Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 503 Rebuilding the Nation (19)

Maplestone City
[Opening Day of the General Assembly of Free People]
Large, pale yellow clouds drifted silently high in the sky.

A gentle breeze stirred the clouds, leaving a long trail behind them.

The trail extended down like undulating waves, reflecting the surface of the Anya River as a pale red jade disc.

In the early morning, Maplestone City was shrouded in a veil of silence.

Until the sun rose, shining on the roof of the cathedral and illuminating it with golden dawn light.

Suddenly, the church bells rang, their sound spreading invisibly to the streets and alleys in all directions.

“It’s time.” Girard, who had been waiting in the foyer for a long time, struggled to his feet, supporting himself on his knees. “Let’s go.”

Pierre tried to help his father up, but the latter firmly refused. So Pierre bent down and helped his father take off his old hat.

“Okay,” Pierre said with a smile. “Let’s go.”

Pushing open the door, the azure dawn streamed in from outside. I could vaguely see figures leaving the officers' quarters across the street.

Ellen and her daughters saw them to the door.

“There’s no need to prepare food or drink for us.” Girard, adopting the air of the head of the household, kissed his wife and daughters goodbye: “I don’t even know when I’ll be back today.”

After saying that, he took his son and son-in-law and left the house.

As Girard braced his right hand against the front gate, something occurred to him. He turned to his son and asked, "Have you found the person I asked you to look for?"

Pierre looked troubled: "Charles hasn't given me any news yet."

Mr. Mitchell stood still for a moment, sighed, pushed open the gate, and disappeared from his wife and daughter's sight along with his son and son-in-law.

On the streets of the officers' community, there is a clear distinction between formally trained officers, commissioned officers, and informal officers from Iron Peak County.

The professionally trained officers were all dressed in impeccably tailored military uniforms, their leather boots gleaming, and they walked with their heads held high, making them almost impossible to look directly at.

The commissioned officers were also dressed in formal attire and adorned with jewels, but their gait lacked confidence and their expressions were uneasy. Even though they had custom-made dress uniforms that were exactly the same as those of the regular officers, they could still be easily distinguished.

Unofficial officers in Iron Peak County did not need to be identified.

Because the officers of Iron Peak County didn't have dress uniforms at all, you couldn't even find two clothes of the same color and style on them.

The soldiers of Tiefeng County were not divided into officers and soldiers; they still wore the civilian clothes they wore when they enlisted, only dyed the same color, which served as their military uniforms.

Furthermore, due to the lack of suitable dyes, the uniforms of the Tiefeng County Army would fade after only one or two washes.

So at first glance, there are all sorts of shades of blue.

However, the officers of the Iron Peak County Army wore the most luxurious swords, and the sound of their boot heels hitting the ground was the loudest when they walked.

Because whether they were formally trained officers or commissioned officers, they had to pay for their own uniforms.

The leather boots on the officer's feet and the sword at his waist were captured from the enemy.

And seizure is undoubtedly the most prestigious way to buy something.

Therefore, the officers of Iron Peak County had their chins raised the highest.

Although they walked among the "peacocks" dressed in coarse old clothes, their faces showed no envy or shyness, and their imposing presence overshadowed the former two.

Because the meeting place of the Free People's Congress was very close to the officers' quarters, there was no need to ride a horse.

So the officers who left their residences all went straight to the gate, and none of them turned toward the stables.

The officers walked forward with serious expressions, as if each of them knew their destination and what they were going to do there.

Faintly, the footsteps blended together, transforming into a rhythmic drumbeat.

Seeing this scene, Girard's son-in-law was a little nervous, but Girard gestured for him to be at ease.

Old Dussac, leading his son and son-in-law, naturally blended into the crowd, followed the main group out of the officers' quarters, walked upstream along the Anya River for a while, and then crossed the bridge.

Every street corner and alleyway along the way was guarded by heavily armed military police, and fully armed cavalry patrolled the main roads. The security was so tight that people unconsciously held their breath and walked lightly.

After crossing the bridge, the main council hall of Maplestone City Hall—the meeting place of the General Assembly of All Free People—is right in front of you.

Upon arriving at the square in front of the Great Council Hall, the atmosphere reached its zenith of sacred solemnity.

The entire square was completely surrounded by a majestic honor guard.

The magnificent ribbons adorn the exterior walls of the buildings surrounding the square, while keeping out any malicious prying eyes.

Non-military dependents, whose accommodations were provided by the preparatory council, entered the municipal square through other entrances and were then led into the meeting venues according to their districts.

Girard's son-in-law, Alex, reluctantly bid farewell to his father-in-law and brother-in-law—he had to go and meet the freemen of Rykeshire.

Then, Girard waved his hand, declining his son's offer to take him there.

After his identity was verified, old Dussac followed the directions and entered the dark, grand council chamber alone.

Although there were ups and downs and turns, there was only one path under his feet, so old Dussac arrived at the main venue very smoothly.

Only after stepping under the dome did he realize the mystery behind the venue's layout:

Inside the main council chamber, the originally tiered circular seating has been divided into eight equally sized sectors by fences.

Each sector connects to the central "stage" at the very front, with only one passageway at the back;

From what Girard just saw, each passageway connects to only one entrance;
In this way, the "free agents" from each county will be directed to different sectors to sit in, and even if they want to sit together, they will not have the opportunity.

Sure enough, in front of his sector, Girard found an old friend—Richard from Blackwater.

Richard was smoking his pipe with his head down, while casually talking to another short, stout middle-aged man next to him.

Upon seeing Gerald Mitchell, Richard's small mustache, which had been hanging down, immediately perked up.

"Hello!" Richard from Blackwater greeted him with a smile, "Girard Flaninovich!"

“Very well.” Girard took off his hat, squeezed Richard’s soft hand with his calloused hand, and joked, “But it’s not much better than my old horse.”

How are your family members?

"Thank God, everything is fine. Ellen is still thinking of you and asked me to give you my regards. And you, how is your family?" "They're all fine too. Sigh, they're happier living in Ghevorden than in Blackwater." Richard's tone was somewhat somber, but he quickly rallied, took Girard's hand, and introduced him to the short, stout middle-aged man beside him: "This is Mitchell Girard, the mayor of Wolftown, and the owner of Mitchell Estate."

Richard paused, smiled, and said solemnly, "He's also the father of Lieutenant Mitchell—you know who Lieutenant Mitchell is, right?"

"Wolf riders?" the short, stout middle-aged man asked cautiously.

“Yes.” Richard nodded.

"Oh! Mr. Mitchell, it's an honor to meet you." The short, stout middle-aged man warmly grasped old Dussac's other hand: "Your son has truly made a name for himself under Lord Montagne; his future is limitless, truly limitless!"

After offering his compliments, the short, stout middle-aged man realized he hadn't introduced himself. He scratched the back of his head and said apologetically, "Sorry, sorry, I forgot to tell you my name. I am Nandor Krylov, from Cowhoof Valley. If you don't mind, you can just call me 'Fatty'."

Hearing someone lavish praise on his youngest son, Girard felt a mix of pride and melancholy.

Richard noticed his old friend's complicated emotions and interjected with a laugh, "That's called 'like father, like son.' Back in the day, Gerard was quite the Dussac. Do you remember Bloodhand Shutt? The horse thief who would cut off children's hands to collect?"

“How could I not remember?” Fat Nandor said, puzzled. “But wasn’t he killed not long ago, twenty years ago?”

“The one who hanged Bloodhand Shutt,” Richard said with an exaggerated gesture of invitation to old Dussac, laughing, “is Gerard Fryninovich Mitchell right in front of you—the bravest Dussac in Ironpeak County!”

The fat man, Nandor, was also very considerate. He immediately adopted an even more admiring tone, tightly grasping old Dussac's hand with both of his, and said excitedly, "So it was you who killed that beast Bloodhand Shut? That beast owes several blood debts in Bullhoof Valley. On behalf of the people of Bullhoof Valley—thank you! Like father, like son! You must give me a chance to buy you a drink..."

Girard was a little dizzy from the praise, but he kept his composure and shook his head repeatedly.

"Alright, Fatty, stop being so affectionate," Richard teased from the side. "Girard probably thinks you want to borrow money!"

Upon hearing this, both Gerard and Nandor Krylov laughed.

Having hit it off with Nandor, Girard didn't bother looking for his fellow townsmen in Wolf Town anymore, and simply sat down with Richard and Nandor.

The three had barely exchanged a few words about the past when many more people poured into the main council hall.

Of the eight sectors, six are almost full.

In one of the most crowded sections, there weren't enough seats, so people had to stand on the stairs and in the aisles.

On the contrary, Tiefeng County, being the poorest of the seven newly reclaimed county-level areas, had few "free people" and plenty of space, so there was no shortage of places to sit.

In the main council hall, people from the seven sectors corresponding to the seven counties were all seated, more or less.

Only the last sector, right next to Tiefeng County, was completely deserted.

"See that?" Nandor gestured towards the empty adjacent section. "Why is no one sitting there? Who's it reserved for?"

"Who else could it be reserved for?" Richard scoffed, saying nonchalantly, "Of course, it's reserved for the 'gentlemen'."

“That’s right.” Nandor seemed completely oblivious to the sourness in Richard’s words, and said with a smile, “Officers are naturally ‘free men’ too.”

Richard remained noncommittal, surveyed the crowded council chamber, squinted, and said, "In my opinion, the arrangement of this venue is deliberate."

"What's the significance?" Nandor asked, puzzled.

"They knew perfectly well that the number of 'free men' varied from county to county, yet they still divided the seating into eight equal sections." Richard asked meaningfully, "What do you think that meant?"

"Don't test me, buddy." Nandor grinned. "I definitely can't guess. Just tell me."

Richard hesitated for a while, until he had piqued Girard's curiosity as well, before crossing his arms and saying confidently, "The seating is divided into eight equal parts, which means it's not 'one person, one vote,' but 'one county, one vote.'"

“Hey,” Nandor asked nonchalantly, “What’s the difference?”

“The difference is huge.” Richard frowned and explained seriously, “How many free men are there in Iron Peak County? How many free men are there in Vaughan County? If it’s one person, one vote, our votes are like drops of wine in a water tank, easily diluted to the point that we can’t taste anything.”

Richard deliberately dragged out his words: "But if it's one county, one vote, then—it's a different story."

"So, what's the difference?" Nandor laughed, patting Richard on the shoulder, his eyes gleaming with the cunning typical of a veteran. "One county, one vote; one person, one vote—it's all the same. We'll vote however Lord Montagne tells us to. So tell me, what's the difference?"

“Don’t you think so?” Nandor winked at old Dussac. “Brother.”

Girard was both amused and exasperated, finding the "fat guy" from Cowhoof Valley rather interesting.

Richard was speechless. After a moment, he sighed dejectedly and his shoulders slumped.

Nandor seemed to be comforting Richard, and gently patted the latter's back.

But Richard clearly had no interest in saying anything more.

Nandor could only shrug and stop bothering Richard.

As time went on, the council chamber grew increasingly full. A tall, taciturn middle-aged man and a round-faced, plump man entered the adjacent sector to Gerald's right.

The tall and fat man were none other than Maja Millock and Mikhail, a timber merchant from Oak, County Vaughan.

Girard glanced at the two men and stood up to greet them.

Old Majiya nodded politely in greeting, while timber merchant Mikhail bowed in return, though he looked rather embarrassed.

After exchanging greetings, the timber merchant pulled old Majiya to sit in the spot furthest away from old Dussac.

Soon, no one entered any of the county sectors anymore.

Although some sectors are extremely crowded, others are spacious enough for someone to lie down and take a nap.

However, whether sitting or standing, the "free men" ultimately found their place at the General Assembly of Free Men—a meeting that theoretically represented the highest power in the newly reclaimed land, but was being held for the first time.

Although everyone unconsciously lowered their voices when speaking, the whispers of thousands of people, reflected by the dome and walls, still created powerful harmonics that rumbled throughout the Great Council Hall.

Only at times like these domes do people under the dome truly realize that there are so many "free people" in the newly reclaimed land.

And the voices of the "free men" combined were so loud and clear.

As the rumbling sound grew louder, Richard's eyes, once the largest estate owner in Blackwater, gradually brightened again.

But the next moment, a loud bang silenced the area beneath the dome.

The main doors of the Great Council Hall swung open with a roar.

The officers entered the venue.

[Victory is certain!]
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