Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 339 Ordinary People and Demons

Jiangbei Province, Xiaolu City.

Xiaolu City is famous for two things: painted pottery and the infamous "Stone Mountain Prison".

Stone Mountain Prison is a debtor's prison specifically for bankrupt individuals burdened with debt and poor people who are behind on their taxes.

Unless friends or family are willing to lend a helping hand, the unfortunate souls imprisoned in Shishan Prison have only two outcomes: either they die of illness in the dark and crowded cells, or they perish suddenly from the daily toil.

After the military government took over Xiaolu City, Shishan Prison was also requisitioned and was no longer limited to detaining debtors.

The new prisoners include deserters, supporters of the Red Rose, and public officials who refused to swear allegiance. They share two common characteristics: first, they are considered criminals and enemies by the military government; second, the military government does not care about their lives.

In October alone, nearly a hundred deserters and farmers who evaded military service were sent to Shishan Prison; in November, that number rose to two hundred.

The influx of new prisoners overwhelmed the already crowded Shishan Prison, and the military government's solution was simple: if there wasn't enough space in the prison, they would simply make room for more.
Therefore, after winter sets in, the main task of the warden of Shishan Prison is to execute prisoners who were imprisoned the previous month in order to make room for prisoners who will be imprisoned the following month.

In any case, theoretically speaking—that is, assuming the validity of the decrees issued by the military government is acknowledged—all the "deserters," "enemies," and "traitors" imprisoned in Shishan Prison have already been sentenced to death.

On the first day of each week, the prisoners at Stone Mountain Prison await roll call in extreme fear. If their name is called, they are hanged; if not, they live for seven more days, and then it's time for the next roll call.

Pierre Gerardovich Mitchell couldn't remember how long he had been imprisoned—a week? Two weeks? A month?

In any case, time has no meaning in Shishan Prison, a living hell.

Pierre fell ill, very seriously ill.

In Shishan Prison, everyone gets sick; it would be strange if no one did.

Needless to say, the food, drink, and lodging were excellent; let's just talk about going to the toilet.

The wooden buckets used for excrement and urine could only be emptied every other day, but they could be filled in just one day. More than sixty people were crammed into a space that could only hold twenty people to eat, drink, and relieve themselves; the filthy cells were a breeding ground for plague.

Fortunately, a kind old man took care of Pierre.

The old man bribed the jailers to get hot stones for Pierre to warm up every day. Pierre's throat was so swollen that he couldn't eat bread, so the old man would chew up sour black bread—the kind of food the prison only gave to prisoners—and soak it in warm water to make a paste, then feed it to Pierre.

The old man was a local of Xiaolu City, but he was imprisoned in Shishan Prison because he was heavily in debt.

The old man said to Pierre, "Now I think being cheated might be a blessing from God. At least until the money is paid back, no one wants me to die. What could be more terrifying than waiting to die? That devil is deliberately tormenting you."

……

"That devil" was the old man's nickname for the new warden.

For prisoners, the weekly roll call is the most agonizing.

When the warden entered the dungeon with the roster, the prisoners fell silent; the air seemed to freeze solid.

The warden would stand in the middle of the corridor, slowly unfold the roster, and call out names one by one, repeating each name three times.

The prisoners listened, their faces ashen, not daring to utter a sound.

The prisoners whose names were called either burst into tears, fainted, or completely broke down. They would never leave their cells voluntarily, and the warden and guards would never enter the cells to arrest the near-mad prisoners.

The warden simply told the other prisoners, "He, or any one of you, will take his place," and instructed the guards to prepare matchlock guns.

The words "that demon" were not a weak and empty threat, but an objective description of what followed. Therefore, most of the prisoners who were named were forcibly pushed out of their cells by other prisoners.

As for the prisoners whose names were not called, although they might feel a brief moment of relief and joy, these emotions would be quickly swallowed up.

Because they knew there would be a next time, and the time after that, and the time after that… As long as they remained in Shishan Prison, misfortune would eventually befall them. At that time, they would be dragged out of their cells by others and abandoned like trash.

Suffering from cruel mental torture, some prisoners have gone insane, and some even prefer to commit suicide, a blasphemous sin, rather than continue living.

Pierre didn't know whether the warden did it intentionally, but the devil was clearly satisfied with the effect.

……

“Yes, he is tormenting us,” Pierre replied hoarsely to the old man. “[Old saying] The sinner has received his due punishment.”

"Huh?" The old man asked, confused. "What did you say?"

"It's an old saying, meaning he considered torturing us as punishment for sinners—words that the devil himself said, in front of us and the jailers. Ha, he probably thought no one could understand him."

Pierre appeared to be smiling, but the anger and resentment in his eyes sent chills down the old man's spine: "We are sinners? What sins have we committed to deserve this treatment? Who does he think he is? An angel of judgment? He's just a sick, pathetic beast who can't wait to abuse the slightest bit of pitiful power..."

The old man's attention wasn't on what the demon had said; he asked in surprise, "Old sayings? What the master said? You can say them?"

Pierre gave a noncommittal smile.

The old man was overjoyed: "Then...then you're a master too? Hey! I knew you must have some important background!"

Pierre quipped, "If I were the master, would I be here waiting to rot?"

"Hey!" the old man protested, drawing out his words, then said happily, "Even a good horse has its time to pull a big cart!"

Through the small window of the dungeon, Pierre could see the gallows at the other end of the prison, where frozen corpses were forever hanging.

Flocks of crows circled above the gallows like flowing black clouds.

“No matter what kind of horse it is, it will die.” Pierre’s throat was so swollen that he had difficulty speaking: “Here, it’s only a matter of time.”

The old man comforted Pierre, saying, "Don't worry, you haven't been called out so many times, and you won't be next time either."

“Your opinion doesn’t count, old man,” Pierre said with a bitter smile.

“I’m not just making this up!” the old man said seriously. “I really don’t think you’ll be here.”

Pierre was a little tired. He leaned against the railing, tried to find a comfortable sitting position, and planned to take a nap.

The cells weren't big enough for everyone to lie down, so the prisoners could only sit with their legs curled up to rest or sleep.

Seeing that Pierre didn't want to talk, the old man didn't speak again and closed his eyes to doze off.

After a while, Pierre's weak voice reached the old man's ears: "Old man?"

"What's the matter?"

Pierre wrapped his coat tighter around himself; the stone he used to keep warm was long since cold. "I... I might not make it. If I'm not hanged, I'll die of illness sooner or later."

The old man stretched one hand to Pierre's forehead and placed the other hand on his own forehead: "Hey, what are you saying? Your fever has gone down! In a few days, in a few days you'll be a top-notch young man again."

Pierre, weakened by his high fever, struggled to pull up his sleeve. Ignoring the old man's words, he continued, "Old man, look, this is an armlet, pure silver. My father gave it to me on my twelfth birthday..."

The old man grabbed Pierre's sleeve, his face flushing red with embarrassment: "That...that...that's not there anymore..."

"That one?" Pierre asked, puzzled.

The old man licked his lips and hummed, "Armband."

Pierre touched it in disbelief, checking several times before realizing with shock that the armband was really no longer on his arm.

Not daring to meet Pierre's gaze, the old man coughed and explained awkwardly, "It wasn't stealing, I didn't steal you. Your silver armlet... I gave it to the jailer. The stone you used to warm yourself... and the bread we ate, we traded for that armlet... Otherwise, how could those snake-like jailers be so kind? Don't you think so?"

Pierre paused for a moment, then touched his earlobe in shock: "Then my earring..."

"He also gave it to the jailer."

"The one tied in the hair?"

"Too."

"besides……"

"All of them," the old man said, embarrassed. "All of them, you know."

"This...you...when did you..."

"It's been some time now, while you're asleep."

Pierre stood there dumbfounded. Suddenly, as if waking from a dream, he sat up straight, quickly took off his boots, and frantically rummaged inside them.

“Sigh.” Pierre stopped what he was doing, sighed helplessly, and put his boots back on. “The armbands and stuff… well, they’re not going to stay anyway… Thank you, old man. Good bribe, good bribe.”

The old man, sensing that Pierre wasn't angry, quickly helped him put on his boots in a flattering manner: "Hey, I knew you'd understand. Gold and silver may be good, but they don't keep you full! In prison, they're not as useful as a piece of bread! Don't worry, if all else fails, I'll find a way to get them back for you."

“It’s alright.” Pierre leaned wearily against the railing, his face flushed from the “vigorous” exercise. “Anyway, I was planning to give it to you anyway.”

"what?"

“I’ve done the math on my inheritance,” Pierre said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Besides the gold and silver I have, all I have is this coat.”

Pierre patted his coat: "It's a bit dirty, but the material is good. You can wear it after I die, don't waste it."

"Don't say stupid things."

"I also have something to ask of you."

"Say, you say."

Pierre coughed painfully, his cheeks turning an unusual red. After stopping the coughing, he straightened his back and said seriously to the old man, "I am Dussac, you should know that, right?"

“Of course.” The old man scratched his thinning hair. “You Dusa people… are quite noticeable.”

“After I die, I want a Dussac funeral, not a Paratist funeral.” Pierre then added, “It’s not that I look down on the Paratists… but… I just want… to be buried as a Dussac…” “I understand you, don’t worry, don’t worry, I don’t want to be buried haphazardly after I die either.” The old man vaguely sensed the weight in Pierre’s words and unconsciously became more formal.

But then he scratched his head and asked, troubled, "But what are the funeral rites like in Dusa?"

“This…” Pierre was stunned. “I… I can’t explain it in just a few words.”

The old man fell into deep thought.

Pierre remained silent for a long time, then suddenly slapped his thigh and laughed: "Whatever! It doesn't matter! Where can't red soil bury people? What do I have to be picky about?"

He gripped the railing and struggled to his feet.

The old man looked at Pierre with concern.

Pierre looked out the window at the distant gallows, gritting his teeth as he muttered to himself, "I am Dussac, I will never die on the gallows, never!"

The old man pulled Pierre down to sit: "Don't worry, I guarantee you won't be called on. That devil won't call on you, no matter who he calls."

Pierre grinned and sat back down in his seat.

“If only we had paper and pen,” Pierre murmured, curling up. “If we had paper and pen, I would like to ask you to pass on a few letters.”

"You can still write?" The old man was overjoyed.

"Of course."

"Could you teach me? I want to know how to write my name. The parish priest taught me once, but I forgot it after a few days."

"That's easy. What's your name?"

The old man swallowed hard: "My name is..."

Just then, with a creak, the dungeon door opened.

The stench of the dungeon was so overwhelming that even the jailers didn't want to stay long. Therefore, the cell doors were only opened under a few circumstances: for example, when meals were served at noon, during the three daily patrols without fail, when the chamber pots were emptied every two days, and… during roll call.

However, the current timeline clearly does not match any of the above scenarios.

The dungeon fell silent in an instant, and the prisoners stood up one by one.

The old man and Pierre's "seats" were in the corner of the cell, so they couldn't see what was going on in the corridor. But the intense feeling of suffocation was unmistakable.

The air temperature suddenly dropped, whether due to the cold wind blowing into the dungeon or human illusion, it was unclear.

"clatter"

The sound of boot heels hitting the ground.

Pierre was equally certain of this way of walking, where each step felt like hammering nails with the heel of a boot.

The old man and Pierre were both stunned; they saw the same answer in each other's eyes—roll call.

But today isn't Monday!

The two helped each other to their feet, but there were people all in front of them, and Pierre and the old man in the corner still couldn't see anything clearly.

The roll call was taking place, and all the prisoners understood that it was time for a roll call.

To Pierre's left, a prisoner who was usually quite intimidating was now drenched in sweat. The fierce prisoner trembled as he made the salute, wiped his sweat, and kept reciting prayers.

In front of Pierre, another prisoner tugged at the sleeves of the two men beside him, muttering incoherently, "I know the pattern of the devil's roll call! I know it all! I've figured it out! I wasn't there this time, and I won't be there next time either..."

Most prisoners simply stood there silently and stiffly.

The sound of boot heels hitting the ground disappeared, followed by the sound of a roster being unfolded.

All the prisoners subconsciously swallowed.

The devil gave a soft "hmm," seemingly hesitant. Then, the devil slowly uttered the slightly difficult-to-pronounce name:
“Mr. Pierre Gerardovich Mitchell”

The old man's face changed, and he looked at the young man beside him with trembling eyes. He saw the young man slowly sit down, and the first thought that popped into the old man's mind was, "He's scared."

Next, the old man saw the young man take off his boots—this was completely unexpected.

"What is he going to do?" the old man asked, puzzled.

Then, the old man saw the young man tear open his boot and pull out a knife.

A knife?

It was less a knife and more a handleless blade, yet it was indeed a sharp blade that gleamed with a cold, eerie light.

The old man's saliva had completely disappeared, and his heart pounded against his chest like a hammer. Every hair on his body stood on end. He wanted to speak, to stop the other person, but his body was stiff and he couldn't move.

Several other prisoners also saw the blade in Pierre's hand; they were equally shocked, and like him, remained silent and motionless.

“Mr. Pierre Gerardovich Mitchell,” the devil repeated.

Pierre put his boots back on, stood up, and replied, "Here."

"Please leave your cell."

The old man felt as if the blade had vanished from Pierre's hand in the blink of an eye.

Pierre took off his coat and handed it to the old man, then walked with his head held high toward the cell door.

The prisoners made way for Pierre, who walked steadily forward as if strolling through the veranda of Mitchell Estate.

No one had ever faced death so calmly after being called out. The prisoners looked at Pierre with a mixture of awe and pity.

The old man stared intently at the young man's retreating figure. He wanted to shout, to go with him, but in the end, he couldn't utter a sound or take a single step.

Pierre walked to the prison door, and the devil gestured for the jailer to open it for him.

Pierre took a slow breath. His body was weak, and his strength and agility were far less than before, so he had no second chance. He had to be patient and then decisive.

The devil looked Pierre up and down and nodded.

Then the demon revealed an unprecedented smile, turned to his left, and humbly asked, "Sir, is this the gentleman?"

Pierre instinctively followed the devil's gaze and saw a middle-aged soldier in a field officer's uniform.

The middle-aged soldier looked at another soldier in a captain's uniform with an inquiring gaze: "Is it him?"

Pierre was struck as if by lightning. He trembled, stiffened, and his hair stood on end, just like the old man before him. The sharp blade hidden in his hand almost fell to the ground.

The captain ignored the officer and rushed to Pierre's side, embracing him tightly.

"Looks like I'm right." The officer wasn't annoyed and nodded.

"That's good." The demon agreed with a smile, his smile almost fawning, and bowed his head in greeting: "That's good."

At that moment, Pierre suddenly realized that the demon was not a demon at all; the demon was just an ordinary person who could be found anywhere.

An ordinary person, easily found everywhere, who, having gained a little pathetic power, eagerly abuses it and obsequiously bows to the uniform of a school officer.

“Let’s go.” The officer wrinkled his nose. Clearly, the stench of the cell made him very uncomfortable.

“Let’s go.” The captain held Pierre tightly. “Your father, Vasya, Priest Carmen…and your mother, Scarlett…we are all waiting for you.”

Pierre felt a lump in his throat and a tightness in his chest. He turned to look at the cell and saw faces filled with numbness, envy, resentment, pain, and distortion.

He bit his tongue so hard that he didn't even realize he had drawn blood.

The officer covered his nose and walked out of the dungeon, while the captain urged Pierre, "Let's go."

Pierre stared intently at the "ordinary person's" face, gripping the sharp blade in his hand tightly.

The "ordinary person" smiled at Pierre.

The captain noticed Pierre's unusual behavior and asked with concern, "What's wrong?"

“I…” Pierre was in excruciating pain; at the slightest spark, he would plunge the blade into the chest of this “ordinary man.” “I…you…you can take one more person with you? Just one, just one…”

Upon hearing this, the officer turned around, frowning slightly: "Also a deserter?"

"No, no, it's the debtor."

The captain asked bluntly, "How much money do you owe?"

The officer chuckled and waved his hand. The "ordinary person" reopened the roster and politely asked, "May I ask, what is that debtor's name?"

Pierre was stunned, because he realized that he had never known the old man's name.

"Vogt! My name is Vogt!" The old man rushed to the fence, tears streaming down his face, and shouted, "I only owe twenty-three silver shields and one coin!"

[Second Chapter Update]
[Am I, Donkey Sauce, going to break the millstone today...?]
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(End of this chapter)