Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"What about you staying here? Miss," he asked.

"Don't worry, it's very safe around here," Eileen replied with a smile. "You don't have to worry about us."

Panveche nodded, still somewhat uneasy, but he mounted his horse and left.

After old Panveche left, only Eileen, Scarlett, Anna, and Catherine, four women, remained by the roadside.

Left alone in the vast, uninhabited wilderness, looking into the distant horizon, Catherine suddenly felt a trace of fear.

"It isn't dangerous here, is it?" Catherine clutched her sister's arm tightly and asked timidly, "Could there be wolves? Or bandits? Criminals?"

"Wolves? No, wolves rarely appear here. Montaigne has taken care of them quite thoroughly," Eileen reassured Catherine gently.

Scarlett wasn't scared at all; feeling a sense of triumph, she proudly informed Catherine, "There are no bandits or criminals either, because Montaigne has also dealt with them quite thoroughly."

"So there are still wolves, and there were bad people before, right?" Catherine grew even more afraid.

"Yes, but Montaigne has cleaned them all up," Scarlett replied matter-of-factly.

"I don't want to stay here, sister," Catherine cried, hugging her sister. "Let's go back to Sea Blue, it's so dangerous here."

Anna, with nothing else she could do, hugged her sister and gave Lady Mitchell and Mrs. Mitchell an apologetic smile, her gaze thoughtful as she looked toward the horizon.

"What are you afraid of?" Scarlett found it inconceivable and said, pointing at the hillside not far away, "Look, isn't there someone over there?"

"Where?"

"Right over there."

Following the direction Scarlett pointed, Anna and Catherine witnessed a strange scene.

Five bare-chested men and a very thin ox were slowly moving along the sunny side of the hill.

"Good heavens," Catherine turned away sharply. "Why aren't they wearing clothes?"

Eileen sighed and replied softly, "Clothes worn out can't be repaired; skin worn out can grow back."

"What are they doing?" Anna asked, watching the five men, puzzled.

"Clearing land, plowing," was the reply.

But the two ladies from Navarre didn't even understand what plowing meant, and Scarlett had to explain it in detail.

Eileen simply explained to Anna and Catherine the ins and outs of "how the Garrison Officer Montaigne distributed the Newly Reclaimed Land to the refugees."

"But today is Sunday," Catherine asked, not understanding. "They shouldn't be working on Sunday. Don't they rest on Sundays?"

Eileen and Scarlett fell silent.

"They," Anna said softly, "probably have reasons we don't know about."

Among the five men plowing, a middle-aged man, panting heavily, said to the old man leading, "Dad, let's take a break."

The white-haired old man stopped, turned back to look carefully at the thin ox, its snout dripping with sweat, and said, "Let's rest for a while, give the beast a break."

This old man was the one who had answered Winters in the town square.

Plowing should have the beast in front and the person behind.

But among these five men, four grown men stood in front of the beast, leaving only a young boy who had not grown into his strength to handle the plow behind.

It wasn't that they were foolish, but that they did not have enough large animals to pull the plows.

The soil of the Newly Reclaimed Land was sticky. The wilderness that had never been cultivated for thousands of years had become so compacted it was as hard as stone.

It could only be cultivated with heavy draft horses and plows.

Winters had few such large animals to begin with, and though he had given what he could to the refugees, it still wasn't enough.

Without enough animals, they had to rely on men; men became the beasts of burden.

"Look, Grandpa," the young lad pointed at the ladies by the roadside, "some women are watching us!"

The old man slapped the young man's arm away. "Don't point at people!"

The youth sheepishly turned around.

The four men pulling the plow were drenched in sweat, sitting on the ground and gasping for air.

The old man repeatedly admonished his sons and grandsons, "Be careful not to fall. The plow blade can cut off a person's leg in an instant. If you fall, fall to the side, never towards the blade."

"You've said that so many times already..." the young man who had been slapped was getting impatient.

Before he finished speaking, he received another slap from his father.

The middle-aged man nodded to the old man, "Don't worry, Dad."

Another young man asked, "Today is Sunday. Is it really okay for us not to go to church and worship instead?"

"The Lord won't blame us," the old man swallowed. "If we miss the season, we'll all starve next year. Then our piety will be no good. The Lord won't blame us. And if he does... we will have no need to believe in him."

It was now August 11, and they needed to sow winter wheat by the end of September or beginning of October. Missing the season meant waiting until the next year.

Though Wolf Town had large areas of unused land, those flattest and most irrigable top-quality lands had already been purchased and cultivated.

What remained were gentle slopes, distant waters, and soil full of stones—just like the land the old man and his descendants were tilling.

If the slope of this land had been any steeper, it would have been impossible to grow crops on it.

They had to exert effort to move the stones first before they could even think of turning the soil with a plow; otherwise, the stones would easily break the plow blades.

But having such a piece of land already filled the old man with content.

In the distance, another carriage approached down the dirt road.

"Enough rest, back to work," the old man said while bracing himself on his knees, struggling to stand up. "And be careful of the plow blade!"

The carriage picked up the ladies by the road and rumbled off towards the distance.

The rope was again tightened around the old man's indented shoulders and bony back.

He moved slowly and steadily, one step at a time.