snorting of warhorses, Regin rode forward and gave a heavy nod.

"Thank you for notifying me immediately. I bear great responsibility for this tragedy. I never expected a Divine Chosen to lie in ambush. The cultists caught us completely off guard."

To his credit, Regin took responsibility rather than shifting blame.

"Please don’t reproach yourself too harshly. No one wished for this." Phield did not feign grief—his discord with Felix was no secret. "Your coming to reinforce me demonstrates both friendship and justice."

"Allow me to introduce Milani. She is allied to our family through marriage, a third-tier Divine Chosen from the Imperial Army."

"Greetings."

The woman’s tone was neutral.

Phield turned his gaze toward Milani.

She wore strikingly vivid attire, holding a noblewoman’s feathered court fan, which she waved from time to time as though she had just stepped out of a grand ball.

She, too, rode a raptor—though hers was larger, its eyes far more ferocious.

A cavalry-type Divine Chosen, perhaps?

Was she the same kind as Ashina?