When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

#559 - The Battle of Rapunzel Village (Part 1)

Feiliu Fort's outskirts, the Edict Legion's sprawling camp.

Behind the towering wooden palisade lay clusters of crowded shacks and wooden houses.

Inside the cramped wooden sheds, flames licked at medicinal vats, and the blacksmiths' furnaces spewed thick black smoke, smudging their faces with alternating patches of black and white.

On the narrow dirt paths, gaunt and sallow-faced "slaves" trudged along the eaves in a daze.

Before winter, they had been serfs or even armed farmers toiling in the fields.

In an instant, a group of knights stormed into their villages and towns, seizing all their possessions and branding them as slaves.

The farmers, bearing the mark of slavery on the back of their necks, carried sacks, their thin calves exposed beneath tattered burlap trousers.

With each step they took, their knees trembled like the wings of a butterfly.

Although slavery was less common in the Empire, it had never been legally abolished.

Branding City, in fact, had risen to prominence through the slave trade before engaging in ceramics.

Why else would it be called Branding City and not Inscription City?

The sound of urgent hooves echoed from the camp's entrance as seven or eight knights, their felt hats adorned with feathers, charged through the narrow road towards the central monastery.

Many artisans and servants furtively glanced towards the castle, and about an hour later, more than a dozen squads of a hundred or so leather-clad soldiers emerged.

They searched through the crowd, and under the guidance of the older townsfolk, selected hunters and guides familiar with the surrounding terrain.

After another round of selection, about three to five people were kept, and the soldiers led them into the castle.

A blacksmith pretended to wipe sweat, but his eyes, beneath his hairy arm, were fixed on the soldiers entering the monastery.

He signaled to his apprentice, who, under the foreman's scolding, clutched his stomach and rushed towards the latrine.

The latrine wasn't there because the knights had become benevolent or felt a pang of conscience, but because of a past plague.

The apprentice didn't stay long in the latrine before hurrying back to the anvil, as lingering would invite a kick from the foreman.

But during lunchtime, someone retrieved a stone from the latrine.

About ten minutes later, one of the guides who had just been released from the castle, guided by a craftsman, arrived at a grass hut on the outskirts of the camp.

Inside the grass hut, Wat Tyler, disguised as a vagrant, was chewing on black bread softened with cold water.

"Is the time confirmed, my brothers?" Wat Tyler asked, setting down the black bread and embracing the two men.

"Confirmed," the one who led him there replied before the guide could speak. "They'll recall the knights reveling in the city's taverns this afternoon, and depart tomorrow morning.

Because they have to wait for the infantry, they'll probably reach Shattered Rice Town by noon tomorrow."

"Is the marching route determined?"

"Three guides, with Mr. Lynx Tuck as the primary guide."

Only then did Wat Tyler learn the identity and name of the emaciated man: "So, Mr. Tuck, is it? Can you control the knights' marching route?"

"I can't guarantee it. I only have the power to suggest, not to decide," the man, nicknamed Lynx Tuck, said in a numb voice, devoid of emotion.

He was scrawny, dressed in a tattered, thin linen shirt, but one could tell from his teeth that he had been an armed farmer or a small landowner.

"Which route do you think these knights are likely to take?" Wat Tyler asked, pulling a crumpled parchment map from under the floorboards.

Lynx Tuck glanced at him, dipped his finger in the dirt on his face, and drew a curved line on the map.

Wat Tyler frowned. "They better not go through Peforth Manor; the terrain is too open. Can you get them to go through Black Lettuce Village?"

"I don't have a suitable reason," Lynx Tuck shook his head woodenly. "There are more people and more supplies at that manor."

Wat Tyler pondered for a moment. "What if word of the marching route leaks, and the people of Peforth Manor flee with their supplies?"

"Then the three of us guides will be whipped, even hanged," Lynx Tuck reached out and drew another route on the map. "But they will go through Black Lettuce Village."

"Alright, I'll think of another way," Wat Tyler nodded, about to pick up the map and continue studying it, but then he heard Lynx Tuck speak again.

"No need, let's do it this way," Lynx Tuck grabbed Wat Tyler's hand. "Time it precisely, so they don't have time to return to find a new guide, then I'll have at least a one-third chance of surviving."

Wat Tyler opened his mouth, but countless words of dissuasion ultimately turned into: "Alright, good luck. We'll send people to observe you from afar. We need to agree on some gestures and signals."

"You can see that far..." Lynx Tuck gave a self-deprecating laugh, stopping halfway through his sentence. "Of course, you're under the witch's command, it would be strange if you didn't have this ability."

Wat Tyler pursed his lips unhappily. "Don't be fooled by those priests. Lady Jeanne and Lady Catherine are both saints, not witches."

"Ha!"

The guide was stubborn, he lowered his head without saying a word, but the sarcasm in his eyes was palpable.

Wat Tyler looked at the craftsman who had led him there, and the man shrugged, making a helpless gesture.

In Hotham County, not everyone was as devout as the Holy Son's Army.

Even within the Holy Son's Army or the Salvation Army, there were many who feigned belief. Wat Tyler couldn't force everyone.

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"We will win this battle. Just bear with it a little longer, and everything will be fine once the Salvation Army defeats the Edict Legion."

After agreeing on the gestures and confirming the procedure, Wat Tyler looked at the time and realized it was almost noon, so he excused himself and prepared to leave.

He had to hide in a dung cart to get out; he would be stuck if he missed the time.

"Wat Tyler, we all know your reputation," the gaunt man in the thin shirt raised his head, revealing sunken eyes and dark circles. "Tell me, will things be different?"

"What will be different?" Wat Tyler asked, bewildered, stopping his hand as he was about to put on his hat.

Lynx Tuck lowered his head numbly. "When the Salvation Army comes, will things be different? We signed indentures, incurred huge debts. You know how valuable our skills are.

We artisan slaves are like golden hens, give us a little water and grain, and we can lay precious gold. Won't your Holy Son be tempted?"

Would he be tempted?

Wat Tyler was stunned by the question. Although he had been in contact with the Holy Son for a long time, he had never met him.

Although he had a good reputation for benevolence, there were plenty of bishops who used benevolence as a guise.

It wouldn't be easy to gather so many skilled artisan masters together. From the Pope's perspective, Wat Tyler couldn't help but be tempted.

But he immediately calmed down. "Compared to the nobles, the Pope is also a farmer by birth."

"I'm probably risking my life to help you. You're not even willing to tell us the truth? Like how much you can reduce our term of service? Can you let us see our families?"

Wat Tyler quickly promised: "You won't have any more terms of service. Your lives will be completely different. You can walk freely on the land, without being arbitrarily bullied by knights..."

Lynx Tuck sneered.

"You don't believe me?"

"I believe you, but I don't believe them. These upper-class people are all the same, waving the banner of holiness to benefit themselves," the gaunt Lynx patted the dust off his body. "Those who overthrow the upper-class people just want to become upper-class people themselves, just with a different sign."

"His Holiness the Holy Son is different."

Wat Tyler finished speaking, but felt it wasn't very convincing. He wanted to add a few more sentences, but Lynx Tuck didn't let him finish and stood up.

"I've been absent from work for so long, I'm going to get whipped. I'm going back."

Dragging his tired body to the door, Lynx Tuck finally turned back and said, "May the Holy Lord bless you, and I hope you can defeat the Edict Legion. You probably won't be worse than them."