Chapter 495 But some castles still stood amidst the ruins.
The country roads in the valley plains remained muddy and difficult to navigate even at the end of winter.
A covered wagon traveled along a muddy road, its wheels rattling and creaking on the half-thawed frozen ground.
But this is still much better than walking.
Raman sat at the back of the bumpy car, his legs dangling in mid-air.
Dust and bits of wheat stalks covered his old military uniform, which had faded beyond recognition, making him look like a scarecrow stuck in a wheat field.
He repeatedly stroked a cold bronze medal with his rough thumb, his face sometimes showing a smile and sometimes looking lost.
The medal was engraved with two words he had only recently come to know: "Prince" and "Guardian," while the royal insignia in the center was an affirmation and reward for their merits.
He never imagined that he, who couldn't do anything right, would one day gain the Grand Duke's approval and be awarded a medal by the royal family.
He seems to have... genuinely helped that Grand Duke.
But what do you do after that?
On the fifth morning of the year 1054 in the Os calendar, an unassuming Campbell soldier sat in his carriage, contemplating his future.
Edward's Duchy stood at a crossroads of fate, and Raman also stood at a crossroads in his own life. He pondered whether to stay in the army, listen to his comrades' advice to settle in Thunder City, or find a forest farm to continue working with wood.
The atmosphere inside the van was the complete opposite of Raman’s contemplation; it was relaxed yet noisy, as most soldiers didn’t want to worry about things so far in the future.
The war is over; they are the victors and will soon be able to go home.
The soldiers huddled together, chatting excitedly about their post-war plans, their topics revolving around women, alcohol, and the severance pay they were about to receive.
They had already decided where to spend the money before they even received it.
The only exception was a bespectacled soldier who was short and looked scholarly; he was a local citizen of Thunder City.
He was holding a crumpled copy of the Thunder City Daily in his hand; it was the newspaper from the day before yesterday and had only been delivered to him yesterday.
"Listen to this! The newspapers say that the Grand Duke wanted to strip all the rebellious nobles of their titles, but was stopped by the combined forces of the King of the Kingdom of Ryan and the regional bishop! That damned Kingdom of Ryan, I knew they were behind this! We killed some of their men by the Benliu River that day!"
Few people in the carriage responded to him. The only few who did acknowledge him simply laughed and said, "Good riddance" and "Damn Theodore."
Although they defended the Duchy's reforms, strictly speaking, they were not reformers, or even supporters of Edward; they simply happened to hitch a ride on His Majesty the Grand Duke's coattails.
As for how the lords' titles changed, that was none of their business.
Even in Thunder City, where the flames of industry burned fiercely, the concepts of nation and people were abstract and far ahead of their time, only recently born from the textile workers' curses against the king.
Although the young man holding the newspaper was not a textile worker, his family had clearly benefited from their influence to some extent.
That's why, holding the newspaper, he looked like Raman holding a "clanging rifle," his face beaming with pride.
"However! Faced with the coercion of the King and the Papacy, our Grand Duke did not back down, but instead detoured to the blind spot of sacred law! He announced the establishment of a 'Post-War Reparations Committee' to liquidate the property and land of those traitors, to compensate the families and individuals who suffered losses in the civil war, and to reward the heroes who paid their sweat and sacrifices to defend the Duchy!"
"in short--"
"The Grand Duke must share the spoils of war with us!"
There was a moment of silence in the carriage, and for once, people turned their attention to him, but soon burst into laughter.
"Give us a share of the spoils? Haha!"
"Kid, is this your first day in the army? I've heard that a million times."
“Our centurion is dreaming of getting a knighthood. Ever since His Highness the Prince returned the courtesy to him last time, he’s really started to think of himself as a nobleman!”
Faced with the ridicule of the crowd, the bespectacled young man blushed and, in the bumpy carriage, gestured with his index finger, vehemently defending himself.
“This time is different! Thunder City’s industrialization has reached its most critical stage, otherwise the nobles’ opposition wouldn’t be so radical! Even those who live in the past can see this, and our Grand Duke must be able to see it too!”
"If that lord doesn't share the fruits of victory with us commoners who support him, then it will surely be taken by another group of nobles! He must rely on our strength to fight against those who are still living in the past!"
Although this civil war purged the conservative forces within the duchy, it did not kill off the old ideas.
It's like soil.
Whether noble or serf, they are all crops that grow from that soil. The only difference is that one is a root and sprout buried in the dust, and the other is a bunch of fruit hanging on the branch.
This is similar to how serfs don't become respectable citizens just because they ride in a steam engine. At most, they become seemingly more respectable farm implements, and then use the old production relations and more advanced production methods to produce new products that no one has ever seen before.
They will be the same as before, with only the lord's servants and stewards having what they may or may not have a conscience.
Therefore, the fruits of victory he spoke of were not just money and honor, but also things that ordinary people had never dared to dream of before.
That is what touches the very soul of the duchy!
"What if that lord doesn't have any?" a gruff soldier asked with a laugh, a straw dangling from his mouth. "Kid, I don't understand a word you're saying. And what's the point of sharing the spoils with us? What would happen if we didn't?"
The young man pushed up his glasses, his expression unusually serious.
"If he doesn't, then we've all lost, and it's a lose-lose situation."
The Grand Duke will lose everything after winning everything, including the ambitious people around him.
The same goes for those who happen to hitch a ride on the bus.
They will carry the "Rocksey 1053 Rifle" given to them by the Prince, and after another twenty years of prosperity, they will return to the position they were in before 1053.
However, he remained optimistic. Although he said some alarmist things, he eventually changed his tone and led people toward an optimistic future.
“But our Grand Duke is a shrewd man. The Campbell royal family has an excellent lineage and has never neglected the upbringing of its descendants! He will not be blinded by a military victory; he knows very well that the real enemy has just set its sights on him!”
And that enemy was none other than King Ryan!
Or rather, all the conservative forces, led by the king and the papacy, that are unintentionally clashing with the reformist forces of the duchy!
The soldiers in the carriage smiled and shook their heads, no longer arguing with the little bespectacled man. Everyone knew he was educated, but so what?
This guy has definitely never held a woman's hand before, and he's probably never tasted beer. I'll take him to see the world when we get back.
"Alright, you bookworm."
"You take yourself too seriously, and you take what you read in books and newspapers too seriously."
This was ultimately just a civil war between royal families, and they didn't think it had anything to do with the fate of ordinary people.
They were just glad that it was finally over.
Perhaps soon even the Thunder City Daily will stop mentioning this shameful war, and of course they will stop mentioning it altogether.
The young man was clearly still unconvinced and was shouting in the carriage.
"You can laugh at me all you want; time will prove me right!"
The discussion gradually subsided, and they soon returned to a more exciting topic.
Raman also felt that this analysis was a bit too detached from reality. He didn't understand anything about industrialization or winning and losing, and he couldn't see any possibility that the Grand Duke could lose.
Besides, whether he wins or loses, he's still working in the factory. Does working with dignity stop the nobles from coming back?
This seems illogical.
Although nobles were more respectable than factory owners, they were not necessarily more noble.
While the farmers of Twilight Province were eating up all the bark from the trees in front of their houses, the citizens of Thunder City were at least able to eat their fill.
Anyone with a sound mind knows how to choose, as long as their brains aren't damaged by chaotic whispers.
However, after hearing about what happened in the newspaper, Raman couldn't help but feel a little bit of expectation that he hadn't had before.
What if the "little glasses" from the 100th member of the 7,000th team guessed correctly?
He unconsciously gripped the warm medal in his hand, his usually calm heart now burning with excitement.
Although I don't know what the fruits of victory will be, it would be good to get more severance pay.
...
The morning sun gradually turned a golden yellow, and the clouds on the horizon resembled baked orange bread, stirring up homesickness in people's hearts.
Looking at the pastoral scenery along the way, Raman, who was about to fall asleep during the bumpy ride, suddenly felt homesick and wondered how his not-so-old father was doing these days.
My thoughts drifted far away until the wheels of a car made a soft creaking sound.
He instinctively jumped outside the carriage, his boots hitting the frozen ground, and tightened his grip on the Prince's Rifle.
"Where is this place?" Just like before, he didn't think to ask this question until he got off the bus.
“Baron Lukeville’s estate.” An old soldier jumped out of the car, brushing the mud off his trousers. This was the first time he had ever cared about his appearance.
No sooner had he finished speaking than a centurion's loud shout came from afar.
"Get off, lads. We'll rest here tonight."
The tarpaulin was lifted, and the soldiers filed out.
Their shadows, stretched long by the setting sun, formed a neat square along the edge of the wheat field, and they followed the centurion's command to the manor gate.
The setting sun also cast a long shadow on the manor's iron gate, obscuring the faces of the soldiers in the front row and making Raman feel tense.
The centurion straightened his collar and the saber at his waist, then walked alone to the gate of the manor and stood under the half-open iron gate.
An old butler was waiting there early in the morning. He was dressed in a black suit, his face was as gloomy as a withered tree, but his back was as straight as a short pine tree by the door.
Raman couldn't hear their conversation, but he could sense that the atmosphere at the doorway was unpleasant.
The servants in the manor began to gather behind the steward, holding pitchforks, sickles, and even a few old muskets.
There were men, women, and even children among them.
"By Saint Sith..."
Raman heard the prayer beside him, and the old soldier who had jumped off the carriage right behind him lost his excitement, replaced by tension.
He had thought he could move into a nobleman's manor for two nights, whistle at the beautiful maid he had rescued, and even if he couldn't touch her, he could still feast his eyes. But now it seemed they might have to fight.
The atmosphere was unusually tense.
The centurion and the steward's expressions grew increasingly grim.
The adjutant frowned, temporarily handed over command to the drummer, stepped forward to his superior's side, and joined the negotiations.
Just as conflict was about to erupt, the door to the main house suddenly opened, and a figure suddenly appeared in the shadows lengthened by the setting sun.
What are you doing?
Hearing the sound behind them, the servants at the manor gate clearly showed fear. The butler, in particular, hurriedly turned around and lowered his head in trepidation.
"lady."
That was the Baroness, dressed in a greyish-white long dress with a thin shawl draped over her shoulders, her eyes unusually calm.
Several children followed behind her, looking timid, holding hands tightly.
Like the children of ordinary people, some of them were fearful, some were strong, and some were too young to know what was happening and looked around curiously.
"Don't put up a futile resistance. Enough people have already died in this stupid war. No one else should have to sacrifice themselves for it."
She spoke softly, her voice not loud, but clearly reaching everyone's ears, dispelling the tense atmosphere.
Although her husband was loyal to Earl Derek, her children were not foolish enough to decide who to be loyal to.
If the duchy really can't accommodate them, she can take them back to her parents' home. Although life might be a bit difficult afterward, everything will be much better once they come of age.
The only pity was the servants.
Only cattle and sheep are bound to the land beneath their feet; the power of nobles, though derived from the land, is never bound by it.
However, the simple-minded Raman still felt a sense of respect for this beautiful lady.
Although he knew she might have spoken out under duress, she could have remained silent and gotten into the carriage that came to pick her up.
In the continent of Os, wars between nobles have always been lenient with each other. Therefore, even if they know there is no chance of winning, most people will never surrender before the castle collapses. Instead, they will use the blood of commoners to wear down the strength of the commoners.
The lady spoke to the children for a while, then gave a few instructions to the maids accompanying her, before leading them to the carriage parked at the door.
The servants watched the carriage depart in a daze, then turned their hateful gazes toward the Grand Duke's soldiers.
In their view, it was these people who ruined their lives, destroyed everything they had, and pushed them into the abyss.
In fact, they weren't wrong.
They could no longer use Baron Lukeville's prestige to order around the serfs on the manor lands.
The mission objective had been achieved, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that an unnecessary casualty had been avoided.
However, the centurion was clearly still not satisfied and was still negotiating with the steward. He lowered his voice and spoke in a restrained tone.
"...We're just staying for a few nights, so please lend us the servants' quarters. We'll stay here for a maximum of a week, and then we'll leave."
The old butler looked at him expressionlessly and replied coldly, "According to the laws of the Duchy, this manor still belongs to the Lukeville family. You have no right to enter."
"It won't be like that for long!" the centurion's adjutant couldn't help but retort, but this only earned him an even colder look from the steward.
The old man, nearing the end of his life, wore a cold smile, seemingly provoking and attempting to uphold the loyalty that had lasted for hundreds of years.
Rather than disappearing into obscurity, he would rather these people shoot and splatter his blood on Edward's crown.
Raman watched helplessly as their centurion, who was as proud as a rooster, seemed to have met his match this time.
"very good."
He glared at the steward, uttered a harsh remark that was difficult to understand, and then left without wasting any more words, leading his angry adjutants away.
He waved goodbye before returning to the group, and led the tired young men out of the manor gate, heading towards the village next to the manor.
Having come from the fields, he knew Campbell's village inside and out.
Every village has a public granary, and next to the granary, there must be simple dormitories prepared for the serfs who cannot return home during the busy farming season.
It is winter now, and the serfs live in their own homes. The barn quarters can only house a maximum of two guards.
At worst, they can just stay there; no one can stop them.
Walking along the dirt road leading to the village, many young men were disappointed, regretting that they hadn't been able to visit the Baron's manor.
Raman moved closer to the comrade wearing glasses, knowing that this "little glasses" was full of ideas and might know something.
"What just happened?" Raman asked in a low voice.
The soldier pushed up his glasses, lowered his voice, and analyzed the situation with sharp eyes.
"That must be a baron who's involved in the civil war, and... he's probably our adversary."
"I see." Raman nodded belatedly, a look of realization on his face.
The man with glasses continued.
"Her husband was most likely captured at Glenston Castle and is now imprisoned in the Grand Duke's dungeon. As for his family, they will probably be placed under house arrest somewhere near Campbell Castle until the trial concludes and their fate is decided."
Raman thought for a moment, then his gaze fell on the village ahead.
"So that means the people there..."
"They were our opponents before." The bespectacled soldier glanced at the village not far away and said casually, "We might have already met."
Are they the people from the banks of the rushing river?
Thinking of the reeds stained with blood, Raman was momentarily dazed, and many nameless faces floated into his mind.
He suddenly thought of something else.
"So now we're going to... punish them?"
“Don’t overthink it,” the bespectacled soldier chuckled. “We’re just staying for a few days at most, waiting for the Grand Duke’s men to come and take over the Baron’s estate.”
He seemed to see through Raman's thoughts and continued, "Actually, I prefer living with these serfs who have no stance to those servants who had such strong opinions. At least we don't have to worry about them poisoning us in the middle of the night, and we might even be able to hire them to help hunt some game. Anyway, that forest doesn't have an owner for the time being... What, are you afraid of them?"
Raman shook his head.
Although he wasn't as cunning as this guy, able to discern who would resort to underhanded tactics and who wouldn't, he never truly felt afraid.
He felt a slight sense of unease at the centurion's final "Very good."
In wars between nobles, it was common practice to allow one's soldiers to plunder the villages of defeated "enemies".
Perhaps it was because he had been away from the barons' village for too long, and his edges had been smoothed out by the "rotten" city of Thunder, that he always felt that people should not be treated like livestock.
They are all Campbellians.
As that beautiful lady said, the civil war is over, and no one should die for the ambitions of the powerful anymore...
...
Raman's worries were clearly unnecessary; their lord was not a baron, and his centurion and lieutenant were from the same place as him.
Those with more medals on their chests will only set a higher standard for themselves.
The soldiers, carrying supply wagons, drove into the villages under the jurisdiction of Baron Lukeville and moved into the temporary dormitories used by the farmers during the busy farming season.
The rows of longhouses next to the barn were simple, but at least they provided shelter from the wind and snow. The haystacks, though not as soft as a bed, were better than a sleeping bag for marching.
A young man from Thunder City brought over a pile of dry straw, threw it on the ground to use as a mattress, and made a joke about it amidst the hardship.
"This place is alright, much more spacious than the factory dormitory where I used to work."
The person next to him said with a smile.
"So, are you going to move in?"
"I was just saying." He chuckled sheepishly and changed the subject.
He's not stupid.
The only thing the citizens of Thunder City long for in the countryside is probably the grapes of Silverpine Town and the wild game that the villagers poach.
The idyllic pastoral scene sounds poetic, but if he had to trade it for beer, he would still choose to be a "sardine in a can".
It is human nature to say one thing and mean another.
Not only the rank and file of the 7,000th Regiment, but also their centurions.
The "harsh words" uttered by that aggressive man seemed to amount to nothing more than "using the grain stored in your master's granary to cook tonight."
However, when the imposing man opened the barn and saw the mountain of grain, he remained silent for a long time and then sighed.
There is too much grain.
When they leave, the old steward probably won't even realize that the grain in the barn has decreased...
The soldiers started a fire and began cooking.
Thick smoke rose, and the villagers noticed the group of uninvited guests.
Several bold young men came over, carrying vegetables and pumpkins, and asked them if they needed any.
Raman was surprised to find that copper coins, which were almost worthless in Thunder City, still had a market here.
And their purchasing power is surprisingly strong!
Watching the centurion exchange a few copper coins for a large amount of vegetables and pumpkins, and the villagers leaving happily, he couldn't believe it.
In fact, this is quite normal.
The serfs' time was already worthless, and this winter, the caravans that used to come to buy grain did not come because of the civil war.
The few vegetables and pumpkins they painstakingly dug out of the "intercropping fields" were not something any merchant would risk getting caught up in the war to buy. Of course, they themselves wouldn't dare risk being conscripted to run to the town dozens of miles away to earn a few copper coins.
The food we can't finish eating in winter will just rot in the spring anyway, so we might as well sell it cheaply to His Majesty's soldiers.
They knew perfectly well that these guys had severance pay in their pockets, unlike them who were so poor they couldn't even hear the clatter of coins.
Just as Little Glasses said, these villagers, unlike those stubborn servants, had no stance.
So, the plain wheat porridge in the pot quickly turned into golden pumpkin porridge.
The aroma of stewing mixed with the smell of firewood filled the air around the barn, and many young soldiers couldn't help but swallow, thinking of the pumpkin soup from their hometown.
In this rare moment of peace, a haggard-looking woman wandered about, coming into everyone's view.
Her hair was dry and yellow, and her face was haggard, like a wandering ghost in a cemetery. At first, she startled the young men, who thought she was a ghost wandering by.
Until she spoke, asking in a trembling voice.
"My lord... have you seen a man named Serf? He also joined the army; he was taken away by the lord in the fall..."
The young men, who had been startled, exchanged awkward glances and shook their heads, saying they hadn't seen anything.
"...I don't know. This is my first time being drafted. You should ask the veterans over there. They might know more names."
They knew better than anyone which side the soldiers Baron Lukeville had taken away were on, and what had happened on the other side.
However, no one had the courage to tell the poor woman the truth.
And what if he's still alive?
The probability is very small, but not impossible; of the 300,000 troops, only one or two out of ten might actually die in battle.
The first hundred men to go might be wiped out, but those who go later might not even see the enemy before running away with the fleeing army.
However--
They also knew in their hearts that the defeated rebels had long since returned home and hidden away. Now that even the victors were going home, those who had not yet reunited with their families were unlikely to return.
The woman looked disappointed, but she didn't give up and continued searching the camp like a persistent ghost.
The previously high morale was dampened by the widow's actions. Some veteran soldiers silently sipped their pumpkin soup, refraining even from telling the baroness's bawdy jokes.
Finally, the centurion, who was as proud as a rooster, couldn't stand it anymore and walked up to the woman, telling her the truth.
Someone has to tell her the truth.
Winters in the Duchy of Campbell are not as cold as in the Province of Dusk, but if one catches a cold and does not receive treatment, one can still die.
Raman didn't hear what his superior said.
He only saw the woman suddenly cover her mouth with her hand, as if to stifle the sorrow that was about to overflow.
Her shoulders trembled violently, but she didn't cry out. Instead, she stumbled away, just as she had arrived in a daze.
Raman felt a tightness in his chest.
He quickly finished the pumpkin soup, washed the dishes by the well, and patrolled the edge of the barn, trying to process the complex emotions in his heart.
Just then, he saw a thin boy clinging to the wooden fence outside the barn, craning his neck to look inside.
The child gazed at the campfire inside the barn, as if searching for something.
"What are you looking for?" Raman asked as he walked over.
"My father." The boy's voice was soft, tinged with timid shyness.
“You’ve come to the wrong place, child,” Raman gently reminded him. “We are soldiers of the Duchy. You should go to the servants in the manor; they might know.”
“My father is also a soldier of the Duchy, sir, just like you.” Looking into Raman’s eyes, the boy shook his head and continued innocently, “Besides, I went to the manor to ask, and they told me to go home and wait, saying that the Grand Duchy would send my father back.”
Although Raman had made ample preparations after meeting the widow, he was still moved by the words "just like you."
He gently placed the "Prince's Rifle" that was slung over his shoulder aside, squatted down in front of the boy, and made sure he didn't have to lean on the fence to talk to him.
"May I have your name?"
The boy climbed down from the fence, dusted off his hands, and spoke in one breath, as if afraid of missing any details.
“Phil! My name is Phil! My father’s name is Serf. He lives on the south side of this village. He’s a well-known honest man in the village and has never done anything wrong in his life. He can also sew clothes. Look, this dress of mine was made by him!”
Mr. Selph was clearly not a good tailor; the boy's clothes looked like they had been made from a burlap sack, and his tender face was red from the cold.
Raman thought of the heartbroken widow whose husband seemed to have the same name.
Under the dual blows of mental and physical distress, she may have become somewhat delirious, even forgetting to take the child who came with her.
The child clearly didn't have any friends either.
Perhaps he did have it before, but when children's play-acting scripts changed from heroes fighting demons to grand dukes fighting counts, he probably didn't.
Because his father was a true rebel.
"Little Glasses," who grew up in Thunder City, still didn't understand the situation in the countryside. While the serfs may have no political stance, that didn't prevent them from using it to distinguish between themselves and others, just as simple kindness and simple evil can coexist.
perhaps……
What should I do?
By the time Raman realized it, he had already reached out and ruffled the boy's messy hair, a shy yet warm smile on his face.
"So you're Phil. I've heard...Serf mention you. He told me you're a brave young man."
The boy's eyes lit up instantly.
"Really?! You've met my father!"
"Yes, we've not just met, we're practically... inseparable comrades-in-arms."
Raman pointed to a scar on his cheek, a mark left by a stray bullet on the banks of the Benliu River, the result of someone accidentally firing a shot before they died.
Maybe it was his father, maybe it wasn't.
But none of that matters anymore.
Rahman, a man of unparalleled faith, told the only lie he had ever told in his life.
"It was a fierce battle, the river was stained red with blood. He died outside Thunder City while covering my escape. See this scar? If he hadn't pushed me away, that bullet might have hit my head."
The boy's eyes, which had just brightened, gradually dimmed again, and his clear pupils were soon filled with sadness.
Seeing the tears welling up in his eyes, Raman pulled out the now-cold bronze medal from his pocket.
He reached out, just as Sir Wesley had done when awarding him the medal, and pinned the "Guardian of the Duchy" medal, bestowed by His Majesty the Grand Duke, onto the boy's worn collar.
“Our Grand Duke bestowed this medal upon him. He asked me to pass it on to you… It was his dying wish. That is why we came here, and now my mission is finally complete. In a few days, we will be going home.”
After putting on the medal, he patted Phil on the shoulder again.
“Phil, your father was a hero. Saint Sith took his soul away. He wants you to be as brave and strong as him, to become a real man… He said he will be watching over you from heaven, to take good care of his woman, your mother, and not to let him down.”
Raman was a natural carpenter.
When he saw a house that was about to collapse, he instinctively felt that he should do something, so he used the nails at hand to repair the beam that was about to break.
Although his craftsmanship couldn't compare to that of the factories in Thunder City, perhaps he had accomplished things that those cold machines couldn't.
The boiling steam will one day engulf all the old villages, but those who come after will still have the option to plant hope in the land.
The boy finally broke down in tears.
He cried bitterly, but after he had cried all his tears, he stubbornly wiped them away and straightened his chest, which was adorned with medals.
Just like that centurion.
"...I will!"
Hearing that strong voice, Raman smiled with relief, patted the boy's head, picked up the "Prince's Rifle" that he was so proud of, and got up to return to the camp.
The north wind of winter is exceptionally cold, yet tonight's sunset is unusually warm. This rare warmth shines not only on the nobleman's land, but also into his heart.
On the fifth evening of 1054 in the Os calendar, a carpenter gave the medal bestowed upon him by the Grand Duke to a child who had lost his father in the civil war.
This sentence may not be written in the epic of the Duchy of Campbell, after all, in the days following the end of the "Winter Coup", there were major events happening almost every day.
However, Raman did not feel sorry.
Perhaps I have once again helped His Majesty the Grand Duke.
(End of this chapter)
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
