Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 500 Rebuilding the Nation (Sixteen)

At a glance, Girard could tell that among the two elderly people and one child who wanted to set up a table, the tall, dull-looking middle-aged man and the boy who was curiously looking around were father and son.

Although the old man and the child have very different temperaments, their noses and chins look exactly like they were made from the same mold.

As for the round-faced fat man who came up to ask questions, he was probably just a fellow traveler.

“Why not?” Girard readily agreed to the request to set up a table: “We just randomly put together a table anyway.”

Girard, who was used to making decisions on a whim, didn't realize he hadn't consulted his tablemate until he picked up the cap that was on the empty stool.

"What do you think?" Girard asked the blond man somewhat embarrassedly.

The blond man smiled tolerantly: "If you don't mind, I won't have any objections either."

After saying that, he stood up and moved to sit directly opposite old Dussac, giving half of the table to the three people who wanted to share it.

However, he didn't even look at the new classmate properly, just nodded slightly as a greeting.

The round-faced, chubby man thanked them repeatedly and pulled the father and son who were with him to sit down.

The boy, a teenager, was stepping into a place for adults for the first time in his life, led by his own father. His excitement was palpable. He wanted to take in everything around him and sat down without thinking.

The seemingly slow-witted father, however, subtly noticed old Dussac's hat and the blond mercenary's sword.

Clearly, the boy's father was reluctant to sit at the table, but since the other two had already taken their seats, he didn't want to cause any trouble and sat down with them.

However, the boy's father never expected that old Dussac and the blond mercenary had intuition far beyond that of ordinary people.

Despite having drunk quite a bit, they were still keenly aware that the former's gaze lingered on them for "too long."

The blond man's left hand unconsciously rested on the counterweight ball on the sword hilt.

After sizing up the taciturn middle-aged man for a moment, Girard asked bluntly, "Young man, it seems you've worked in the military before?"

Upon hearing this, the boy's father turned to meet old Dussac's gaze, but did not respond.

"Good eye!" Fortunately, the round-faced fat man picked up on the conversation. He instinctively tried to get closer to the man, asking him warmly, "How did you figure that out?"

“Hey, I can’t explain it in just a few words.” Girard smoothed his brown curls with silver strands, took a small sip of his drink, and pointed at the blond youth with his glass: “But he understands.”

He then pointed to the boy's father, who was about to turn 18: "He can understand too."

Girard winked at the latter: "Am I right, bro? Just like how you can still recognize me as Dusak even without earrings or bangs."

Although the boy's father remained as taciturn as ever, he nodded, acknowledging old Dussac's statement.

"May I ask, under whose command do you serve?" Girard asked again.

The middle-aged man, a few years younger than old Dussac, did not answer, but instead asked old Dussac with a puzzled look.

“Just asking.” Girard spread his hands kindly. “Who knows, we might even have a drink together.”

Although the taciturn middle-aged man was reluctant to speak, when the name was mentioned, he straightened his chest and solemnly replied, "Marshal Ned Smith."

Girard was stunned, then burst into laughter: "Then we'll have to have a good drink."

He immediately turned to the waiter and called out, "Bring a few more glasses! And another bottle of good wine!"

The round-faced fat man looked at his fellow villager in surprise. Although he had long known that the other man had risen to prominence through military achievements, he had never heard him boast to anyone that he had served under a marshal—not even once.

The round-faced fat man looked at the old drinker across the table—big nose, wide mouth, carefree blue eyes, well-tailored but poorly dressed fine clothes—he looked like some nouveau riche from the countryside.

The round-faced fat man licked his lips and asked cautiously, "Brother, from what you're saying, you were once... a marshal's subordinate?"

"'A marshal'?" Girard asked, somewhat displeased, his face hardening. "Besides Marshal Ned Smith, which other marshal is there?"

"No! No more! There's only one! There's only one Marshal!" The round-faced fat man shook his head like a pendulum, and asked with a forced smile, "Are you also a subordinate of Marshal Ned... Ned Smith?"

"Subordinate? I wouldn't call myself a subordinate." Girard clicked his tongue and said calmly, "I'm just a lowly soldier who risked his life."

The round-faced fat man didn't seem to mind at all. He asked expectantly, "So... you're here to attend the Free Men's Conference too?"

“Otherwise, why would I come to this lousy place?” Girard poured the rest of his drink down his throat, wiped his mouth, slammed the glass down on the table, and snorted, “It’s hard to even find someone to drink with.”

"Coming."

Before the person even arrived, a sticky, gooey sound came over first.

The still-charming tavern proprietress, with a bottle and a cup tucked under her left arm and a plate held high in her right, moved nimbly between her back and the tables and chairs, swaying as she approached the table for a few people.

She first put down the plate—one half of which contained some pickled vegetables and the other half held slices of salted pork fat—then she put down the glass and the wine bottle, and finally picked up the glass that Old Dussac had turned upside down and poured the wine into it herself.

"Don't be in such a hurry," the tavern owner said coquettishly, giving old Dussac a sidelong glance.

Faced with such a formidable opponent, even Girard was defeated. The round-faced fat man and the boy on the other side of the table stared wide-eyed.

“Boss lady.” Girard coughed lightly, took out his money pouch and handed it directly to the tavern owner, instructing her, “Please keep an eye out for this table. Whenever the bottle on this table is empty, bring a new one.”

"Okay." The hostess deliberately dragged out the word, pointed to the snacks on the plate, and said with a smile, "These are complimentary."

After saying that, she took away the empty wine bottles and went to serve the other guests.

Before leaving, she didn't forget to wink at the blond man.

This time, it took the round-faced chubby boy and the boy in his late teens some time to recover from the shock.

"I knew we could afford to stay here!" The round-faced fat man chuckled. "If we had stayed at the place Blood Wolf arranged for us, would we have seen such scenery?"

The boy, a little boy, pouted and asked his father in disbelief, "When you go out to run errands, it's always..."

"No," the taciturn middle-aged man replied succinctly.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, kid. This is a place to drink. The proprietress’s tricks are just a way to attract customers,” Girard interjected with a laugh. He glanced around the packed tavern and shrugged. “Pretty effective, isn’t it?”

The boy scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

Girard picked up the bottle and stood up, pouring drinks for the others at the table while jokingly saying to the young man sitting opposite him, "I'll treat you to the drinks, and you can treat me to the snacks. Now we're even."

The blond man couldn't help but give a wry smile.

“Hey, we’ve had two bottles of wine, but we haven’t exchanged names yet.” After pouring drinks for everyone, Gerard took the initiative to announce, “I am Gerard Preninovich Mitchell. According to the Parat people’s way of speaking, I should be called ‘Mitchell Gerard’.”

“My name is Mikhail, and I’m in the timber business.” The round-faced fat man introduced himself as well, and then introduced the father and son who were traveling with him: “This is Majya Milok, and this is Majya Raul.”

Old Ma Jiaya nodded, and young Ma Jiaya shyly followed suit.

“You can call me Siegfried.” The blond man nodded.

“Then, the first toast.” Girard raised his glass: “To Marshal Ned Smith.”

"To Marshal Ned Smith," old Matthias solemnly toasted.

Little Majiya and the fat timber merchant Mikhail also chimed in.

The blond man named Siegfried smiled but remained silent.

The strangers drank the opening toast of the evening, and even little Ma Jiya drank half a glass with her father's permission—of course, since two of the gentlemen had already drunk a lot, whether this glass counted as the opening toast was debatable.

After downing a glass of wine, Girard immediately picked up a small pickled cucumber and put it in his mouth to chew.

Little Matthias tried to imitate old Dussac, but the sourness made him shiver.

While everyone else was battling the burning sensation rising up their esophagus, Siegfried, sitting at the corner of the table, seemed to feel nothing at all—because he hadn't drunk any water.

“Neder of Tormes…” The blond swordsman stared at the reflection in the cup and let out a long sigh, a sigh containing three parts reminiscence and seven parts regret.

“Since you both served under that man,” Siegfried looked at old Dussac and old Madia and asked seriously, “could you tell me what kind of person Ned Smith was?”

Girard and old Majiya exchanged a glance.

“A brave man,” Girard replied, “who led us to countless victories.”

“A kind person,” Old Ma Jiya replied, “who never seeks personal gain.”

“Courage doesn’t necessarily guarantee victory.” Siegfried shook his head slightly. “Kindness doesn’t necessarily equal selflessness.”

Both Gerard and Majid felt a slight displeasure at the young man's condescending attitude towards the old marshal.

“But I can see how much you genuinely respect him. A commander who earns the respect of his soldiers, not their fear, deserves the first toast.” Siegfried sighed again, “Unfortunately, I never had the chance to face him in person…”

He raised his glass and toasted alone: ​​"To Ned Smith, the greatest military strategist since the Duke of Arlian, the man who twice defeated the Empire, the founder of the Alliance, and the only marshal among the republics."

Having said that, Siegfried downed the wine in his cup in one gulp.

The clueless little Ma Jia thought that her handsome blond classmate had given a very impressive toast, so she cheered and clapped along.

Old Matthias cast a questioning look at Old Dussac.

Girard was also a little embarrassed, wanting to help explain but not knowing where to begin.

Just then, a loud voice suddenly rang in everyone's ears.

The musician carrying a lute and wearing an exaggerated hat had left the stage at some point and came to the table where the group was sitting.

"Siegfried! You bastard!" The musician clutched his chest, staring at his blond companion with disbelief, as if he had suffered a great betrayal: "You didn't even invite me when there was wine to drink?"

[Tonight's game is short, so victory is assured tomorrow!]
[Witness me (spraying silver paint into my mouth frantically).jpg]
[Thank you to all the readers for your collections, reading, subscriptions, recommendations, monthly tickets, donations, and comments. Thank you everyone!]
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(End of this chapter)