Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 409 - 408: Villagers

Wright slowly walked among the collapsed and ruined debris, the wind from the south blew across the fields, through the trampled and destroyed wheat fields, and into this devastated place. The wind no longer carried the smell of blood and burning, but instead bore a moist and fresh sweetness—which indicated a summer rain might soon arrive.

After the rain, the grass and trees would sprout anew, and tender shoots would grow in the ruined fields. Nature always recovers vitality quicker than humans, while this village, set ablaze by the retreating aristocratic Soldiers, is uncertain when it will be rebuilt.

This small team did not come to clean up the battlefield. Wright and his new comrades were merely ordered to move from the Kant Region to Hosman Prisoner of War Camp to replace the medical personnel there. Passing through this wreckage was accidental, and the team would not stay here long. Wright knew this, but he still hoped to hold a small purification ritual for the village—as part of fulfilling his duties as a Priest.

With the small team’s commander’s consent, he arrived at the center of the village ruins. Here stood a collapsed longhouse, likely a place for village gatherings. The house was burnt down; scorched planks and beams lay like a chaotic heap of dead branches buried amongst broken soil and stones. The slender beams that once supported the roof now pointed towards the blue sky like emaciated grotesque limbs.

And next to the house was the filled-in well.

Wright found a relatively intact tile from the rubble and placed it beside the well. He poured some clear water into the tile and laid a few small wildflowers next to it. Then he took out a portion of white candle, now only thumb-length, from his pocket and placed it behind the tile to symbolize the Holy Light.

After arranging everything, he gently rubbed his fingers above the candle.

Nothing happened; not even a flicker of the Holy Light appeared.

Wright silently withdrew his hand and took out a Firestarter from his pocket—a small magical device made from two copper plates engraved with wind element runes and a small storage crystal. He brought the Firestarter close to the candle, pressed the switch, and the front end of the runic copper plates emitted a red glow, igniting the candle wick.

”May the Holy Light protect your way forward... No longer trapped by cold and darkness... May your souls find peace... No more hunger and suffering henceforth...”

Wright softly recited the prayer, then bent down to extinguish the candle. But before putting the candle away, his peripheral vision suddenly caught sight of something familiar lying quietly among the weeds beside the well.

It was an iron badge, only the size of a hazelnut, with symbols of a circle and light beam on it. The edge displayed an iron ring for threading a belt or cord—this was a Holy Light Badge, typically worn on the breastplate of a Church Knight.

Wright picked up the badge, quietly gazing at the emblem representing the Holy Light.

Suddenly, he recalled that priests, priests, and even Church Knights came from the Plains of the Holy Spirits to support the Noble Coalition Army.

He turned around to look at the burnt longhouse. Amidst its ruins, he faintly sensed remnants of Dark Wave lingering, the aura left by the Holy Light.

The discarded Holy Light Badge twisted and folded bit by bit in Wright’s hand.

At this moment, a very faint sound suddenly reached the Priest’s ears, instantly grabbing his attention.

It was a brief, subtle sound, like a small twig falling to the ground, perhaps even less conspicuous than a light rabbit running across the grass. Yet Wright noticed this unusual noise and immediately sought its source—searching repeatedly next to the collapsed longhouse.

Finally, he discovered a coverboard buried under soil, stones, and charred wood, with an iron ring attached.

With a few large stones and pieces of wood tossed aside, Wright grabbed the iron ring with one hand and pulled hard, lifting the coverboard—beneath it in the darkness, he saw a dozen pairs of terror-filled eyes.

”There are survivors here!”

The Soldiers soon gathered, and after several fully armed Soldiers appeared, the terrified civilians in the cellar had no choice but to emerge. Wright counted 17 men, women, and children.

These people were in tattered clothes, sallow and thin, exceedingly gaunt from days without sunlight. Possibly hiding in the cellar since the aristocratic Soldiers left, they were so weak it was hard to stand and could only lean on each other, huddling into a small group, gazing fearfully at the unfamiliar Soldiers before them.

A combat Soldier jumped into the open cellar. Moments later, the Soldier climbed back up the ladder: ”There are still three below—dead, need help to bring them up.”

The small team commander instructed other Soldiers to help, then approached the survivors: ”Are you folks from this village? Is it just you left?”

Survivors exchanged anxious glances. Some shook their heads repeatedly, some hesitated to nod, and some just stood there blankly, as if they didn’t comprehend the commander’s words.

”Go get some food and water,” the commander sighed, turning to instruct those beside him, ”Don’t give them jerky—they might choke themselves.”

The food was quickly fetched, yet those dozen people only watched with guarded and puzzled eyes, swallowing but not daring to approach. Only when Soldiers handed the food into their hands did they confirm it was indeed for them to eat.

After the first person stuffed food into their mouth, the others immediately began to gobble it down ravenously — Wright could sense that as the food went down their stomachs, these people finally felt a little less guarded against the soldiers before them.

Though they were still very nervous.

”Are you villagers from this area?” Wright asked, once these people had regained some strength, walking among them with as gentle a tone as he could muster, ”Have you been hiding in the cellar all along? Are there other cellars in the village?”

Several villagers glanced fearfully at Wright’s burly figure, but eventually, one of them spoke up: ”We are... no one else is here...”

Then the person who spoke pointed at the cellar behind them and then pointed at the people around them: ”Just us here.”

”We are Duke Gawain Cecil’s army,” the squad commander said from the side, ”Don’t be afraid, you are safe now.”

However, the villagers seemed not to understand at all, showing no reaction to the squad commander’s words and looking fearfully at the Melting Swords hanging from the soldiers’ waists.

”Cecil’s army is different from other armies; we don’t seize food,” the squad commander knew full well what these villagers feared, ”Who set fire to the village? Knights of Viscount Konsko? People of Viscount Carol? Or other nobles?”

Upon hearing those names, the villagers involuntarily trembled, yet none dared to directly answer the squad commander’s question, as if fearing that once they spoke here, they would be hanged on the gallows the next day. But after a few seconds, a clear voice timidly spoke up: ”It was knights wearing white robes...”

The one who spoke was a child; judging from the voice, it should be a girl. But just as she said that, an adult next to her quickly covered the child’s mouth, turning her remaining words into indistinct murmurs.

Wright crouched down before the child and waved the adult aside. He looked into the child’s eyes — they were exceptionally bright and large. Although the little girl wasn’t pretty at all, with rough and dry skin that had large patches of freckles, her hair was dry and messy like weeds covering a quarter of her face. Yet those large eyes emerging from behind the disheveled hair were strikingly memorable.

Wright looked into those eyes and asked slowly, ”Knights in white robes — are they church knights?”

The little girl first shook her head blankly, then hesitated and nodded: ”I don’t know...but there were priests with them...”

Finally, among the survivors, someone couldn’t help but sob quietly: ”We handed over food... we handed over all the food...”

Wright understood what this seemingly disjointed sentence meant.

They handed over their food – at the time when the Noble Coalition Army launched their expedition, presumably every piece of land’s commoners donated food and possessions to provide military supplies. Nobles would use ”We’re sending troops to protect you” as a reason to collect these things, and many commoners would easily believe these claims (because not believing also means nothing; the power of speech is in the leader’s hands). Perhaps until when defeated noble soldiers came to loot the village and set fire to houses, they still couldn’t understand what was happening.

Even now, upon seeing Cecil Clan appearing before them, few would think that these ”foreigners” before them were previously fighting their lord, or even if they realized that, they wouldn’t react, but only lament their misfortune, fearing the aristocratic leaders, knights, and soldiers’ swords and magic wands, while the more complex interests above all this are beyond their understanding.

All they can think of is that they previously ”handed over the food.”

Seemingly ignorant, yet behind ignorance is oblivion, and behind oblivion is numbness.

The soldiers who went to investigate around the village returned, having found dozens of bodies in a pit not far outside the village.

With so many bodies, it was not easy to burn them thoroughly in a short time; the team lacked oil, and no sufficient combustibles were found nearby. The squad commander had no choice but to order the bodies left in the pit to be buried on site — including the three found in the cellar.

Once these things were done, Wright found the commander: ”I want to take the dozen or so people to Cecil — at least take them to the frontline camp there; someone there can escort them south.”

Wright couldn’t abandon those dozen survivors — their homes had been destroyed, and they lacked food and medicine. Furthermore, it was now early summer, with revitalized wild wolves and other beasts roaming the wilderness. Without village fences and houses or the protection of lamps and fires, those dozen unarmed villagers probably wouldn’t survive three days out in the wild; after all, this isn’t Cecil, where the wilderness dangers are considerable.

”We must report within the designated time; that’s military discipline,” the commander certainly understood Wright’s concern but had to emphasize the underlying issue. ”Those civilians are too weak, unable to hasten their pace for a short period. Bringing them along will certainly delay us.”

Wright couldn’t refute it, but after a pause of two to three seconds, the squad commander continued: ”But if you’re willing, I can leave you a few soldiers. I’ll take the medical team to camp first to report, and you can follow behind with these people — that is within discipline.”

”Alright, no problem,” Wright agreed readily, then solemnly said, ”Moreover, I have a suggestion, Captain — villages and towns that suffered looting by defeated noble soldiers, leaving survivors to hide or scatter, are probably more than one. We should report this up, and try to locate these places, save more people.”

”Don’t worry,” the squad commander nodded, ”I will report it.”