When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist-Chapter 799 - 750

Stepping out of Moliat's wooden cabin, Horn's footsteps on the stairs felt heavier.

It was unclear whether Horn was being overly gentle or if Moliat had entered a rebellious phase.

At this moment, Moliat seemed prickly for some reason.

Though it's uncertain how much Moliat had truly listened, the power difference between both sides was significant.

While Moliat was stubborn, she was not merely a spoiled second-generation aristocrat.

The Broken Stone Primordial People, though superior in numbers, theoretically had much greater power than Moliat.

But in Horn's view, the Broken Stone Primordial People might have their hands full and swords at their waists, yet only two fingers could actually move.

Moliat, on the other hand, might have only one hand, but it was clenched into a fist with all its fingers.

Winning was possible, but the first fear was the high maintenance costs of stability, and the second was Moliat's growing arrogance and pride.

The cool breeze of the Broken Stone summer brushed against Horn's face, his eyes flickering uncertainly.

In this conversation with Moliat, he realized she was becoming increasingly extreme.

She was becoming more like Moliat and less like Jia Li.

Horn was unsure whether this was a sign of her illness or if her desire for power was becoming more intense.

The unity of the Thousand River Valley relied entirely on the equality of their relationship.

If Moliat was determined to leverage a major victory to transform the Holy Alliance into an extension of the Thousand River Valley, handling the situation would indeed be tricky for Horn.

Not because he feared Moliat's success, but because he feared losing the channel for equal and objective communication.

Looking at the calm Upper Nao'an River, Horn stood silent for a moment and then smiled: "Whatever, she fights her battle, I fight mine."

......

Along the west bank of the Upper Nao'an River, a massive army was trudging through the muddy roads.

Laborers, infantry, cavalry, convoys, cattle, and sheep formed a muddy, winding dragon.

Rangers rode back and forth at the front of the line, unable to see the end of this dragon.

They totaled twenty-one thousand in number, advancing in three parallel routes, each with four columns, accompanied by carts and donkey carts carrying supplies and weapons.

Most of the mounted ones were mountain cavalry infantry, meticulously dressed in identical carbon-black armor.

The middle route was comprised of newly formed units, militias, and mercenaries.

Some wore knee-length black-gray doublets with alpaca-colored woolen capes draped over.

Others, wearing only waistcoats, haphazardly donned ill-fitting, shabby armor on their waists, shoulders, and hands.

The path farthest from the river was taken by André's Iron Fist Battle Group, known to be a poorly disciplined version of the Black Crown Battle Group.

Old Laver and others were originally supposed to belong to the middle route.

But the André Battle Commander highly admired Bether and others, merging two incomplete infantry units with the Bether Infantry Corps.

Bether continued to serve as the commander.

Most of the Company Captains were former Mountain Knights, allowing Bether to seamlessly command them.

"Get to work!" Old Laver snapped a whip as the Reserve Line Commander, startling a few cart-pushing laborers.

Kaler, also a Reserve Line Commander, despite his reluctance, could only watch.

If they didn't use the whip, the cane would come down on them instead.

These laborers, as a transport division, were already fortunate enough.

If they could see beyond their line of sight to the Nao'an River, they would notice flat-bottomed barges navigating the waters.

The oarsmen inside the barges huddled in cramped cabins, vigorously paddling, panting like dogs as they battled the current and strong winds.

Yet in turbulent waters, strong men were still forcibly conscripted from surrounding areas to function as haulers.

The ropes dug into their shoulders, and even leather padding hardly prevented blisters from forming.

Compared to them, the lives of these ordinary laborers were relatively better.

But since the haulers and oarsmen were so poorly paid and the work so grueling, soldiers frequently had to round up new ones.

The original haulers either ran away or succumbed to fatigue and illness.

As long as scaring the laborers with a whip sufficed, the journey remained somewhat light.

But soon, a brash service soldier from the Company Captains arrived: "You two, each take ten soldiers and head to a nearby village to gather twelve laborers, fifteen chickens or ducks, and twenty sheep."

"Aren't we almost at Salt Shore Stop?" Kaler instinctively retorted.

The service soldier initially intended to mock him, but upon seeing Kaler's medals, forced a grin: "Exactly, which is why we need to reward the entire army."

......

A young boy was kicked out of the house, rolling across the ground.

The village elders stood helplessly at the entrance, watching soldiers in iron armor shove chickens and ducks into wicker baskets.

A few able-bodied men were pushed out of the huts at spear-point, their rough fabric shirts splitting to reveal protruding ribs.

"No—no—" a woman's shriek echoed.

A door slab hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

A burly soldier entered carrying a frightened bleating ewe. Behind him, a bloodied-lipped woman clung to his leg.

"Let go," the soldier, irritated, tapped the woman's forehead with the hilt of his saber.

A bruise quickly formed at her temple, slowly swelling.

Yet the woman's arms clung tightly to the soldier's leg like a lock.

"What's going on?" Old Laver hurriedly approached with his whip at the ready.

"My breasts were cut off by sheep thieves, I have no milk," the woman immediately kneeled before Old Laver, clutching his leg, "If you take this ewe, without its milk, my child will starve."

As if sensing its owner's plea, the ewe began kicking frantically, bleating continuously, tears almost seeming to well up at its moist eyes.

"Alright, alright." Old Laver pointed his whip at the soldier, "Return the ewe to her."

The sheep-stealing soldier, fierce towards the woman, was meek before Old Laver: "We're supposed to bring back twenty sheep..."

"Is one more really necessary?"

Kaler whispered a reminder: "The Company Captain's orders were to distribute the burden among households, supply either sheep or manpower, but she..."

"There's still plenty more sheep in the pen, isn't there?"

"Her Highness Moliat said not to be rough with village elders or plunder recklessly."

After a moment's silence, Old Laver retrieved some silver coins from his pocket and tossed them to the village elders, then led a sheep from the pen.

"Let's go."

The ewe and the woman embraced, weeping tears of joy.

But behind the window lattice, a pair of shepherd's eyes were filled with hatred and fear.

Though they'd gathered sufficient manpower and sheep, the spirits of those present were not high.

Unlike those seasoned mercenaries, a year ago they were still farmers.

Not yet twisted by the horrors of the battlefield, and guided by the military chaplains, they retained a certain level of simplicity.

The thing they despised and feared the most was being forcibly conscripted and robbed by soldiers.

But now, the ones performing this task were themselves, truly, truly...

"I guess if it were the Salvation Army, we wouldn't be forcibly taking their livestock." A new recruit grumbled gloomily, "If given the chance, I'd definitely transfer to the Salvation Army."

"You want to go, I want to go too." Another new recruit complained, "Do you know how to read? I'm asking."

"Damn it, I'm moving my family to Priest Town—I heard kids there get free schooling." A bewhiskered veteran soldier cursed, "Don't end up like your father, forsaking his conscience for money."

"Priest Town's land prices are expensive though..."

Though Kaler felt discomfort as well, being from a military family, he didn't have the same depth of feeling as the farmers.

Old Laver, despite his frustration, was not inclined to show it.

Just as he was about to remind them to avoid such talk in front of higher-ranking officers, they heard a sharp whistle.

Old Laver and Kaler both changed expressions; they had heard this sound many times—it was the bugle call signaling an emergency return to camp.

"Woo-woo-woo—"

Following that came the deep sound of the horn.

"That's the horn, calling us back to camp." Watching the red smoke rising from the mist, Old Laver shouted, "We encountered the enemy, quick, return to camp and prepare for battle!"

(Below is a depiction of the Mountain Infantry Corps, original Mountain Knights, if it doesn't appear, refresh the page a few more times.)