Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 147 Departure
The roster has been sent to Ghevorden. While awaiting orders, the Wolf Town 100 began some routine training.

The subjects include drills, weapons handling, and marching.

Winters didn't expect to turn farmers into competent soldiers in a few days. But even auxiliary soldiers needed to understand discipline and obedience to survive in the army.

This was a typical local militia unit, and Winters made every effort to ensure that the militiamen in each ten-man unit came from the same village.

Because during the recent beast plague, all the able-bodied men in Wolf Town had participated in the beast-catching team.

So, after the orcish orcish trial, Winters had a good understanding of who was capable, who was honest and reliable, and who his fellow countrymen were willing to listen to.

The deputies he appointed were all capable of winning people's respect, and none of the militiamen were dissatisfied.

Apart from Pierre Mitchell.

“Brother Winters,” Pierre said, still seething with resentment at the Mitchell family dinner table, “why am I not a corps commander?”

Before Winters could answer, Girard reprimanded him with a stern face: "You're on duty, you should call him 'commander' or 'centurion.' Back when I was on duty, anyone who dared to address their superior that way would be whipped to death."

Gerard has been in a bad mood ever since Pierre joined the militia.

Girard couldn't persuade his wife otherwise, so he could only hope that his son would grit his teeth and stand firm, even at the cost of his life. But unexpectedly, Pierre was also spineless in front of his mother.

Mr. Mitchell gets angry whenever he sees Mr. Little Mitchell.

“What’s the big deal?” Pierre muttered to himself.

“No, listen to your father, it’s important.” Mrs. Mitchell squeezed her son’s arm and said gently, “You may think it’s no big deal, but if others hear it, it will damage Mr. Montagne’s prestige. The lieutenant has already helped you a lot, don’t cause trouble for those who have helped you.”

Pierre wasn't afraid of his father, but he was terrified of his mother. When Madame Mitchell spoke, Pierre fell silent.

Girard said angrily, "You just wait. Once we get to the army camp, people like you will be completely subdued in a few days."

After dinner, during the leisure time—which the Mitchell family maids jokingly called "gentlemen's time"—the men would, as usual, move to the living room.

There were no other guests today. Girard lay comfortably in his leather chair, filled his pipe, poured himself a drink, and chatted casually with Winters.

In the past, Pierre was not in this room; sometimes, visiting priests, old Dussacs, and the estate owner would sit in other leather chairs.

But ever since Pierre’s name was written on the register, old Mr. Mitchell tacitly allowed young Mr. Mitchell to join as well.

Pierre, who had been holding back for a long time, finally couldn't help but ask again, "Then why was Vasya allowed to become a corps commander?"

His comrade became a corps leader, while he remained a common soldier. Why? What gave him the right? This was the question that kept popping into Mr. Little Cher's mind.

Just as Gerard was about to lose his temper, Winters calmed old Dusak down and explained earnestly, "Because Vahika is older than you."

"Is that why?"

"Dusak in the centurion is on the younger side. If you're nineteen, you're also a decimal."

Pierre was speechless. After a while, he couldn't help but ask again, "When can we practice firing our guns?"

"What are they practicing now?" Girard asked the lieutenant with some curiosity.

"For the next few days, I plan to focus on marching drills."

"It's just walking around the playground, it's incredibly boring," Pierre chimed in. "Like a donkey pulling a millstone, going round and round."

Girard reached out and smacked his son on the back of the head: "Don't underestimate marching. It's an art. The Duke led us to victory after victory through marching."

[Note: The "Old Duke" refers to the Duke of Arlian, also known as "The Butcher"]
“What’s so special about it? It’s just walking!” Pierre said, rubbing his head, feeling wronged.

"Can you lead a team of 100 men, walking 60 li (30 kilometers) every day from Langtun to Rewodan, without letting a single person fall behind?"

"Yes, why can't we? We're just going with them, aren't we?"

"You're nothing! You're incompetent but still talk big." Girard angrily slapped his son again: "I put you in charge of the team, and before you'd even gone thirty miles, the difference between the leader and the person right behind was two kilometers. You didn't even notice someone deserting halfway through!"

Old Dussac looked at Winters: "Lieutenant, train him hard, teach this kid a lesson, otherwise he'll never know his place."

“We’ve been training in the town square these past few days,” Winters replied with a smile. “Tomorrow I plan to take them for a walk in the countryside.”

……

……

A hundred-man squad from Wolf Town, dressed in various styles, were marching in a single file across the wilderness.

Pierre, carrying a musket, limped forward, each step agonizingly painful.

But the queue kept urging him forward, preventing him from resting.

In the morning, the lieutenant distributed weapons from the town's armory to the militia, and Pierre thought that today was going to be a shooting practice session.

He rushed to the front and grabbed a matchlock gun, feeling quite pleased with himself, thinking he had gotten a great toy.

While Pierre waited for the bullets and gunpowder to be distributed, the lieutenant ordered everyone to take their weapons and follow him.

This walk took a whole day.

They left the road at some point and walked through the wilderness until they reached the banks of the Big Horn River, and then proceeded along the riverbank.

At the beginning, there was laughter and cheers in the queue, but in the end, only painful silence remained.

Pierre was having great difficulty breathing. He felt stiffness and soreness in his leg muscles, and his feet, shoulders, and groin felt like they were being rubbed by iron filings.

He had completely lost his sense of direction and just followed along numbly.

The luckiest militiamen were only given one bow, and the unstrung single bow felt like a stick in their hands.

Militiamen who were assigned armed swords and halberds were less fortunate, as these two weapons were heavier.

The worst off guy was carrying a musket. The matchlock muskets he bought from Zhevodan weighed sixteen pounds each and came without a sling.

Pierre felt as if he carried a thousand pounds on his shoulder, and the flesh on his shoulder was so bruised that he lost all feeling.

He finally understood the faint smile on the lieutenant's face when he saw him scrambling for the musket.

“That guy,” Pierre thought bitterly, “is probably riding comfortably on his silver-gray horse, laughing as he watches us suffer.”

To his right was the surging Big Horn River. Pierre, on the verge of his limit, had a sudden thought: he might as well jump into the river and he would be free from this torment.

He was startled by his own thought and shook his head violently.

A voice inside him kept tempting him: "Why torture yourself? Why not take a break? Take a break, you'll feel much better. Don't care what others think, what right do they have to judge you?"

Finally, Pierre abandoned all his pride. He plopped down on the ground and shouted as if declaring to someone, "I'm not leaving!"

The people behind him glanced at him, then silently walked past him and continued forward with the queue; everyone did the same.

Pierre, sitting on the ground, first felt an indescribable pleasure, but this was quickly followed by an endless sense of shame.

He lay on the ground, burying his head in the tall grass.

"Hey? What's wrong?" It was Vahika's voice.

“I can’t walk anymore,” Pierre said, sniffling. He wiped his face haphazardly, not wanting anyone to see that he was crying. “I don’t want to walk anymore.”

Vahika picked up Pierre's musket: "Hold on a little longer."

Pierre stood up, supporting himself with his hands, and nodded silently.

Vahika carried Pierre's gun and his halberd on his shoulder, with Pierre limping behind him, and the two rejoined the ranks.

“Vasha,” Pierre whispered.

"Ok?"

"Now I know why you were chosen as a corps commander."

A loud bugle call came from ahead, and someone shouted, "Rest in place! Rest in place!"

Upon hearing the order to rest, the exhausted militiamen threw down their weapons and collapsed to the ground.

Pierre impatiently ripped off his boots; his feet were swollen like radishes and covered in blisters.

"I feel like my crotch is chafed raw," Vahika said with a wry smile.

Pierre didn't answer; the area between his legs was also burning with pain.

A man walked from the front of the line, and the militiamen along the way bowed their heads in salute—they simply couldn't stand up.

Upon reaching Vahika and Pierre, the two recognized Lieutenant Montagne.

The lieutenant, carrying a musket, passed by the two Dussacs and nodded slightly to them.

"Gentlemen."

"Sir."

They passed each other by, and the lieutenant walked further back in the line.

“Did you see that?” Vahika nudged Pierre with his elbow and whispered, “He carried a saber and a gun, and walked the whole way like nothing happened.” Only then did Pierre recall that Lieutenant Winters Montagne hadn’t been on horseback when they set off.

……

In the following days, Winters led his hundred-man squad on a march through the wilderness every day.

Militia members from farming families generally had few complaints, because they were provided with meals and a salary for participating in training.

Strictly speaking, Winters' training intensity was not high, consisting of about 15 kilometers of cross-country marches every day, with only weapons.

If it is a standing army, a field march must cover at least 20 kilometers per day, even while carrying a full set of weapons and equipment.

The young Dussacs were still being tormented to the point of crying and screaming; according to Girard, Pierre even urinated blood. However, the boy didn't say anything discouraging and went straight to bed when he got home.

The Mitchells saw Pierre's suffering and felt deeply for him.

But Girard still patted his chest and told the lieutenant, "Give this kid a good beating, I'll take responsibility if he dies from exhaustion."

Ellen Mitchell found it increasingly unbearable; every bruise, swelling, and blister on Pierre's body caused her immense suffering.

Winters was surprised to find that the wind direction at Mitchell's house had subtly changed.

Mrs. Mitchell, who had strongly advocated sending her son to the militia, now hopes to hire someone to serve in Pierre's place, or simply let Pierre leave the militia until he comes of age.

Girard, who had previously been a staunch opponent of Pierre's enlistment, now refuses to agree to a replacement or to let Pierre leave the militia.

The Mitchells had another big fight.

In the end, Pierre made the decision himself: "Dad, Mom, stop arguing, I want to stay in the militia."

……

Time passes quickly.

On the fourth Tuesday of October, a foggy day, Winters received his transfer order.

The militiamen gathered in the town square, and their families came to see them off.

Sons leaving their parents, husbands leaving their wives, fathers leaving their children, brothers leaving their brothers... a scene of utter misery.

Even after experiencing it many times, Winters cannot become numb to it.

He couldn't bear to watch, so he silently went to help Girard load the truck.

The newly reclaimed land was sparsely populated and vast, so they had to camp in the wild most of the time. Cooking utensils and food were loaded onto four double-horsepower wagons, while the tents were carried by the militia.

The draft horses and the wagon were all bought with town money by Girard. Girard Mitchell was not only a good mayor but also a good man, and Winters felt an indescribable gratitude towards him.

Winters bought an extra double wagon, claiming it was for the lieutenant's luggage, but in reality, the cub was hidden inside.

Bell was no longer able to care for the lion cub, so Winters took the cub from the hunter's cabin to the police station and fed it with cooked minced meat mixed with goat's milk.

The little guy grew bigger every day, and in the blink of an eye he had grown to seventeen pounds, and when you picked him up he was like a big dog.

Winters couldn't help but seriously consider Bell's suggestion: hand over the "White Lion" to a certain Hed tribe on the grassland, and then there would be no need to worry about it anymore, because the other party would definitely be happy to present the White Lion to their Khan.

It sounds absurd at first, but upon closer examination, it is indeed feasible.

Seeing it alive, he couldn't bear to watch it die; Winters truly couldn't bring himself to kill the little lion who would affectionately lick him.

As a last resort, releasing the lions into the wilderness far from Wolf Town is also an option.

So both Bell and the cub appeared in the convoy, with Bell replacing Ashley Wilkes.

Little did the young hunter know that Winters had secretly returned the money the Wilkes family had given him.

In written terms, Bale was not a substitute, but a voluntary soldier, and his service could be deducted from Dussac's first term of active service.

Ralph probably also hopes that his son can be accepted back by the people of Dusa.

No one came to see Bell off, nor did anyone come to see the young horseman Anglu off. The two orphaned boys sat on the cart, silently watching the militiamen cuddling with their families in the town square.

Among those who came to see him off was someone who shouldn't have been there: Franz's "master teacher," Schmidt.

Winters walked to the southeast corner of the town square, where, in an inconspicuous corner, the old executioner with gray hair was talking to his grandson.

The executioner grandfather and grandson wore simple gray coats, completely different from their flamboyant attire on the execution ground.

The old executioner was there to send off his grandson, Heinrich Schmidt.

Seeing the lieutenant approach, Franz took off his hat and bowed deeply: "Thank you for giving Heinrich a chance, sir."

"Easy to do."

No matter how you explain it, an executioner is still killing people. It's a cursed profession, and "the bastard of an executioner" is the most vicious insult.

People need executioners, yet they also despise, scorn, and stay away from them.

Because no other industries or groups of people would accept them, execution often ended up as a family trade.

Many executioner families were appointed as executioners because of damage to their reputation, and the Schmidt family was one such example.

The renowned teacher Franz dreamed of restoring his family's honor; if not, he wanted to at least free his descendants from the fate of executioners.

The conscription in Wolf Town was an opportunity; after serving as a soldier, Heinrich would have the right to priority purchase of new land in the Republic.

There, he might be able to live an ordinary life as a farmer, hiding his identity and family past.

"Don't be afraid of hardship, don't miss home..." Franz kept nagging and instructing.

Heinrich nodded, but his grandfather's next move surprised him greatly.

The old executioner took the decapitation sword from the carriage and solemnly handed it to his grandson.

“Take this with you,” Franz said, emphasizing each word. “Remember the pain this sword brought to the Schmidt family, and remember it forever.”

"Then what are you going to do, sir?" Heinrich asked frantically, grabbing his greatsword.

Franz sighed: "It's time for me to retire too."

……

"Brother Winters! The car's all loaded!" Charles ran up to Winters, breathless, and asked, "When are we leaving?"

“Charles,” Winters patted Charles on the shoulder, “you have to call me Centurion now.”

The Wolf Town Hundred-Man Squad, consisting of eighty soldiers, two military police, and one officer, has all arrived.

Winters appointed Charles and Heinrich Schmidt to fill the two military police positions.

The procession formed two neat columns, and Father Kaman presided over the blessing ceremony for the departure.

After the ceremony, Kaman led out two horses from behind the church courtyard, one with a saddle and the other carrying luggage.

"How can we manage without a priest accompanying the army?" the young priest asked with a smile.

Brother Reid stepped out from the crowd seeing them off: "Brother Kaman, are you coming along?"

"I'm worried about not going with you," Kaman said, her tone almost pleading for forgiveness.

“Sigh, there’s no point in me staying here now that you’re gone.” Reed sighed and said to the lieutenant, “Kid, don’t you need a scribe?”

Winters didn't waste any words: "I'll have Charles pack your things."

"What do I have to take with me?" The old mendicant monk laughed heartily. "I came with nothing but a handful of breeze, and I will leave with nothing but a handful of breeze."

"Anglu!"

The young stable boy ran over as soon as he heard the call.

"Prepare the saddle for Redmane and give it to Brother Reid to ride."

"You brat, I think you want me dead." The old monk glared at the lieutenant. "Make this old man ride a horse? How could you even think of that? Don't you have a big cart? I'll go get in the cart."

After saying that, the old monk walked gracefully toward the carriage.

Winters mounted the Powerful Wheel, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the soldiers, the Wolf Town shrouded in morning mist, the distant forests hidden behind the fog, the mountains, and the eternal snow.

"Let's go." He lightly spurred his horse and was the first to leave the town square.

The Montagne Hundred-Man Unit from Wolftown was ordered to proceed to the Maplestone City camp.

Old man Red, who nearly had a heart attack: You want me dead!
Thank you to all the readers who voted for the book before;

Thank you to reader "Stone" for the recommendation vote last night;
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(End of this chapter)