Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"Even these bitter ones are diminishing sip by sip," Winters sighed deeply. "These were all brewed last year. The barley was confiscated by the garrison earlier this year, and then I managed to get it. It's impossible for me to use grain to brew beer, and the farmers are unwilling to sell their grain. So today is the last day of drinking to our heart's content; after this, Revodan might go a long time without beer."

Anna looped her arm through her lover's. "You've already done very well."

Winters sighed again, deeply. "I could have done better."

"You can't save everyone," she said.

"That," Winters said with a soft chuckle, "is the third time I've heard it."

"Who were the first two?" Anna asked, curious.

"Bard, and a great sage," Winters took a deep breath, brushed away the gloom, and declared with a chest full of fierce pride, "Watch, Anna. In one year—two at most—I will restore Revodan and even Iron Peak County to their former states. I will bring prosperity back to the cities, vitality to the countryside. Believe in me, witness me."

Anna gently rubbed Winters' shoulder. "I didn't come here because of any achievements you might have... I just want you to live well."

"How do I deserve you..."

"Knowing that is enough," Anna huffed slightly, discontented.

The feast gradually drew to a close, and residents of the square fetched their instruments to play and enliven the atmosphere.

A citizen cradled a bagpipe and began to play, cheeks puffed.

The piercing sound of the bagpipe cut through the noisy chatter of the square with its melodious tune.

A woman's voice began to hum along, and more and more people softly sing together:

"The money I had,

has all been shared with my mates;

The harm I've caused,

ultimately only wounds myself;

The wisdom I sought,

has long since vanished like smoke and clouds;

So fill up this cup of Stirrup Wine,

may joy always be by your side;

..."

According to Paratu customs, as a parting friend steps into the saddle, the send-off party will hold up one final cup of wine.

This parting cup is hence termed "Stirrup Wine," and natives of Paratu all know how to sing this farewell song named after it.

Anna nestled against Winters, quietly listening, watching the life on the square—a painting of such vibrant life.

She regretted, "I should have brought my easel."

"This is the first time I've seen someone paint outdoors like you," Winters teased.

Anna, however, earnestly described to Winters the scene she accidentally saw in Wolf Town: five men and a skinny ox ploughing the field.

"The scene wasn't pretty, but it was very..." Anna searched anxiously for the right adjective.

Winters gently took Anna's hand. "Shocking, sad, yet also peaceful, natural, and serene. Right?"

Anna nodded with a smile. "Yes, it's complex emotion. That's why it's also beautiful. I want to paint it, which is why I asked you for an easel."

Winters was moved too. "Is it finished?"

"Only the draft," Anna blushed slightly. "I... don't have any paints."

"I'll find you paints," Winters said with deep regret. "I'm sorry."

Anna clung tighter to Winters' arm, not speaking, just snuggling up to her lover's shoulder.

Suddenly inspired, Winters pulled out a map book and a small bundle of graphite sticks from his pocket. "How about using these for a little sketch in the meantime?"

Anna, puzzled, accepted the two items and beamed in delight.

...

Winters returned to domestic life, sweetly and comfortably nestled with Anna.

But a hundred kilometers southwest of Revodan, in Blackwater Town, Lieutenant Bard was weary.

Because the courier was still en route, Bard neither knew that he had been elected as both "Military Protector of the People" and "Protector of the People," nor was he aware of Winters' grand feast for the entire city of Revodan.

In any case, Bard faced the most challenging task of the campaign: ensuring the stability of the refugee camps and bringing them to South Eight Town.

While Winters fought a visible enemy, Bard sat on a powder keg, trying not to let it explode. And he faced a severe shortage of manpower and resources.

All of Iron Peak County's resources were being poured into the war effort, leaving very little for the refugee camps.

Bard had only forty soldiers, ten horses, barely anybody skilled with a knife, let alone those who could read and write.

And yet he faced over twenty thousand refugees.

But Bard—a tenant farmer's son and servant of the monastery—continued on without complaint or lament, quietly solving problems as they came.

He called up militia from Wolf Town and Saint Town to bolster the ranks.

He selected guards from within the refugee camp, using the refugees to police themselves; he implemented a harsh code of joint accountability and maintained limited autonomy within each of the sixteen camps to balance the pressure.

Thanks to Bard's tireless, sleep-deprived efforts, no refugee disappeared without reason, nor did any riots break out.

During the migration, the refugee camps did no harm to the villages they passed through. Neighboring farms gradually lowered their defenses and even brought food as gifts.

But there was one problem that Bard himself could not solve—land.

So once he led the refugee camp halfway between Niutigu Valley and Blackwater Town, Bard camped down and stayed put.

He ordered the refugees to make farm tools and get plows and harrows ready; where there was no iron, they used wooden ones, and where there were no oxen, they used human strength.

Rumors spread rampant in South Eight Town, and the landowners were on edge.

The abandoned fields were all in the hands of the estate owners, and the refugee camp was not breaking new ground—starting now wouldn't catch up to the farming season—so it was clear what Lieutenant Bard planned to do.