Chapter 163 Chapter 164 Homesickness
In the Duchy of Casson, an earl’s territory.
George, wearing a bucket helmet, stood on a stone at the forest’s edge, gazing at the castle not far away. A wide road stretched from under his feet to the white-walled blue-roofed castle. Between the forest and the castle lay vast fields of wheat; in this season, summer wheat should be ripe for harvest, but nearly half of the wheat fields had been burnt, leaving them inky black.
George was not worried about the farmers; smoke was rising from the castle, and the castle gate was open. The farmers had likely gone to the castle to take refuge from the disaster. He fixed his gaze on a clearing between the forest and the castle, where the grass was still lush, but a moldy wooden grandstand remained, with a group of crows perching on it, evoking a sense of desolation in George.
“Short — the holy knight, feeling homesick, hmm?”
George turned his head to see Eve Frostleaf walking toward him, her striking thighs still clad in silver threads, looking clean and seemingly not resembling someone who had just finished a battle.
Behind her, a group of holy soldiers were stabbing the corpse of a lesser horned beast with long swords to prevent any survivors, while another group was dragging the beast’s carcass to pile up and prepare for incineration. This creature, thin and with horns and hooves like a sheep, looked somewhat like a standing sheep.
As the soldiers worked, they occasionally cast furtive glances at Eve Frostleaf’s tall legs.
“I haven’t returned to the place I grew up in for nearly five years,” George said, his gaze lingering on Eve Frostleaf’s high heels. “Frostleaf, I have to say, some of your attire, like your shoes, seems a bit inappropriate.”
“Wearing high heels is a privilege of the strong,” Eve Frostleaf replied. “You, as a human, are still too young, having experienced too little time. You don’t know how to find the perfect balance between elegance and victory.”
George didn’t want to discuss fashion in the wilderness with Eve Frostleaf; it seemed to be an elf’s custom. He had seen a large group of witches, those frenzied female dark elves, almost wearing lingerie into battle, all of them donning black stockings.
At that time, one of his mercenaries had whistled, saying, “Is this a group of black stockings and long-legged prostitutes coming to serve the army?”
After the battle, George found the half-crazed man amidst the pile of corpses, and he had nightmares that night, unable to last until the next morning.
The infantry, after engaging the witches, experienced what was essentially hell, a hell for humans. Limbs and blood were everywhere, shields and armor offered little protection, leaving a deep impression on fifteen-year-old George.
“What are you thinking? I saw you standing on this stone for three minutes.”
George said:
“Do you see the moldy stands on the grass? When I was a child, I loved to come there to watch the knight tournaments. There was no place for me to sit, and since I was short, I could only squeeze into the crowd, watching the knights duel from between one leg and another.”
“Knight tournaments? That must be the only remotely entertaining event in the entire Knight Bartonia,” Eve Frostleaf said, a hint of disdain appearing on her usually expressionless face. “By the way, aren’t you a noble? Why couldn’t you take a seat?”
“I’m the second son,” George replied candidly, “and also a bastard.”
Eve Frostleaf paused for a moment and said, “Out of politeness, I must apologize to you.”
“No need to,” George raised his bucket helmet, the golden cross in the middle glowing under the afternoon summer sun. “When I was a child, I lived in the most remote house in the castle. There were no servants, and my best friend was the son of the stableman. We used to play in horse dung. I wore the tattered clothes summoned from a trunk by the steward, and the hem would cover my knees when I put them on.”
“That was a red linen top; I remember it had faded because when I washed it, the entire basin turned red. My friend said it was the clothing of a dead soldier. I disagreed; it was my best outfit as a child, washed with soap beans, with vigorous scrubbing. I observed my brothers’ clothes, thinking they were all given by the family. I could also wash my clothes to look as good as theirs, so I could enter the knight tournaments and sit in the stands. Otherwise, I couldn’t see who won.”
“What happened in the end?”
“In the end, the gatekeeper taught me the difference between a bastard and a legitimate child, and I learned a lot.”
Eve Frostleaf fell silent, the frozen expression on her face rarely thawing.
She asked, “Do knights have competitions or assessments when they are young?”
“There are similar ones,” George said. “My father would teach his sons to ride and fight, and whoever trained the best would be sent to the duke as a squire.”
“Did you ever try?”
“No.”
“If you had tried as a child, perhaps things would have been different,” Eve Frostleaf said. “When I was nine, I could hit the bullseye and make those proud young gentlemen and ladies scream in frustration. By the way, if they didn’t let me shoot, I snatched a bow to shoot. Because they bullied me, calling me a wild seed.”
“Later, the young gentleman whose bow I had snatched came over, saying I was a thief.”
“The champion knight of the queen— that guy, he’s my father, charged over directly, pushed him onto the arena, threw him a sword, and ordered him to duel. That day my father fought in the arena for most of the day; no one had managed to withstand ten moves against him before. After he left the arena, he patted my head and said he had a good daughter, giving me a silver bow, generally only equippable by the queen’s maid guards, capable of shooting terrifying blue magical arrows.”
“Your father is truly wonderful,” George said sincerely, “but I wasn’t qualified to hold a sword, not even a wooden one. I could only grab a stick. When I tried to enter the training ground with the stick, I was pushed down, and it broke in two, lying on the ground. Frostleaf, not every pair of parents has feelings for their own children.”
Eve Frostleaf fell silent, unsure of what to say.
“However, I still feel happy and lucky,” George turned his head, continuing to gaze at the distant moldy wooden stands, “One day, a red-robed priest came to me, saying I was chosen by the God of Dawn, telling me to wait patiently, that when he returned, the temple would take care of the paperwork, and they would send someone to fetch me.”
Eve Frostleaf said, “Gregory?”
“Yes, him. I asked him if I could eat my fill in the temple, if I could wield a sword, if I could ride a horse. He said there were so many loaves of bread and milk in the temple that they spoiled, and wooden swords filled the warehouse. But horses could only be ridden by the kids who wielded swords best.”
“During that time, I didn’t miss a single knight tournament. I listened to the sound of hooves, watched as lances shattered, and my heart raced, because one day in the future, I too could ride a horse, holding a lance and wielding a sword. Without knight tournaments, I would come to the forest, practicing swordsmanship with a stick, and when I got tired, I’d sit on this stone, gazing into the distance.”
George squinted his blue eyes behind the bucket helmet, “I miss those days.”
Eve Frostleaf lightly leapt onto the stone, standing shoulder to shoulder with George, asking, “Like this?”
“Yes. Sometimes, I would wait for half a day.”
“Don’t you feel bored?”
George, lost in memories, said, “I remember there was a girl who accompanied me; it was she who sat with me to watch the tournaments. The weather that day was just like today, also summer…”
Eve Frostleaf’s heart raced.
After a while, George slapped his bucket helmet and said, “I must be mistaken; that was a beautiful dream.”
He mixed up the memory of Jima entering his dream with childhood memories.
Eve Frostleaf’s mouth corners rarely lifted, as she said, “Beautiful dreams will come true one day.”
George’s voice softened, “Yes, yes…”
Before Eve Frostleaf could stand on the stone to enjoy the beautiful moment, an elven maid rushed up holding a fine steed, shouting, “Lady Frostleaf! Lady Frostleaf!”
It sounded like a group of war hounds was following behind her.
Impatient, she turned her head and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“The humans have begun to burn the corpses; our army must advance.” The elven maid glanced at George, looking as if she would love to kick him off the stone, “You must lead the way.”
Eve Frostleaf looked at the so-called elven army—if five elven soldiers could be considered an army. Not every elven soldier was willing to follow Frostleaf into the dense forest after being ambushed by dark elves, to pursue the stolen extraordinary materials for the temple.
Even if there were, Eve Frostleaf had ways to make him leave.
She refused the maid’s suggestion to wait for reinforcements while staying put, bringing only five volunteers to pursue Duluchi alongside the temple’s army.
The five high elves, wearing iron-tipped helmets and white scaled armor, with long bows at their waists and spear in one hand, had formed a neat line.
Eve Frostleaf’s gaze was sharp as a knife; she shot a glance at her and mounted her white steed, moving to the front.
George remained standing on the stone, gazing at the distant castle.
Behind him, a holy priest from the temple was sprinkling holy oil on the corpses, igniting them.
A sergeant rode up to George, clad in plate armor and a white cloak, the hem of the cloak stained, and wearing a medium helmet. He raised his faceplate:
“Commander, the army is ready to march.”
In the temple, the sergeant was actually responsible for commanding battles, logistics, garrisoning, and marching, assisting holy warriors who had never actually commanded combat.
“Good. Old Bai!” George jumped down from the stone and waved to the heavenly warhorse lying in the shade of a tree, which stood up slowly and walked towards George.
George asked the sergeant, “Where do you plan to camp?”
“The soldiers have already fought no less than four battles in the past three days, so from both security and logistical morale perspectives, camping in the castle would be best.”
“I will negotiate with the local lord,” George said, “But personally, I won’t stay in the castle overnight.”
“As you wish, Commander.” The sergeant lowered his faceplate and rode back, shouting, “Form up! All the captains manage their squads well, follow Commander George.”
Behind George, over a hundred holy soldiers clad in chainmail and wearing iron helmets lined up behind him, each soldier carrying a bulging backpack. The corpses of beastmen piled up and burned, sending a plume of black smoke into the sky.
George stepped into the stirrup and mounted the armored heavenly warhorse, taking one last look at the hometown he hadn’t returned to in five years, urging the horse towards his hometown.
