Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 736 - 735: The People Rebuilding Their Homeland

A sudden gust of wind swept across the wilderness, lifting large swathes of sand, stones, and leaves, and also raising a corner of the heavy tarp covering the truck. A cargo escort stepped forward to grab the slightly loose rope, tying the lifted tarp back onto the truck’s side, while looking up at the clear, expansive sky.

The sky was as clear as if washed, with nothing visible except for a few sparse clouds.

"Strange wind..." the escort mumbled, perplexed by the inexplicable anxiety that had just gripped him for a moment.

From afar came the loud voice of the transport team leader: "Truck Number Three!"

The escort shook his head, brushing away stories of winter spirits and plain legends from his mind, and replied loudly, "Truck Number Three is ready! Chief!"

"Truck Number Four!" "Truck Number Four is ready!" "Truck Number Five..."

The mechanics responsible for operating the vehicles climbed into the high driver’s seat, followed by the escorts and co-drivers boarding in sequence. The hum of the power spine charging brought a reassuring feeling, and the commander’s voice came from outside, "Check your vehicles thoroughly. This journey is quite long, and the Plains of the Holy Spirits are freezing cold!

"The shipping of the Gorgon River is already halted, and we are the only transport line this winter—

"Move out! Our compatriots on the plains are still waiting for this food and medicine!"

The Magic-Powered Engine emitted a low hum, with gears and levers turning and grinding under mechanical power. Heavy, large-scale Magic-guided Vehicles gradually sped up across the vast winter wilderness. The man-made steel giants roared, fully loaded with materials urgently needed in the reconstruction area of the Holy Spirit Plain, tracing black tracks across the vast land, pointing northward...

In the plains region, the Gorgon River entered its dry season as expected. The lowering water levels made navigation for large vessels difficult and perilous. With warnings issued by the managers of various river sections, the busy shipping activities on the Gorgon River that lasted most of the year gradually came to a halt.

In the past, this meant that everyone making a living on the river would hibernate like farmers on the plains. Apart from a few reckless individuals, everyone obediently returned to their riverside huts, snuggled with family, lit warm fires, survived on stored food, quietly awaiting the end of winter. Ordinary sailors did this, as did shipowners with vessels.

But this year’s situation was slightly different from previous years.

A group called the "United Reconstruction Group" came from the rocky ridges Fortress to the plains region. They built camps large and small on the scorched Eastern Holy Spirit Plains and began vigorous reconstruction work. Chanting slogans like "reclaim the land from the wolves and winter," they carried an inexplicable enthusiasm and sought to revive this land.

What was once an inactive winter suddenly became lively.

Raftsman Durin, along with his two sons, jumped off the raft, and the workers waiting on the shore came forward. They skillfully used hooks and ropes to pull the raft towards the shore, where more people rushed up to untie the ropes binding the raft and drag the logs ashore to be sent to the nearby camp.

The White River was already closed for navigation, but the waterway wasn’t completely frozen. Although large ships could no longer set sail, small rafts and boats could still navigate the shallower waters. Durin, a local who made a living on the Gorgon River, accepted employment from the United Reconstruction Group. His job was to help transport the logs cut upstream to the downstream camps—using his ancestral raft-building skills and the courage and experience honed by years of surviving among these rocks.

This man, who had spent half his life drifting on the Gorgon River, craned his neck to watch the people in gray-blue winter outfits busy between the shoals and the riverbank. Busy in this bitterly cold winter, in days not meant for laboring.

He couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing, as nothing like this had ever happened before.

He didn’t plan to involve himself too much in these people’s affairs because he was an honest and humble "river man," and those who came from the rocky ridges Fortress carried the royal family’s banner, escorted by the army.

Yet he would still crane his neck, spending a long time observing those southerners who seemed unafraid of the cold, as well as the locals mixed among them, reportedly originally from the Eastern Region of the Spirit Plain.

It was said that those locals luckily escaped during the previous war, hiding in southern cities and towns. Now, they have returned with the southerners, intending to rebuild their homes.

Durin didn’t spot any familiar faces among those "local people"—most of them were probably dead.

Durin looked at the people on the shoals and riverbank because he somewhat envied their thick winter clothes and the aroma wafting over when they cooked meals at the riverbank—their winter clothes were without patches, obviously new, and sometimes the aroma of meat wafted over when they cooked—they had meat to eat every week.

This winter, Durin’s days were already much better than previous years—originally, he was prepared for a tough winter because of that terrible war and those dreadful monsters. The fertile land on the east bank was destroyed, the villages and towns obliterated, aristocratic lords either dead or fled, merchants scattered, leaving the "river men" who made a living transporting goods for the aristocracy and merchants without half their income. Everyone expected the days ahead to be exceptionally hard but, unexpectedly, those southerners returned to this burnt land with their rumbling machines.

The United Reconstruction Group brought unexpected job opportunities to the river workers, sailors, and captains on the Gorgon River who were prepared to endure the winter—or rather, opportunities to survive.

Durin was very grateful for the generosity of these outsiders and was quite willing to use his skills and experience to exchange for winter rations for his family, but... he still envied those brand-new, neat winter clothes and the meat stew in those large pots by the riverbank.

A tall and thin man in a gray-blue cotton robe walked by and stopped in front of Durin: "Citizen—today’s quota is completed, you can go to the camp anytime to collect your wages."

This was an "official from the Administrative Office" from the southern borders, indicated by his special armband and the badge on the chest of his clothing showing his identity.

Durin snapped out of his daze, hurriedly lowering his head before this "important person": "Okay, sir, I will go soon..."

The Administrative Office official with the armband smiled, "Honestly, have you really not considered signing up? We need more people in the north, there recruiting experienced river workers, and if you join the reconstruction group, you can help in the northern camp."

Durin immediately wore a humble smile: "I... better not, I have a wife and kids at home... my little daughter is just over three..."

"Actually, you could take your family over... but it’s fine, everything is completely voluntary. Whenever you decide to sign up, come find me anytime."

Durin nodded repeatedly: "Yes, sir, thank you very much."

When meeting with officials from the Administrative Office, you should address them as sir or lady, rather than lord or master. This is a rule that Durin learned after having dealt with these self-proclaimed "United Reconstruction Group grassroots officials" many times, though he didn’t understand why someone wouldn’t like a more honorable address. But since they required it, he complied obediently.

"You’re welcome," the young official from the Administrative Office waved a hand, "It’s getting late, take your wages and head home—be careful on the way, citizen."

"Yes, sir."

Durin and his two sons turned and quickly walked away. The tall and thin official watched the three leave, shaking his head with a smile.

A young man wearing a black winter coat walked by from nearby and stopped behind the official, casually saying, "Actually, you don’t have to call them citizens—they, first of all, don’t understand, and secondly, the resident roster in this area hasn’t been sorted out yet, so the word ’citizen’ is still a bit removed from them."

"I like the word ’citizen’, I like to say it and I like to hear it," the official replied, glancing at the young man in the black winter coat, "Is Minister Norris still outside?"

"Yes, he’s inspecting the soil to the north."

"...We couldn’t clear enough arable land before the frost set in; everything can only be made up for next spring. Everyone feels the urgency, but Minister Norris’s health is no longer good," the young official sighed, "If only the snow this winter could be delayed by a week..."

"Yeah..." The young man in the black winter coat frowned, his slightly worried gaze directed towards the north of the camp.

The flag of the Cecil Empire fluttered fiercely in the cold wind. Large letters painted with striking colors were written on the camp’s temporary wooden wall — "Reclaim the land from the wolves and winter." Artisans and civilian workers were working in an orderly yet tense manner, reinforcing the camp’s windbreaks and wooden houses, and preparing a warehouse for incoming new materials. Soldiers were patrolling vigilantly around the camp, guarding against hungry beasts in this wilderness and potential Crystal Cluster Monsters that might have eluded purification. Minister of Agriculture Norris and his assistants stood on the high ground near the northern gate, gazing at the vast frozen land.

Winter, snowfall, frost.

Humans make their way across this scorched earth with their flesh and blood, rebuilding and cultivating, yet the mighty forces of nature show no mercy for human bravery and diligence. It operates more coldly than a machine, raining and snowing according to its schedule, freezing the land as per its programming, neither delaying nor relenting.

"The land developed in this area is less than thirty percent of the plan... The winter in the Plains of the Holy Spirits is half a month longer than the southern borders, and more than half of the reserved fields will surely miss the spring planting next year," Norris said in a low voice, "We are depleting the grain we collected with great effort from the western region..."

"But at least several camps have taken root, and the temporary roads are already opened, Minister," an assistant couldn’t help but say, "As long as the camps hold through the winter, we can immediately begin cultivation once the thaw arrives in the spring, at most missing just one season’s worth of grain..."

Norris sighed, "One must always try to think in the best possible direction... cough, cough..."

He started to cough violently.

The airflow rushed through his windpipe, tearing at lungs damaged by an old case of pneumonia. He felt the cold air seemed to infiltrate his five internal organs, gradually dissolving the little strength left in his body, but before the violent coughing caused him to lose balance, two young hands reached over to support the unsteady Minister of Agriculture in time.

"Minister," a young official called nervously, "Are you alright?"

"I’m fine," Norris finally recovered. He reached into his coat, took out a small metallic potion bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip of the slightly bitter liquid inside. The warmth spread through his body, lending a bit of strength to his words, "Alas, I am old after all, and the cold wind of the Plains of the Holy Spirits is not friendly to me."

Pittman’s rejuvenation potion restored some of Norris’s strength, but he could still feel that his internal organs were steadily deteriorating—alchemy potions and Druid spells might make an old man more comfortable, but the deep damage caused by aging is beyond human remedy.

He put away the half-full potion, looking at the nearby young faces showing concern and anxiety, and couldn’t help but smile.

"Let’s head back."

Norris shook off the supportive hands and turned toward the direction of the camp, stepping forward slowly.

He walked into the camp, heading for his dormitory.

Those dedicated to rebuilding their homes were busy along the roadsides.

Mage Technicians from the southern borders were adjusting a Magic Obelisk, the magic-filled Crystal Device slowly rotating in the cold wind.

Craftsmen were measuring the foundation on a piece of open ground, preparing for the construction of a warehouse.

Some civilian workers were cooperating to saw through a huge timber. The man gripping the saw looked vaguely familiar... he was a refugee helped by the Investigation Team, and his most treasured possession was once a small cart loaded with scraps.

His wife was not far away, stirring the food in a large pot with a long-handled spoon, calling out for the men to prepare to finish work and have a meal in a bright voice.

That "treasured" small cart was there too, not discarded but parked on a nearby open area, loaded with potatoes and carrots from the warehouse.

Norris recalled that he, too, had a similar cart back in the day—he pushed it, traveling all the way from old Cecil to the Dark Mountain Range.

The cart had been burned as firewood during the first winter, and the land near the Dark Mountain Range has since become an amazing place.

Norris slightly straightened his somewhat hunched back.

His work was not yet done.