Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"Yes!" Anglu leaped onto the horse's back and galloped toward the direction where Samukin should appear.

The once peaceful forest was now in complete turmoil.

Deer, roe, rabbits, foxes, wild beasts panicked and fled in terror, their cries incessant.

Anglu's heart couldn't bear it; he suddenly thought that before humans arrived in this forest, these animals might have been living here for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

Just like this herd of deer, their history of settlement here was perhaps much longer than that of humans.

But now humans had arrived—Anglu included—and the deer herd was about to face their doom.

As he rode, Anglu thought about this and felt a wave of sadness wash over him.

"Is this the right thing to do?" he wondered.

...

"Delicious!" Anglu chomped on the roasted deer ribs, his mind filled with one thought, "Delicious!"

The soldiers were eating the less desirable parts of the deer, such as the organs.

The best cuts, like the legs and belly, had been taken to exchange for grain with the villagers.

The villagers didn't want the ribs, deeming there was too little meat, so Anglu got lucky.

Samukin and his group looked on enviously at others eating and drinking, as they only received half the portion of meat, and it was the worst parts.

They hadn't arrived at the designated spot on time, which led to nearly half the deer escaping through the gap in the encirclement.

Samukin was also really unlucky—they had run into a black bear on the way.

Not only did they receive only half a portion of meat, but each of them also bore five lashes as a warning to others.

A small campfire burned, a pot of meat soup simmering; Winters and Pierre were doing their "post-battle" debrief.

"What about the hides?" Pierre asked, clutching a notebook, playing the role of a temporary clerk.

"Exchange them for grain," Winters replied, taking a sip of the deer soup.

"And the antlers?"

"Let's keep them for now, see if we can sell them in Revodan."

"What about the deer blood?"

"Feed it to the dogs?" Winters suddenly remembered something and asked Pierre, "Doesn't your dad have four fine terriers? Where are they now?"

"Gone wild, they only come home occasionally."

"Find a way to tie them up again, we might need them."

"Alright."

Adhering to the idea of wasting nothing, even the deer bones found a place to go:

An old man in Nanxin village knew how to make glue from bones, and he was willing to exchange two Malte of wheat for all the deer bones—a Malte is an old measure, about 13 kilograms.

Winters happily agreed, and the old man was delighted too.

Did the people of Wolf Town actually have grain? The answer was "yes."

Those in Wolf Town without grain had already nailed up their windows and doors and fled the calamity.

But it wasn't possible to levy it, or rather, the cost of levying it was too high.

Winters had learned a story from a history class in military school: during the Sovereign Wars, the mad King Richard IV had once decreed a ban on farmers feeding rye to pigs.

The Mad Richard might have thought that by doing so, he could lower the price of rye and thus acquire more grain.

But farmers still secretly fed their pigs rye.

They would rather feed their pigs than let the grain be confiscated by the emperor's taxmen.

The history teacher believed that this indicated the Empire's economy was on the brink of collapse, and Mad Richard was doomed to fail.

After being enlightened by the old sage, Winters had a different perspective on this: the cost of forcible taxation was too high and not worth it.

The farmers hid their grain under the pigsty or the pile of firewood, and the levy teams rummaged through everything—that was the current situation in the Newly Reclaimed Land.

The farmers weren't without grain, nor were they unwilling to provide it. What they wanted was a trade, a fair exchange.

Perhaps it wasn't just the farmers; everyone felt this way—Winters thought.

"I remember Mrs. Mitchell knows how to make sausages?" Winters slurped his deer soup, asking Pierre.

Pierre was busy noting down, "Yeah, my mom does."

"Can deer intestines be used to make sausages?" Winters asked curiously, his Venetian business acumen shining: "If so, all those deer offal have a place to go. Sausages are generally worth more than pure meat, right?"

"I... I don't know," Pierre scratched his head. "I'll ask my mom when I get back."

"Alright."

Pierre then asked, "What about the six deer that are still alive? What do we do with them?"

"Keep them for now? Is it possible to raise them?" This was a blind spot in Winters's knowledge.

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"I don't know." Pierre was also puzzled; after thinking about it, he responded, "If it's possible to raise them, why hasn't anyone done it before?"

Winters mused, "The Herders say that further to the west there are wild Herder tribes that live by deer herding. It should be possible, right? It's such a waste to just kill them for meat; if only we could raise them."

"Shall I have someone give it a try?"

"Sure."

Winters was sipping his deer meat soup when he suddenly felt something amiss--his Venetian "killer instinct" was going off like mad.

He leaped up and shouted at the other three bonfires, "Who's making barbecue?"

"I..." Anglu stood up, bewildered, with a deer rib still in his hand.

"No grilling allowed! Everyone eat the boiled meat!" Winters reprimanded with heartfelt pain, "A pound of meat, once grilled, at most weighs seven ounces left! I'm even eating boiled noodles, yet you dare to indulge in grilled meat! Have you lost your mind?"

The warriors burst into hearty laughter.

Anglu, looking meek, ran over with two deer ribs, "These are for you."

Winters couldn't help but take a bite and tears streamed down his face, "Delicious."

...

When Winters handed out the three arrows to the Centurions again, everyone understood another attack was imminent.

This had become an unspoken rule: before combat, hand the arrows to Centurions as a token, and then take the arrows back after the battle.

"Centurion, the phrases 'a group of people,' 'a pot of people' are really unsightly." Vashka took the arrows, teasingly suggested, "Could we find something nicer to say?"

Winters picked up the map board, his eyebrows slightly raising, "What would you like to change it to?"

"How about 'an Arrow's People'?"

Winters nearly choked on his saliva; he couldn't help but marvel, "Vasya, you're such a genius."

"Really?" Vashka's face brightened with joy, a smile beaming across his features.

"Not a bit!" Pierre smacked Vasya on the back of the head and proposed, "How about 'a Quiver'? 'A group of people,' 'a pot of people' do indeed sound bad."

Winters considered it, finding 'a Quiver' to sound pretty good, so he nodded in approval.

"We're raising our banner now!" Seeing his suggestion accepted, Vashka wanted to push his luck, "Shouldn't we also come up with a resounding name? One that sounds powerful at first hear?"

The others exchanged glances; they indeed lacked a name for themselves.

Strictly speaking, they were still called "the Newly Reclaimed Land Wolfton Village Militia."

Vashka stretched a little, confidently unveiling the mystery, "I suggest, let's call it 'Blood Wolf Gang!' Oh, no, 'Blood Wolf Army!' Doesn't it sound formidable?"

"Blood [expletive] [expletive] wolves." Winters kicked Vasya's backside with a heavy boot, "Are you hoping for Revodan to send troops to attack us, is that it?"

Winters grew furious the moment he heard this nickname.

After taking a deep breath to calm himself, he explained to his subordinates, "We ambushed the grain levying team; Revodan won't let this slide. Otherwise, why would we disguise ourselves as bandits to strike? What we need least right now is an infamous reputation. The less attention from Revodan the better. Besides, we are already the Wolfton Village Militia, why change our name?"

Pierre nodded thoughtfully, while the rest were still somewhat confused.

"Alright, look at the map," Winters unrolled the map on the table, restating the discipline,

"No noise during marches and combat! Violators will be flogged! Those who alert the enemy will be beheaded!

If enemies break through your encirclement, do not give chase. Just continue to surround and drive the rest toward the designated location."

Try to capture them alive! We don't want the dead!"

In the end, he sternly warned the three Centurions, "If anyone dares to be late this time, there will be no mercy!"

...

It was the same time as always—dawn, with the sun barely showing a hint of light.

Vashka led eleven soldiers carrying boar spears, stretched out in a loose line through the forest.

But this time, they did not bang on trees; they moved silently.

Upon reaching the predetermined location, they lay in ambush.

Patience was Vashka's virtue as he waited.

Suddenly, the piercing blast of a military horn tore through the night.

Birds in the forest darted into the sky with a flurry, while beasts scattered in terror.

The attack order was given.

"Kill!" Vashka leapt up with his spear, bellowing at the top of his lungs, "Follow me!"

The Arrows descended upon the bandit camp in the forest from all directions.

A gang of more than twenty bandits was subdued in the blink of an eye.

Those bandits who resisted were speared to death, and those alive knelt on the ground, herded together like a flock of sheep.

Not a single bandit managed to escape.

"Centurion!" Anglu came to report excitedly to Winters, "This was way easier than hunting!"

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