Chapter 1369: Chapter 91: Rebuilding the Nation
Cold sweat trickled down his spine, and Mikhail instantly sobered up.
“Brother…” The lumber rchant desperately tried to squeeze a smile onto his plump face, but his expression turned into one as ugly as if a dog had bitten his finger. He stamred: “…I didn’t know you were…”
Hearing these words, old Dusaq beca even more displeased.
“What?” Gerard raised an eyebrow, but his tone was kind and friendly: “I’m not from Iron Peak County, so you insult worse?”
“No…”
“No what?”
“That’s not what I ant…”
“Then what did you an?”
The fat lumber rchant from Vernge County was cornered, daring not to say another word for fear of it being caught against him. Fearfully, he tugged at old Majiya’s clothing under the table, tearfully seeking help from the latter.
Little Marcia, who was gloating, was surprised to find his usually cautious father, who never got involved in others’ conflicts, standing up for a fellow townsman who wasn’t particularly close.
“He’s drunk and talking nonsense, please don’t mind.” Old Majiya bowed in apology, shielding the tearful lumber rchant behind him: “Gerard Fleurinovich.”
“Yes, he spoke nonsense, but also truth.” Gerard didn’t buy it, aggressively saying: “Brother, why don’t we speak frankly. A year ago, your people in Vernge County still regarded us as rebels, looked down on us with disdain. Now, seeing the lads from Iron Peak County thriving, you’re envious, blaming us for looking down on you—is anything I’m saying wrong?”
“Stop scaring him.” Old Majiya sincerely pleaded: “Gerard Fleurinovich.”
Gerard stared fiercely, like a wolf, at the two freen from Vernge County;
The lumber rchant shrank his body, desperately trying to hide behind his fellow townsman;
Old Majiya remained calm, like a tree facing a storm.
Little Marcia involuntarily held his breath, while Siegfried also quietly observed the confrontation.
Only the harpist remained devoted to reading “Escape from the Tiger’s Mouth,” as if disconnected from the world, everything around him irrelevant.
Suddenly, Gerard slapped the table and burst into laughter.
The suffocating tension from before vanished without a trace.
Both little Marcia and the lumber rchant Mikhail unconsciously heaved a sigh of relief.
“Thirty years ago,” Gerard seed to joke to the lumber rchant hiding behind his fellow townsman: “you’d get beaten, and it would be a severe beating.”
“Back then I beat you, it would only disgrace myself.” Old Dusaq nostalgically said, sighing: “Now if I beat you, it would disgrace His Excellency Montane.”
The lumber rchant wiped his sweat, relieved that he had escaped a calamity.
Old Majiya bowed again, deeper this ti than the last.
Seeing this, the lumber rchant hastily followed suit with a bow.
“Wait, don’t bow yet, I haven’t finished speaking.” Gerard’s expression changed, and he withdrew his smile.
He put down the wine glass and stood up, straightened his back, and sternly questioned the two freen from Vernge County: “You say we look down on you and you’re envious of us holding positions under Blood Wolf, but do you know how these ‘good tis’ ca about?”
“Do you know how many honest farrs in Iron Peak County burned their own hos to hold back the Herd Barbarians?”
“Do you know how many good lads are buried along the banks of the Panto River?”
“If it weren’t for the people of Iron Peak County blocking the Terdon Tribe, it would be you being raided, enslaved, and slaughtered!” Gerard clenched his fist, slamming it hard on the table, making knives, forks, cups, plates, and everyone’s hearts tremble in unison: “I don’t expect your gratitude! But at the very least, you should show respect to those who died in battle! Every single one of them!”
“The Battle of the Styx, the Battle of Bloody Mud, the Battle of Wailing Valley…” Gerard’s eyes reddened, his hands slightly trembling: “You treat them as stories from storytellers, but for the people of Iron Peak County, these stories are written in blood! Do you know how many were wounded in Iron Peak County? How many died? How many pillars of families beca crippled? How many won beca widows? How many children beca orphans?”
The dining table fell into silence.
The quiet, small space was surrounded by the noisy, chaotic atmosphere of the tavern, like a piece of ice in a hot iron pot.
Gerard fell back into his seat despondently, bowed his head, and began to sing softly the lancholy song of Dusaq:
“Our land is not plowed by the plow,
“Our land is cultivated by hooves,
“Land filled with the skulls of Dusaq,
“The Shield River is adorned with young widows,
“The rolling waves are the tears of parents…”
The blond rcenary sitting across from old Dusaq was also touched, gazing into his cup, softly humming along:
“Oh Shield River, our parents, why is your water so murky?
“Ah, child, how can my water not be murky?
“Cold springs flow out from beneath ,
“Silver fish stirring my still waters.”
The song ended, Gerard wiped the moisture from his eyes and silently drank his wine, not wanting to say another word.
Siegfried silently drank with old Dusaq.
For a mont, the surroundings of the wine table plunged into uncomfortable silence again.
Old Majiya used his eyes to stop his younger son from trying to say sothing to resolve the awkward situation, then shook his head at his fellow townsman who wanted to slip away, leaving the precious silence for old Dusaq.
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