Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

The desolation and loneliness were gone, and the place had suddenly transformed back into the vibrant Mitchell's estate.

Scarlett wiped away her tears, smiling as she took Winters's arm, "Let's go, Winters, your room hasn't been touched. I've cleaned it every day for you."

Winters felt an odd sense of familiarity, as if he were back in Sea Blue's house, and for a fleeting moment, Scarlett's face morphed into Ella's.

So he was led upstairs, returning to the little nest he had previously lodged in at Mitchell's.

Nothing had changed, the setting sun cast its glow through the west-facing window, filling the room. The same bed, the same twill bedding, the same oak table.

Winters stood at the doorway, hesitant to step inside.

Ella pushed him in, laughing as she said, "Rest for a bit. I'll call you when the water is hot, you need a good bath. You're all sore and need a good scrub."

After speaking, Ella closed the door behind her.

Winters shuffled to the bed and sat down in a daze.

He smelled the familiar saponin scent, Brother Reed entering the room with a wicker stick in hand, explaining "politics" seemed like it had just happened.

Oh, that's right, Brother Reed was no longer there either.

He had brought back Brother Reed's ashes.

Winters carefully took out Brother Reed's urn and placed it securely on the table.

"Rest easy, old fellow," Winters mused to himself. "I will take you home, sooner or later."

The east wind tapped lightly on the window, as if the old sage was laughing.

"Winters!" Scarlett called from downstairs, "You can come down for a bath now."

Winters took off his shirt, laying out the belongings he carried on him, one by one on the table.

The damaged flask.

One hundred and sixty-four unused pegs.

Erhulan's small knife.

Anna's pendant box and wood carving.

Lastly, he felt a small iron box from the secret pocket in his shirt.

Winters pried open the iron box, inside was a bundle of silver-gray mane hair.

He gently touched the mane, and suddenly, he couldn't stop the tears from streaming down.

Ever since his escape from death, he hadn't cried, not even once.

But at that moment, as if the dam in his heart had finally collapsed, Winters sobbed like a helpless child.

He leaned against the wall, slowly sliding to the floor, his crying growing louder until he was practically wailing.

Eileen and Scarlett noticed the unusual noise from upstairs; Scarlett wanted to check but was stopped by Eileen.

Eileen quietly sent all the servants in the house away.

Xial and Gold returned to the first floor—Xial sobbing softly while Gold sighed and led him to the yard.

Then, Eileen went for a walk outside with her daughter.

Mitchell's mansion became empty, leaving no one behind.

When Eileen and Scarlett returned from their walk, Winters came down from upstairs.

His eyes were still red, but otherwise, he was fine, his appearance back to its previous state, though his left leg was a bit unsteady.

"I can cry again," he said.

"Tonight, I'll make my specialty stewed chicken," Eileen replied. "After you've bathed, please help chop some firewood."

...

Another Sunday morning arrived.

As per the old custom, Catholics would rush to the church in town for the service early in the morning.

But ever since a group of deserters rendered the town center unrecognizable, no one went there anymore.

The church's gold and silver liturgical vessels were plundered, Father Anthony died of sheer exasperation, and the church itself burned to the ground in a fire that did not spare the dead either.

Coffins were dug up, funerary items taken, and the deceased's bones scattered all over the cemetery.

After just three months of war, all the horrors were laid bare.

"Let's just struggle to live for now," was what people said. "Live one day at a time."

In a corner of Mitchell's estate, a man was chopping wood.

Bare-chested, wearing only trousers, his body bore terrifying scars on his arms and chest.

With every chop, his muscles surged like mercury.

He appeared to exert little effort, but even the logs thick as a man's embrace split in two before him.

Beneath the eaves, the chopped wood was piling up into a small mountain.

Yet the man continued to split wood tirelessly,

Gold approached him quietly from behind, the old pirate unsure and hesitant but finally addressed the man's back, "My lord, you needn't blame yourself."

Winters kept chopping wood without responding.

"You've chopped enough wood for Mitchell's for a hundred years," Gold said as he sat on a tree stump, rambling on:

"I'm not good with words, but as long as you get my point. Think about it,

if you weren't in Wolf Town, would the battle have ceased? Without you, who would have led Wolf Town's militia? Wouldn't it have been Mr. Michel? And could Mr. Michel lead them better than you? Wouldn't the outcome have been even worse?

Just like when I was a pirate, I told myself, if I didn't rob them, wouldn't they just get robbed by someone else? Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Meeting me meant God had a plan for them..."

Mid-speech, Gold spat out disdainfully, scolding himself, "Heigh! What nonsense am I spouting... As long as you understand my point, there's no need for guilt. Coming across you was their luck."

"I'm not blaming myself, Gold," Winters picked up a log and placed it on the stump. "I'm thinking about other things."

The wood split in two with a "thud."

"That's good," the old pirate stood up, somewhat embarrassed, "We can almost leave now. Let's leave Wolf Town's troubles in Wolf Town and head back to Vineta."