Chapter 1742 - 488: Choices of the Many (3)

"This training won't last long; you'll be able to go home before winter ends."

Going home before winter ends...

Although it meant their holiday was ruined, people still showed relieved expressions, feeling hopeful about the days ahead, making the training seem less unbearable.

After returning the rifle, Sarve dragged his tired body home along the path he came, repeatedly pondering the instructor's meaningful expression.

Despite having plenty of questions, he felt that this promise was still quite reasonable.

The farm work at the manor always needs someone to do it.

Surely, the Baron and the Steward wouldn't personally tend to the fields, right?

...

Trying times always pass swiftly.

Initially, everyone trained on the open ground north of the manor, but soon the training location was moved to a more discreet place—the Earl's hunting ground.

Here they saw young men from other villages and were surprised to find that the mobilization included not just their village but also many villages of the Baron Territory.

Next, they would train on combined advances with multiple units.

They would advance as units of a thousand men under the cover fire of allies and fire back once close enough to the enemy.

Not far away were other teams.

At least Sarve heard not just one series of gunshots, but in the distant forest, there were also cries from practicing bayonet fighting and charging.

The weather was getting colder.

Yet, colder than the weather was his heart. At some point, he suddenly couldn't go home anymore, only able to ask someone to pass a message to his family.

The servant readily agreed, but whether he actually did it, Sarve could only hope for that gentleman's conscience, hoping not to be deceived for the sake of his family's generations of service to Baron Lukeville.

The days in the training camp were just like the weather in the North Stream Valley, getting colder day by day.

The early December wind already carried snowflakes, hitting the tents like gravel, making people worry that the wind and snow might uproot them.

Sarve and his companions were still wrapped in the thin, coarse linen autumn coats from the harvest time, as if the baron had forgotten to issue them winter clothing, and the Earl didn't remember this matter either.

He recently found out that this plan wasn't the Baron's idea but the Earl's intention. And behind the Earl, who it was, no one knew.

Some well-informed guys seemed to guess they would travel far, carrying some dried pumpkin from home, but it was finished last week.

Now everyone's only food source was the porridge distributed by the Lord's servants.

It was a watery wheat porridge thin enough to see a reflection, given twice a day, just like when doing corvée labor. However, as more people gathered, it became a problem since the grain allocated per person couldn't fill everyone.

The ones who came early would definitely be full, while those who came later always had none.

Despair and discontent silently spread in the camp like the frost outside the tents, as people began to quietly complain, cursing the residents of Twilight Province for bothering their lords, causing them to starve together even though they had food.

"The bandits in the north…"

At night, Sarve couldn't sleep amidst the thunderous snores. He stared at the dark tent top, repeatedly chewing on this increasingly vague term.

They had been training here for almost a month, scaring the birds in the forest from landing, yet they hadn't seen a single shadow of a bandit.

However, a few days ago, some short-sighted mates tried to sneak home but were knocked down by a group of ferocious mercenaries, and were hanged for such a thing.

Baron Lukeville never acted like this.

He cherished the peasants like the tools, not even willing to use a whip, usually just giving a few lashes and letting them go unless they stole something.

But these guys were serious.

The war hadn't even started, but their wide-open eyes were already red…

...

The turning point occurred on the second weekend of December, when a rapid sound of hooves broke the dawn silence of the camp.

A cavalryman raced through the mud to the Chiliarch's tent. He dismounted, armor still frosted with ice, and rushed inside without stopping.

Sarve's heart jumped, racing along with the hurried footsteps.

It was at this time that Pete elbowed Sarve in the ribs, speaking excitedly in a hushed voice.

"It's the messenger! We can go home!"

Saying this, he paused, worried Sarve might forget, and added.

"Remember? That line the instructor told us before we left!"

Sarve's face finally showed a realization.

If Pete hadn't mentioned it, he almost forgot. It seemed someone did tell them they could go home before the end of winter.

His nerves, tense for a month, finally relaxed. He was already thinking about how to handle the complaints from his wife and children, making up for the time lost with them this winter.

Unfortunately, the cold reality soon shattered his illusion.

The Chiliarch came out with the cavalryman but didn't announce their return home; instead, he shouted in a loud voice.

"Everyone assemble!"

Assemble?

Pete was dumbfounded.

Assemble for where?

Sarve was also stunned.

They knew the way home, just give them some dry food, and they could walk back by themselves; that's how it was done before.

But this time was different.