Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 828 - 83 Sightseeing_4

Chapter 828: Chapter 83 Sightseeing_4 Chapter 828: Chapter 83 Sightseeing_4 “Next, we need to drive stakes diagonally between the two rows of wooden stakes, dividing them into triangles,” Moro explained, using a twig as a pen to draw a diagram on the sandy beach for Samujin. “We don’t need to wait until the parallel stakes reach the riverbank; we can start now.”

“Fine!” Samujin’s eyes were full of red veins; he hadn’t rested in a long time. “I’ll arrange for workers right away.”

“We still don’t have enough people,” Moro tapped the sand repeatedly.

“Montaine the Civil Guard Officer has agreed to support your plan with full force, whatever number of people you need,” Samujin said.

After a personal trip to Saint Town, Samujin had brought back Winters’ unreserved support—including manpower, provisions, and the soon-to-arrive Ronald Division officers.

“Winters Montagne? Right, he’s the lofty Civil Guard Officer now!” Moro scoffed a few times, throwing away the twig. “Fine! It’s none of my business if he wants to crown himself Field Marshal for slaying Herders!”

Samujin said nothing.

...

Although they had not been together long, Moro’s stubborn will and ability during their escape from the Terdun and the construction of the dam had earned Samujin’s deep respect.

But Moro’s attitude towards Centurion Montaine made it hard for Samujin to accept.

So facing the offensive language, Samujin chose to temporarily play deaf and mute.

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“We need to speed up the plan; no need to wait for the stakes to be completely finished. For each triangular area partitioned off, start filling it with rocks,” Moro stood up and looked toward the laborers working near the riverbed. “Start with large rocks, then smaller ones, and finally fill it with mud and sand. Keep driving stakes while dumping rocks.”

Samujin stood up as well. He was still a bit worried and couldn’t help asking, “Are you really sure this will work?”

“Don’t trust me? Then let Winters Montagne come here himself,” Moro said coldly. “If he can build bridges over The Styx, a dam shouldn’t be so difficult, right?”

Samujin fell silent again.

Moro stood quietly for a while before speaking, “The method I’m using is fundamentally the same one masons use to build bridge piers—cofferdams, water-pumping, and grouting. We’re not building a stone bridge that needs to stand for a hundred or a thousand years, so no need for water-pumping or grout, just drive the cofferdams to secure the rocks.”

“Thank you,” Samujin saluted firmly.

Moro didn’t return the salute, simply turned his head to look at the river, his back to Samujin, and sneered dismissively, “Thanks for nothing! First, figure out how to hold onto this dam!”

No one saw that his dry eyes had reddened a bit.

…

Meanwhile, at the former Forging Village—now a burnt and blackened ruin—the old Translator secretly met with several visitors.

In total five visitors had arrived; the leader was a golden-haired, green-eyed man about thirty years old, accompanied by four guards wearing iron masks.

The golden-haired man walked amid the ruined walls, occasionally picking up trinkets from the scorched earth with great interest.

The old Translator accompanied the golden-haired man on his “stroll,” while the four guards stood guard a little distance away.

“[Old Tongue] It seems they left in a hurry,” the golden-haired man said softly to the Translator, picking up a twisted, burned spoon. “[Old Tongue] Earl.”

The Translator was indifferent to the title of Earl, unaffected, and said coldly, “[Old Tongue] For the Terdon Tribe, the most critical advantage in this looting was the element of surprise, and clearly, the rebels of Iron Peak County knew of the Terdun’s arrival well in advance.”

“[Old Tongue] So who told them?” the golden-haired man asked with a smile.

“[Old Tongue] Who do you think told them?” the Translator retorted.

The golden-haired man’s green eyes widened in feigned bewilderment.

“Playing dumb?” the Translator snapped, switching to the common tongue. “Who else but your little pet could it have been?!”

“[Old Tongue] No, no, you’re wrong,” the golden-haired man patiently corrected. “[Old Tongue] Who would treat a lion as a pet? [Those who take beasts as pets will be devoured by them].”

The Translator narrowed his eyes and stopped in his tracks, “If you’re not here to lend a hand, then what are you here for?”

“[Old Tongue] Sightseeing,” the golden-haired man answered with a smile.

The Translator spat in disgust.

“[Old Tongue] Observing, assessing… it’s practically sightseeing,” the golden-haired man earnestly said. “[Old Tongue] You’re curious about what we’re doing here, as are others who want to know what you’re up to, what’s happening here. The world is simply too large, so [a single late truth is more useful than a hundred timely lies].”

The Translator grunted. Although he referred to Paratu’s current regime as rebels, he showed no more respect for the golden-haired man.

“[Old Tongue] It’s not that we haven’t extended a hand. Rather…” the golden-haired man hesitated for a moment, then softly uttered a epithet with such caution, as if merely mentioning this title would be detected: “[Old Tongue] His Majesty… has many things, but he will use them prudently. If you expect the August to fund your ‘grand’ endeavor, the powers you rely on must at least be able to survive. But for now… ”

Looking around at the burnt earth and ruins, the golden-haired man shrugged and spread his hands, leaving the rest unsaid.

The Translator remained silent, parting with the words, “[Old Tongue] Just wait and see.”

“[Old Tongue] Certainly,” the golden-haired man replied with a smile.