It was very cold, and the sweater I was wearing wasn't warm enough. I wasn't used to the northern weather, so I shivered and curled up.
Outside the carriage, Alphonse led his army forward through the swirling snow.
He himself had long since adapted to the extreme climate of the North, but the other soldiers had not.
Finchley spurred his horse from the rear of the column and caught up with the commander leading the way, reporting briefly, "Alphonse, all the soldiers who ran away yesterday have been captured, six in total."
Alphonse, gripping the reins tightly on horseback, pulled one hand off his helmet, casting a gaze colder than the freezing winter, and commanded, "Let the troops stop and rest first. Then, bring those traitors up."
"Understood." Finchley replied, then turned his horse around to relay the order to rest. He then returned to the very end of the column and instructed the guards to bring the captured deserters to the commander.
During the Silver Knights' march, some soldiers attempted to desert. These soldiers were not originally part of the Silver Army; they had only left the capital with the Silver Knights because they refused to accept the Royal Knights and had deserted the kingdom's regular army.
True Silver Knights are no ordinary men; no matter how hard or tiring the situation, they would not back down, much less abandon all honor to become deserters. The deserters of the Kingdom's army, once captured, are about to face severe military punishment.
“Strip them naked and whip them with chains.”
The two executioners hesitated and stood still when they heard that they were to be punished with this cruel method originally used on prisoners, and Finchley even let out a cold breath.
"Didn't you hear my command?!"
Alphonse's roar, seemingly imbued with a demonic aura, was so intimidating that it forced the executioner to move to the carriage and retrieve the instruments of torture.
The events outside the carriage startled Priscilla, who was fast asleep in another carriage.
She rubbed her tired eyes, slowly woke up, and peeked outside through the curtains.
Desertion has existed since the beginning of the march from the departure of the capital, and its numbers have only increased. Priscilla was somewhat aware of this.
Meanwhile, Captain Alphonse's punishments for those captured became increasingly severe.
Perhaps for this reason, he became very irritable and easily angered by matters in the military.
Military discipline is clear in its rewards and punishments, and severe punishments are to be expected. The well-trained Silver Knights are willing to abide by military regulations.
At the same time, they also have great respect for the team leader, the one who led them out of the shadows of the past and brought them great success.
"Anyone who deliberately relaxes the intensity will be punished the same way!"
The deserters' cries were more mournful than the howling mountain winds and colder than the clanging of iron chains.
The sight of flesh being torn and ripped open was too painful to imagine. The one being punished before them wasn't a prisoner, but a fellow soldier. Every soldier present was deeply moved and turned away.
Only Commander Alphonse stared intently at the fugitive with an almost cruel gaze, exerting immense psychological pressure.
Unable to withstand the harsh military torture and the coercive force from the regimental commander under the freezing snow, the two men trembled involuntarily, opened their mouths, rolled their eyes, and collapsed to the ground.
Whether the deserter was faking unconsciousness or not, the executioner finally found an opportunity and stopped using the instruments of torture.
Soldiers stripped to the waist, covered in wounds, chains stained with blood, and snow speckled with blood...
This is a scene even more chilling than the harsh winter we are currently experiencing.
Priscilla, who was wrapped in coarse linen clothes and got off the carriage to check the situation, couldn't help but cover her mouth and look at the expressionless Alphonse in surprise.
No one in the entire army dared to speak or make any random movement. Whether standing or crouching, they all resembled frozen stone statues. The atmosphere was even more silent and solemn than during their usual breath-holding training.
After a long silence, Alphonse broke it with a roar, his voice rising from a low tone: "It's lunchtime now, why isn't anyone distributing bread?"
He glared angrily at everyone. "Cooks, come out!"
Some people secretly gasped. Not long after, a small figure emerged from among the soldiers standing at attention, head bowed, not daring to meet the commander's gaze, and not even daring to say "I'm sorry."
The cook was Oliver, a fourteen-year-old boy with red hair and a fair complexion.
This child was the first soldier who befriended Alphonse when he joined the Silver Knights. He felt that the once friendly Alphonse was now a completely different person.
Alphonse was furious, and any action by anyone could trigger his anger again.
The cook might be punished, and Finchley, who has known him for a long time, intends to step forward and persuade the commander to let him off the hook, as it is not Oliver's fault.
He's just a little kid, and he didn't do anything wrong.
Alphonse glared at Oliver for a few seconds, then turned away without saying another word.
Finchley saw that the anger on Alphonse's face seemed to have subsided considerably, and his expression had returned to the calm it had when marching.
"Don't just stand there, my companions are hungry, hurry up and prepare to distribute bread and water."
After leaving behind this slightly gentle remark, the commander left the brigade, walked to a small hill not far from there, and patted Desfield on the neck.
-
Alphonse was troubled, as he had been unable to control his emotions lately.
Most of his colleagues have already noticed this change in him.
Apart from a few close associates, such as Finchley and Douglas, and even Oliver, whom he almost punished today, the rest of the people felt more fear than awe towards Alphonse.
Whenever I encounter trivial matters that are not worth getting angry about, or even just ordinary trifles, there is always an undercurrent surging within me, calling out, wanting to burst forth, wanting to vent.
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