I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 375 War and Peace (Part 1)

Horseshoes clattered against the muddy dirt road after a summer drizzle.

Wearing a slightly oversized green military overcoat, Jacques jumped off his horse, his leather riding boots sinking into the mud with a "plop".

He didn't care at all. He walked to the roadside, squatted down, reached out and picked up a clod of earth that had just been turned up from the ground by an iron plow. He squeezed it hard, and the clod of earth crumbled between his fingers.

Looking at the glistening black soil in his palm, and inhaling its freshness, Jacques looked up at the farmers in the distance, who were directing their ponies to plow the field, and sighed sincerely:
"What fertile land!"

"Yeah yeah!"

A group of soldiers in everyday uniforms, carrying weapons, echoed in unison. One of them, a veteran named Bud, who was missing his left arm, squatted down excitedly, grabbed a handful of dirt, and almost put it to his mouth to take a bite.

"If you plant potatoes in this soil, the potatoes will definitely grow big and round..."

The soldiers burst into laughter, chattering and jeering.

"Brother Bud, planting potatoes is such a bad business, plant barley instead!"

"Wheat is the best crop, and wheat flour is the most fragrant!"

"I think the rice is pretty good too!"

Bud shook his head stubbornly, clutching the handful of soil even tighter.

"No! We'll plant potatoes. Potatoes were brought by Prince Chris. They're filling, easy to grow, and the best!"

Jacques didn't say anything, he just watched.

Bud wanted to plant potatoes everywhere, and he was confident in that because the land beneath his feet would soon be his.

Prince Chris set a rule that soldiers who went to war would be allocated "military land".

Bard was a veteran of the Highland Regiment who lost an arm on the battlefield. Although he hadn't made any earth-shattering contributions, according to the rules, his field allowance would double, and he could exchange his poor hometown for the newly captured Tavitsky.

This place has incredibly fertile soil!
Jacques brought these guys with him today to familiarize himself with the land.

He stood up, brushed the mud off his hands, and said crisply.

“Bard, according to the rules, you have 150 mu of farmland. Fifty mu is the base amount, and the other 100 mu is for disability allowances and merit awards.”

Bard's weathered, wrinkled face instantly blossomed into a wide smile, his toothless mouth stretching into a deep grin.

His only remaining right hand gripped the handful of black soil tightly, as if it were his lifeline.

"One hundred and fifty mu...one hundred and fifty mu..."

He muttered in a trembling voice, "This is a hundred times better than the meager plot of land clinging to the hillside in my hometown of Highland!"
Jacques took out a rough map wrapped in oilcloth and a thick booklet from his old leather bag.

He deftly spread out a map, on which the boundaries, roads, rivers, and already marked plots of land were roughly sketched in charcoal. He then touched the map with his calloused fingers.

"Bard, the drawing of lots and the measurement of land are all done. Your land is here."

He speaks and acts with a decisive and efficient style.

“You stand here, walk three hundred steps to the east, three hundred steps to the west, south to that little ditch, north to the muddy road we just rode across on horseback, this whole area, one hundred and fifty acres, is yours.”

Bader looked in the direction Jacques was pointing.

Before me lay freshly turned, glistening black soil, stretching all the way to the distant, rain-soaked riverbank. Further north lay the muddy path.

This flat, fertile land seemed to gleam like gold in his eyes.

"Great, great place!"

Bard grinned and swung his one arm with force.

"There's water here, and it's close to the road. That's great!"

He could almost see autumn, with the lush green potato vines covering the ground, laden with heavy, large potatoes.

Jacques continued, speaking earnestly, but without using any of those flowery words.

“Bard, these 150 acres of farmland were given to us by His Highness the Prince.”

The rule is that you can use the land for fifty years; you can't sell it or leave it uncultivated. If you violate the rule, the land will be taken back.

"If we want it to last even longer, we need a son in the family to join the army."

He paused for a moment to make sure everyone understood.

Fifty years is enough time for the Bader family to settle down here. If they don't sell it or leave it fallow, this land can sustain them indefinitely.

"besides."

Jacques's gaze fell back on Bader.

“You’re a retired sergeant. According to the retirement law, you can become the militia captain in this area. The militia law says that if you become the captain, you can also get an additional fifty mu of militia land.”

He looked into Bud's eyes and asked directly.

"Bard, are you in the captain's position?"

The surrounding soldiers immediately fell silent, their eyes all fixed on Bard.

One hundred and fifty mu of farmland for soldiers was already enviable, but what if another fifty mu of farmland for militiamen were added?

A full two hundred acres!
What kind of scene is it on this fertile black soil?
Bard, the one-armed veteran, quickly became a big player in this reclaimed area, able to grow his beloved potatoes, as well as wheat to raise livestock!
Envy, surprise, and even a hint of sourness flashed in the eyes of the soldiers.

Someone whispered.

"Your Highness is merciful...two hundred acres..."

Bard himself was also dumbfounded.

The smile on his face froze, turning into a stunned expression of disbelief.

He looked down at his empty left sleeve, then looked up at Jacques, his lips trembling.

“Militia captain…Militia captain? Lord Jacques…I…I…”

He subconsciously raised his bald right shoulder.

"He only has one arm left... to be the team leader? Can he keep order? Can he protect the villagers?"

His voice was full of uncertainty.

Being a soldier means risking your life in battle, but being a militia captain means managing people, training them, and protecting the peace of the area. He was afraid that with his disabled appearance, he couldn't shoulder this responsibility.

"Brother Bard!"

A burly soldier with a scar on his face patted him on the shoulder with his large, fan-like hand and spoke in a loud voice.

"What are you thinking! How did you lose your arm?"

He was broken while shielding our brothers from those Leterian bastards' daggers! Which brother doesn't respect you? Who doesn't acknowledge you as a true hero? To be the militia captain, we need your toughness and loyalty. You, Brother Bard, are qualified!
"We'll retire here from the military. You'll be the captain, and we'll be the soldiers!"

He looked around.

"What do you all think?"

"That's right, Brother Bard, no doubt about it!"

"If you become the captain, all the men in this area will respect you!"

"Yes, we feel more at ease with you leading the way!"

The soldiers immediately erupted in cheers, their words filled with genuine admiration. Bud had risked his life to protect his brothers on the battlefield; this loyalty and this arm were more precious than anything else.

Jacques nodded in agreement; what he said was true.

“Bard, the rules are based on your experience and skills as a sergeant, not on whether you're missing limbs. You've led troops, you know how to train, you're good enough to be a militia captain, but if something really happens…”

He glanced at Bud's muscular right arm.

"It's all about brains and courage, not just brute force. The rules set by His Highness the Prince will not mistreat true men."

Looking at the eager, trusting faces around him, and then at Jacques' calm but certain eyes, Bader felt a fire burning in his chest.

He looked down at his only remaining right hand, which was black and rough, covered with calluses and scars, and was now tightly clutching the black soil that represented his future.

That feeling of inferiority and hesitation vanished instantly.

Being the militia captain is a responsibility, a trust, and more importantly, it's a way out that His Highness the Prince has shown to this disabled veteran!
There are also... fifty acres of land!
He suddenly raised his head, his wrinkles revealing a fierce and ruthless edge, and raised his one arm high, his roar like thunder.

“Lord Jacques, I, Badgan, will take the position of militia captain!”

The soldiers roared and clapped their hands loudly.

Bader lowered his arm, panting heavily, his eyes gleaming with an alarming light. He turned to Jacques, then stared intently at the black earth that belonged to him, his voice resolute.

"One hundred and fifty mu of farmland for soldiers, fifty mu of farmland for militia... I, Bader, will plant potatoes everywhere, all of it! I will turn this black soil into His Highness's largest potato field!"
I want Prince Chris's potatoes to grow big and sweet here, feeding the most Bagnians!

This time, no one laughed at him for being stubborn, and no one said he was wasting good land.

The soldiers looked at the fire burning in his eyes, at his ramrod-straight back and the empty sleeves fluttering in the wind, and felt nothing but deep respect and a longing for the black soil that would soon be covered with potato vines, a land brimming with hope. Jacques' lips curled into a slight smile. Next to Bader's name, below the words "whole potato," he added three more words with force: "Militia Field."

He deftly rolled up the map and booklet, then mounted his horse.

“Alright, Captain Bard, the inaugural papers and the deed for the militia fields will be delivered to you by the local official later.”

Now, go and tend to your potato patch.

He turned the horse around, splashing mud off his boots.

"next batch!"

"Sir, where is my land?"

"And mine too, we agreed to sit next to Brother Bud!"

"Lord Jacques, look where mine is!"

The other soldiers immediately surrounded them, chattering amongst themselves, their faces filled with eager anticipation.

Most of them were ordinary soldiers from Hegland or other barren regions of Bagnia, or veterans who had completed their service, or warriors who had earned extra rewards for their meritorious service.

For them, Prince Chris's "soldier-farm exchange" policy was a golden bridge from a life of bloodshed on the battlefield to a stable and prosperous life.

The black soil of Tavitsky beneath their feet is the embodiment of their dreams.

Jacques ignored their noise, calmly opened the booklet, compared it with the map, and read out the names and pointed out the locations one by one.

"Hans, fifty acres of basic military farmland, located on the west side of the Bard plot, bordered by that big oak tree..."

"Kruger, two years of service, basic military land plus merit land, a total of eighty acres, located on the east side of the Bard plot, extending south after crossing the creek..."

“Marcus…”

Each time a name was called, the person whose name was called would cheer and rush towards the direction of their future business, measuring it with their footsteps, touching the damp soil with their hands, and loudly discussing the boundaries with familiar partners, imagining what to plant, what to raise, and where to build their house.

The air is no longer filled with the smoke and blood of the battlefield, but with the fragrance of the soil and the anticipation of a bountiful harvest in the future.

One-armed veteran Bud did not run away like the others.

He remained standing in the same spot, carefully squatting down and solemnly scattering the handful of black soil he had been holding in his palm, bit by bit, in the center of his field.

His movements were as devout as if he were performing some kind of ritual.

Just then, a series of rapid hoofbeats came from afar, which caught Jacques' attention, and he immediately looked up.

A troop of people came galloping from the end of the road, dust and mud flying everywhere under their hooves.

They were fully armored, their robes gleaming, and lances and swords hung beside their saddles, gleaming coldly in the dim post-rain sunlight. The lead knight held aloft a banner that fluttered in the wind… In the center of the banner, a ferocious black and white striped tiger poised to pounce, as if to tear the air apart!

"Overlord Tiger!"

One of the veterans gasped in shock, his voice filled with awe.

Jacques' pupils contracted, and without the slightest hesitation, he immediately jumped off his horse, his movements swift and decisive.

"Make way, quick!"

He gave a low shout and waved to the soldiers beside him, signaling them to quickly retreat to the muddy side of the road and clear the center of the road completely.

He recognized the banner; it belonged to one of Prince Chris's most elite guard, the "Overlords." Their fully armed and menacing charge was no ordinary mobilization.

The heavy clatter of hooves struck everyone's heart like drumbeats.

The troop of knights surged through the passage cleared by Jacques and his soldiers like a torrent of steel, exuding an incomparably fierce and ruthless aura.

Mud splattered onto the soldiers' trouser legs, the cold armor and indifferent eyes flashed by, leaving behind a suffocating sense of oppression and thick dust.

"Even the tigers have made their move..."

A soldier murmured, his voice somewhat dry.

However, before everyone could recover from the shock of the elite cavalry, dust rose again at the end of the road. This time, it was a troop of warriors charging on foot!

They were tall and burly, dressed in their signature chainmail shirts, covered by thick leather or iron-plated leather armor, and wearing helmets with nose guards or saddlecloths on their heads. They gripped heavy and menacing two-handed battle axes or long-handled axes tightly in their hands, carried short swords at their waists, and had throwing axes or javelins stuck in their backs.

The heavy footsteps were synchronized, like the steps of giants treading through mud, making muffled "plop plop" sounds, yet their speed was by no means slow.

Among their ranks, some people saw the veterans on this side and deliberately blew their deep, penetrating horns.

"Varangi! It's the Varangi Legion!"

The veteran who had just recognized the tiger exclaimed in surprise again.

"My God, the Varangian Guard has been deployed too!?"

"What's going on? Has His Highness deployed all his elite troops?!"

"Something terrible has happened! Something really terrible has happened!"

The soldiers were in an uproar, discussing amongst themselves. The joy they had just felt at receiving their land was replaced by surprise and tension.

"The Minisians are attacking again?"

Some people speculated in alarm.

"Have the Leterians broken their promise?"

Another veteran was worried.

"Or...did something happen in Golden Harvest City?"

Some people thought of the direction where the prince's main force was located.

Jacques stood by the roadside, his brow furrowed, his face grave as he watched the Varangian warriors rush away, the heavy footsteps and bugle calls still echoing in the air.

As a military judge, he had access to more information than ordinary soldiers, but even he was completely clueless at this moment. Such a large-scale mobilization of elite guards must have been ordered personally by the prince, and the situation was extremely urgent.

Just then, the veteran Kluge, who had been immersed in the joy of the land allocation, suddenly rushed to Jacques. The excitement brought by the eighty acres of land on his face had disappeared, replaced by the eagerness and loyalty of a soldier.

"Lord Jacques!"

Kruger's voice was hoarse with excitement.

This...this isn't right, it must be war, a big one! Could you...could you help us talk to them about postponing our discharge?
"Your Highness needs men! We old folks can still handle swords and spears!"

His words were like a fuse, immediately eliciting a response from several other veterans who had just been allocated land.

"Yes, sir, my territory is right here, I can't run away. His Highness needs us, so we'll go back and get our equipment right away!"

"Count me in! I've fought my whole life, and in my final moments I can still slay a few more enemies for Your Highness!"

"Sir, please go and tell the higher-ups that not all the veterans of our Highland Legion are dead yet!"

Bader also stood up. He stopped looking at the ground beneath his feet, clenched his single arm into a fist, and stared intently at Jacques.

"Lord Jacques! My militia captain hasn't taken office yet, but I'm still His Highness's soldier. If this war really breaks out, count me in!"

His voice was resolute, as if the field where black soil had just been sown, dreaming of being filled with potatoes, had become less important at that moment.

Jacques looked at the group of excited, even somewhat impatient veterans before him, whose eyes shone with loyalty to the prince and an instinctive reaction to battle.

He was filled with mixed emotions. The land and the stable life were what they had earned with their blood and sweat, and they were their deepest desire at this moment.

However, when the shadow of war once again loomed, the blood of soldiers still boiled in their veins.

He took a deep breath, suppressing the turmoil in his heart, and spoke in a calm and clear voice.

"Don't panic, everyone. What you need to do now is to protect your land. This is His Highness's grace, and it is also the foundation for your future!"

His gaze swept over the anxious faces.

"The discharge procedure is determined by the Ministry of Military Affairs, not by me... Wait, I'll go back and ask what happened."

Jacques' words were like a bucket of cold water, temporarily extinguishing the veterans' restless emotions.

They exchanged glances, resentful but understanding that Jacques was telling the truth. Military orders were absolute; acting without authorization would only create chaos.

The road returned to a temporary calm, with only the heavy footsteps and horns of the Varangian Guard faintly echoing in the distance, like ominous drumbeats striking the hearts of everyone.

Jacques reopened his booklet, trying to continue the work of allocating land, but he just couldn't bring himself to call out "the next batch."

He gazed into the distance, his brow furrowed. The black earth, which had just been full of hope, seemed to be shrouded in the shadow of war.

The handful of black soil that Bader scattered seemed to carry a heavy meaning.

Peace is temporary; war is the norm.

Jacques had heard his teacher say this when he was in night school, but he didn't understand it then. Now, however, he finally understood what it meant.

(End of this chapter)