Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 844 - 88 Narrow Path_3

Chapter 844: Chapter 88 Narrow Path_3 Chapter 844: Chapter 88 Narrow Path_3 The aged militiamen upon hearing the word “Shuangqiao Market,” ventured to ask, “From the sound of it, are you a veteran?”

Winters nodded, “You could say that.”

“But you don’t look very old.”

“I enlisted early.”

“Then about this battle,” the older militiamen anxiously questioned, “can we win it?”

Winters poked the campfire and sighed, “Hard to say. Anything can happen on the battlefield, but I think we do stand a chance.”

“Tell us about… that ‘head for land’ order,” the young, complaining militiaman quietly asked, “Is that true? Really get an acre for a head?”

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“To my knowledge, there hasn’t been an incident where it wasn’t honored.”

The complaining young militiaman suddenly became very enthusiastic and asked excitedly, “So if I take ten heads, I’ll be rich, right? Become a landlord!”

Winters thought for a moment, then told the joke about “the old marshal’s hundred thousand soldiers each firing two shots.” He had the demeanor of a deadpan humorist, and the militiamen around the campfire laughed heartily after hearing the joke.

“Actually, killing an enemy is quite difficult,” Winters said honestly, “Otherwise, they wouldn’t offer so much for an acre. If it were that easy to get a piece of land, the new government would be at a huge loss, wouldn’t it?”

“That makes sense,” the ambition of the young, complaining militiaman vanished into thin air. After sitting still for a moment, he muttered wistfully, “Even if it’s not ten acres, one would be good.”

Winters looked over the two militiamen, an old man and a young boy, and kindly inquired of the elder, “Old man, are you two related?”

“He’s my grandpa,” the young militiaman answered nonchalantly.

The old man glared at his grandson and, somewhat ingratiatingly, said to Winters, “It’s clear at a glance that you are a learned man.”

Xial couldn’t help but snicker, and Winters didn’t know how to respond.

“Can you write paperwork?” the old man tentatively asked.

“What kind of paperwork?”

The old man swallowed hard, “A will.”

The lively atmosphere around the campfire suddenly cooled, and everyone fell silent, with only the crackling of the burning logs audible.

The old militiaman hastily explained, “This old bag of bones might soon receive the Lord’s grace. I plan to leave the land to this kid here and a little for my daughter. I fear it won’t be clear later on, so I want to draft a will.”

“Oh, what nonsense are you saying!” the impatient young militiaman stopped his grandfather from speaking further.

Winters took out a notebook and graphite stick from his chest and looked at the old man, “Do you dictate, or shall I draft it?”

In the moment the young man opened his coat, the old man inadvertently saw the tassels and trims on the inner garment.

The old man was taken aback, so Winters asked again.

“You… please draft it,” the old man said respectfully.

Winters, by the faint light of the campfire, read aloud while writing swiftly.

The illiterate militiamen watched with admiration, holding a natural respect for an educated person.

Unnoticed, the number of militiamen gathering around the fire kept growing, almost forming a wall of people.

When Winters finished, he signed his full name under “Witness” and handed the document to the old man.

The old militiaman made a salute, voiced his gratitude, and accepted his will with both hands.

The militiamen looked at the old man with envy, then turned their hopeful gaze to the educated young man.

Winters did not yet know that the inheritance laws in Newly Reclaimed Land were a tangled mess: customary and copper laws mixed together, old laws contradicting new regulations, and if the deceased were a believer, the Church would further complicate matters.

Although it was unclear to everyone whether the will was of any use, seeing the old man tucking the little piece of paper into his chest like a treasure, they wanted one too—at least for peace of mind!

Winters looked up to meet the expectant eyes of the crowd.

He sighed helplessly, “Who else wants to write one, one at a time…”

The people of Iron Peak County owned so little: a plot of land, a house, a few pieces of clothing…

Winters sat by the fire late into the night, even helped write a few family letters, until the last militiaman left satisfied, until the alarm bells rang at the edge of the battlefield.

Then gunfire and battle cries came from both east and west.

The militiamen by the fire startled, looking around frantically.

“It’s nothing serious,” Winters slowly flexed his stiff joints, “People from Terdun just don’t want us to rest easy, old trick. I’ll go take a look.”

With that, he got up and left, with Xial and Heinrich quickly following.

The crowd watched as the young veteran from nowhere disappeared into the darkness.

Soon after, rapid footsteps sounded again.

Xial ran back to the fire, threw an old coat to the complaining young militiaman.

“Borrow this, return it after the fight,” he said, then left.

The young militiaman looked at the giver, then at the coat in his hand, perplexed, “Who was that guy?”

“I don’t know,” the old militiaman said after a pause, “And you don’t need to know.”