Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest
Chapter 87 - 21: Has it Changed?

Chapter 87: Chapter 21: Has it Changed?

Dick brought Gwivelle and Sanna to Galin’s cabin.

The old healer’s beard was large, dirty, and fluffy, and his body reeked of herbal medicine. No one knew his exact age.

But Galin had certainly lived longer than the bandit Bo Ge, and such a master of medicine was revered wherever he went.

Dick and Jet had known Galin’s identity in the past, and now Dota and the Hunters knew it too.

They just had an unspoken understanding and never mentioned it to Gwivelle, perhaps because they were afraid of scaring her.

"Galin, Grandpa, I see you’ve arrived."

Gwivelle peered inside from the doorway.

Half of Galin’s face was hidden by his beard, his eyes kind and bright.

He asked Gwivelle to stand in front of him, then pinched her arm.

"You’ve grown taller and your body has become healthier. Very good, very good."

The old healer repeatedly nodded.

Gwivelle, with a beaming smile, took a cloth bag from Dick, saying, "I’ve brought some food for you, you eat first, I will go call Brother Jet over."

"No need; I’m here."

Sanna startled; how did she not hear any movement?

Jet appeared behind her like a top predator, soundlessly.

His leather armor was so worn that its original form was unrecognizable, his build average yet there was an air of ruggedness about him, and his indifferent gaze somehow reminded Sanna of a profession called ’butcher.’

That cold, death-indifferent expression made her step back in fear.

But Jet only glanced at the young girl that Gwivelle had brought.

He moved to the door, crouched down to open the cloth bag, took out a lamb leg, then fiercely bit off a big chunk of meat.

Jet ate quietly, chewing earnestly and swallowing carefully, like a relentless eating machine.

Dick and Galin did not stand on ceremony either.

The three of them sat on the ground, grabbing pieces of beef and pork knuckles from the bag and eating heartily.

Gwivelle busied herself by pouring beer for them from a wooden barrel.

The cool, clear beer slightly rippled in the cups; both Jet and Dick tilted their heads back and drank up in one gulp. The old healer Galin couldn’t resist the allure of the fine beer—but Gwivelle always felt that those bearded men drank at least half the beer.

Meat was not necessarily scarce in the mountains, but it definitely lacked various seasonings, and staples were hard to find, with only mountain goods and game available.

Beer was even more out of the question.

They had previously managed to trade for some essential living supplies through the Hunters.

But with the departure of the Hunters, they began to feel isolated and unsupported again, like islands in a vast sea.

Gwivelle had been coming here four or five times in this period, returning once a month.

Each time, she brought them a lot of food—while the quantity Gwivelle could carry was substantial, it was still too little compared to their needs.

Only Galin’s life had not been much affected; farmers still sought his help from time to time, bringing corresponding food or other items as rewards.

"Did Roman send you here this time?" asked Dick after they had eaten their fill.

Gwivelle blinked, then shook her head, "I sneaked out."

Dick was somewhat incredulous; to any noble, these items amounted to a high-standard meal.

In the past, Gwivelle had only brought things like white bread, slices of meat, and salt, and from the hardness of the bread, it was evident it was the ration Gwivelle had saved up, the salt she had pinched.

But this time was like moving house, the quantity was no small matter, and she even brought beer.

"There was a lot of food at the festival; no one would notice if I took some," Gwivelle explained.

"What festival?" This was Jet’s second sentence as he looked up to ask.

"The harvest festival of summer."

Was it harvest time already?

The three "wild men" who had lost track of the dates looked at each other.

They were severely disconnected from the outside world, only feeling the peak of summer had arrived, while the mountains remained rather cool, and they barely remembered anything about planting or harvesting.

Gwivelle chattered excitedly in their ears like a lively and adorable songbird and like a blue tit in the forest.

She talked about the changes Roman had brought, the dozens of kilometers of flat roads built over months by hundreds of laborers sweating profusely, the continuous flow of salt transported out; she spoke of the Wandong people, the highlanders, and Sanna from the northern coastal areas; she also talked about the dense wheat fields resembling a golden sea and the hundreds of thousands of kilograms of grain: countless delicious dishes at the festival, impossible to finish...

Long ago, when she had come to visit them, she would often talk about these things, but Dick and Galin had not cared, whereas now they listened somewhat seriously, somewhat entranced.

"You should go and see for yourselves," Gwivelle finally said.

"I think Gwivelle makes sense," Galin told Dick.

Dick gave a bitter smile.

"Jet, what do you think?"

Jet quietly leaned against the door frame.

He looked at the tranquil and cool forest.

"You can’t just let the martial skills you’ve worked so hard to obtain go to waste in these deep mountains, can you?"

"Why can’t I?"

Jet glanced at Galin.

"I picked up a sword at five, mastered swordsmanship at eighteen, and peers who could match me in battle were few and far between. I worshipped the All Gods, witnessed by the Pope, swore allegiance to the King of Divine Mysterious, vowed to punish the wicked, and eradicate evil spirits and demons. Yet I’ve ended up like this; do you really think it’s all my own fault?"

Galin coughed lightly: "You’re not wrong, Jet, but... uh... I mean but..."

"I haven’t betrayed the All Gods, I haven’t betrayed the Pope, I haven’t betrayed the King of Divine Mysterious! It is they who have betrayed themselves and betrayed me; it is a disgrace that I have shed blood for them! If Holy Light Swordsmanship is a blood-thirsty craft, solely about slaughtering the innocent, then I’d rather never wield a sword again!"

His tone was as hard and cold as stone.

"But Roman wouldn’t do that..." she said quietly.

Jet glanced at her, "You get only as much as you pay, there’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world, you will eventually face what I have faced. You have no choice but to convince yourself, but you can’t deceive your own heart, and ultimately you’ll realize the mistake, your hands covered in blood, wanting to redeem yourself yet finding it impotent..."

"So Roman wouldn’t do that!" she defiantly glared at Jet.

"Do you think he’s keeping you as a pet that can only sing and dance..."

She was very upset, her voice quivering: "Why can’t what Roman decides to do be what I decide to do as well?"

"Jet!" Dick warned him with an unfriendly look.

"It seems you’re living very well in the nobles’ estate," Jet calmed down.

At least for now, the Lord hadn’t forced her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

He had thought the Witch of Calamity would never return after being taken away.

...

But Gwivelle came back soon enough.

She wore a beautiful gown, her health ever-improving.

She said Roman was building animal enclosures and wouldn’t let her near, so he had her plant vegetables instead.

She had found a chance to sneak out.

He knew at a glance that Gwivelle hadn’t been mistreated or harmed.

Jet thought.

But so what?

The Conqueror used virtue to constrain barbaric violence.

He imbued knights with chivalric spirit, taught them dedication and sacrifice, set examples for all nobles, making them graceful and compassionate.

But what happens after the Conqueror’s death?

Knights remain violent arms, merely chanting virtues, yet never fighting for virtue.

Nobles remain nobles, aloof from earthly suffering, scarcely understanding genuine mercy and compassion.

Has it changed?

Has it not changed?

Has it changed?

Has it not changed?

Jet kept questioning and revisiting, cyclically, this era’s predicaments.