Chapter 1368: Chapter 90: Rebuilding the Nation (17)_3
Upon hearing old Dusa’s insightful comnt, the musician froze for a mont, then hurriedly fumbled to pull out a small notebook and a feather pen from his pants.
Without ink, the musician dipped the pen in the liquor in his cup and quickly jotted down old Dusa’s words.
“The solitary hero, who wouldn’t even deign to tell the smallest lie. But at the end of the story, will he also head for his own downfall because of it.” The musician scribbled away frantically while mumbling to himself: “Such classical essence!”
And Gerard studied the blond young man closely, as if he recalled sothing.
He unconsciously curled his lips and sighed, “The last ti I saw soone so ‘proud’ was two years ago, and now that person is already…”
Just as he was halfway through his words, old Dusa suddenly stopped, slapped his own cheek, and didn’t continue.
The musician wouldn’t let it go, asking eagerly, “Now what’s already happened to that person?”
“Nothing.” Gerard smiled, raised his glass towards the blond young man, “To proud people—once a monk told , presumptuous people are bold in pursuit, proud people abstain.”
“Presumptuous people are bold in pursuit, proud people abstain’? What a brilliant statent!” The musician hugged old Dusa’s arm with excitent and asked, “Where is the monk who said that now?”
The musician’s rash action surprised Gerard a little, and he pulled his arm out of the other’s grip, sighing, “You can’t et him.”
“Just tell where he is?” The musician swore, “Even if it’s a thousand or ten thousand miles, I’ll go visit him.”
“Brother Reed has already been called by the Lord.” Gerard pointed overhead, “To keep company up above.”
The musician was utterly disappointed, losing all spirit, and took a big gulp from his oversized wine cup.
But soon, other matters caught the musician’s attention.
“Young sir.” The musician called out to young Marcia across the table, “Was it you who requested the tunes just now?”
Young Marcia had earlier embarrassed the musician, and now sitting beside him at the sa table, felt quite apologetic: “It was .”
The musician didn’t feel embarrassed, instead curiously asked, “What is ‘The Battle of The Styx’? What is ‘The Battle of Blood Mud’? What is ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Den’? Are they singing books? Why have I never heard of them?”
“They aren’t singing books, they are…” Upon hearing soone ask about what he liked, young Marcia imdiately grew excited, but after stamring for a while, he still couldn’t say what category the subject belonged to—he had never thought about this question: “They are… they are…”
“Originally, they were war reports issued by His Excellency Montaigne.” Old Marcia answered for his son, simply explaining, “So poets adapted them into singing books.”
“This!” Young Marcia directly handed the single print booklet of ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Den’ to the musician and enthusiastically recomnded, “Although ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Den’ isn’t a war report, it records the story of Councilor Kai Morland escaping Kingsfort, and it’s also very good!”
“Thank you!” The musician took the booklet, borrowing the last streak of the setting sun from outside the window and the dim lights of the tavern, and started reading directly in the noisy hall.
Young Marcia, who initially wanted to say sothing more, fell into an awkward silence.
“Hey!” The timber rchant Mikhail, who hadn’t had a chance to speak, disdainfully waved his hand, “What’s so great about that stuff? All concocted by the Blood Wolf.”
The round timber rchant, with a third drunkenness, boisterously stated:
“Escape from the Tiger’s Den? Who’s the tiger? The officials! Who’s the person who escaped? Kai Morland!
So the officials of Kingsfort are the bad guys? That Kai… Kai Morland is the good guy?
In truth, aren’t these just the Blood Wolf’s attempts to make everyone believe him? So he can direct us to fight the officials of Kingsfort!”
Mikhail, reeking of alcohol, forcefully hugged the young Marcia next to him, as if imparting so extraordinary life experience, using an extrely emphatic tone—yet his speech was quite unclear: “I tell you, they’re all the sa thing!”
Majia Lauer, looking disgusted, tried to push away the timber rchant: “His Excellency Montaigne and the traitors of Kingsfort are different.”
But the less young Marcia wanted to hear, the more Mikhail got excited, waving his arms and shouted loudly:
“What damn difference is there? It’s all the sa pants, just the fly in front that’s open!”
“This wolf, that wolf, this fort, that fort, this legion, that legion—they’re all the sa damn thing to us.”
“Before, it was the New Reclamation Legion crapping on our heads! Later, it’ll be the Blood Wolf leading those Iron Peak County people crapping on our heads!”
“Anyway—we’re—the ones—being crapped upon!”
“Those bastards of Iron Peak County—used to be—crapped upon!”
“It’s just—that now—it’s their turn to crap!”
“Enough.” Old Marcia, using hands like iron pincers, pulled up the timber rchant, “Mr. Mikhail.”
“Alright, alright.” Mikhail, like a child who made a mistake, shrank his shoulders, bent his waist, his eyes blurred, nodding appeasingly to old Marcia: “I’ll stop, I won’t say any more.”
Old Marcia sighed, pressing Mikhail back into his seat.
But in the next instant, the timber rchant, still unfulfilled, caused another scene.
“Right! Brother!” The half-drunk, half-awake, round-faced fat man laughed heartily, addressing the seated person on the opposite side: “You’re a ‘free man,’ we’re also ‘free n.’ We’re ‘free n’ of Vernge County, and we still don’t know which county you’re a ‘free man’ from?”
On the other side of the table, Gerard Mitchell put down his wine cup.
“?” Old Dusa grinned, flashing two sharp teeth: “I’m an Iron Peak County bastard.”
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