Chapter 1775 - 494: Yet Some Castles Still Stand Amid the Ruins (Part 5)

They knew better than anyone which side the soldiers taken by Baron Lukeville were on, and what happened over there.

However, no one had the courage to tell the poor woman the truth.

Besides, what if they were still alive?

The probability was very small, but not impossible; out of the 300,000 troops, perhaps only a tenth or a fifth actually died in battle.

The first Hundred-man Team might have been wiped out, but the ones that went in later perhaps didn't even see the enemy and fled with the routed army.

Yet—

They also knew that the defeated rebel army had long since gone home to hide. Now even the victors were returning home; those who hadn't reunited with their families were unlikely to ever come back.

The woman showed a look of disappointment on her face, yet she did not give up, still searching through the camp like a relentless ghost.

The previously lively morale was dampened by this widow's disruption. Some old soldiers quietly drank their pumpkin soup, not even talking about the baroness's lewd jokes.

Finally, the proud centurion, who seemed like a rooster, couldn't stand it any longer and told the woman the truth.

Someone had to tell her the truth.

The winter in Campbell Duchy was not as cold as in Twilight Province, but if one caught a cold and didn't get treatment, it could still be deadly.

Laman didn't hear what the officer said.

He only saw the woman suddenly cover her mouth with her hand, as if to block the grief that was about to spill over.

Her shoulders trembled violently, but she did not cry out. She just left, stumbling, as she had come, lost and broken.

Laman felt a heaviness in his heart.

He quickly finished his pumpkin soup, went to the well to wash his bowl, and walked to the edge of the granary to patrol, trying to digest the complicated feelings in his heart.

It was then that he saw a thin boy clinging to the wooden fence outside the granary, stretching his neck to look inside.

The child was peering at the campfire inside the granary, seemingly searching for something.

"What are you looking for?" Laman walked over and asked.

"My father." The boy's voice was small, with a shy timidity.

"I think you're in the wrong place, child." Laman gently reminded him, "We are the duchy's soldiers; you should go to the manor's servants. They might know."

"My father is also a soldier of the duchy, sir, just like you." The boy shook his head while looking into Laman's eyes, continuing naively, "Besides, I went to the manor and asked; they chased me away, telling me to go home and wait, saying the Grand Duke would bring my father back."

Even though Laman had prepared himself after seeing the widow, he was still touched by that phrase "just like you."

He gently placed the "Prince Rifle" from his shoulder to the side, squatting in front of the boy so he wouldn't have to cling to the fence to talk to him.

"What's your name?"

The boy climbed down from the fence, brushing the dust off his hands, speaking with determination as if afraid of missing any details.

"Phil! My name is Phil! My father's name is Sarve; he lives just south of this village and is known as an honest man in the village who has never done anything bad in his life. He can also make clothes. See, this is a coat he made for me!"

Mr. Sarve was clearly not a skilled tailor; the clothes the boy was wearing looked like they were made from a repurposed sack, with his tender face reddened by the cold.

Laman thought of the sorrowful widow who left; her husband seemed to have the same name.

Under the dual blows of spirit and body, she might have become somewhat dazed and forgot to take her child with her.

The child clearly didn't have any friends either.

Perhaps he had them before, but when the children's pretend play transitioned from the Hero fighting the Demon King to the Grand Duke fighting the Earl, he might have lost them.

Because his father was indeed a rebel army.

"Glasses" from Thunder City didn't really understand the ways of the countryside. While the peasants were without a political stance, it didn't stop them from distinguishing friend from foe, just as simple goodness and simple evil could coexist.

Perhaps…

He should do something.

When Laman realized it, he had already stretched out his hand, ruffling the boy's messy hair with a nervous but warm smile on his face.

"So you're Phil. I've heard... Sarve mention you. He told me you're a brave little guy."

The boy's eyes instantly brightened.

"Really?! You've met my father!"

"Yes, not just met; we were practically...inseparable comrades-in-arms."

Laman pointed to a scar on his cheek, grazed by a stray shot by the Rushing River, fired by someone amidst their last moments.

Perhaps it was his father, perhaps not.

But that wasn't important anymore.

Laman, whose faith was deeply devout, spoke the only lie he had ever told in his life.

"It was a brutal battle. The river was stained red with blood. To cover me... he died outside Thunder City. See this scar? If he hadn't pushed me away, that bullet might've struck my head."

The boy's recently brightened eyes gradually dimmed again, soon filled with sorrow in their clear gaze.

Seeing the tears brimming in his eyes, Laman took out the ice-cold bronze medal from his pocket.

Extending his hand, just as Sir Wesley did when awarding him, he placed the "Duchy Guard" medal bestowed by His Majesty the Grand Duke on the boy's worn collar.

"Our Grand Duke bestowed him with this medal. He asked me to give it to you... It was his dying wish for me. We came here for this reason; now my task is finally complete. In a few days, we shall go home."

After securing the medal, he patted Phil's shoulder.

"Phil, your father was a hero; Saint Sis has taken his soul. He hopes you can be as brave and strong as he was, to become an upright and honorable man... He said he'd watch over you from upon high. Take care of his woman, your mother... Do not disappoint him."

Laman was a born carpenter.

When he saw a house on the verge of collapse, he instinctively felt he should do something, so he used the nails at hand to mend the breaking beam.

Although his craftsmanship could not rival the factories of Thunder City, perhaps he achieved what those cold machines could not.

The boiling steam would eventually swallow all old villages, but future generations could still choose to plant hope in the land.

The boy finally began to sob.

He cried very hard, but after the tears dried, he stubbornly wiped away his tears, straightening his chest adorned with the medal.

Just like that centurion.

"...I will!"

Hearing that resolute voice, Laman smiled contently, ruffling the boy's head again, then picked up the "Prince Rifle," which filled him with pride, and returned to the camp.

The winter's northern wind was exceptionally chilly, yet today's sunset was unusually warm. This rare light of warmth shone not only on the lands of the nobility but also upon his heart.

On the fifth dusk of Aus Calendar 1054, a carpenter gave the Grand Duke's medal to a child who lost his father in the civil war.

Perhaps this moment wouldn't be recorded in the epic of the Campbell Duchy, as almost every day saw significant events following the culmination of the "Winter Moon Coup."

But Laman didn't see it as a pity.

Perhaps once again, he had helped His Majesty the Grand Duke.