Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"War is coming," Winters thought.

...

...

At the crack of dawn, the orders to prepare for battle had been delivered to every military village.

Dwarf Peter Buniel from the first village ran to find his platoon leader, asking with a worried face, "Platoon leader, why do we have to go to war again?"

Platoon leader Tamas had already packed his bag and was wrapping his leg bindings. He glanced sharply at Dwarf Peter, "Do whatever you're told. If you dare to whine again, I'll strip you of your sergeant rank!"

Because of his outstanding performance in the battle of Hammer Fort, Dwarf Peter had been promoted to sergeant.

Hearing the platoon leader's threat, he actually felt relieved, "Oh! Why not strip it now? Ever since I became a sergeant, no matter where I go, it feels like someone's watching my back, and I can't relax. You honored me, and I'll remember your kindness for a lifetime. But I'm just a farmer; I truly don't have the ability to be a sergeant!"

Tamas put down the leg bindings and grabbed a vine whip in one hand.

Dwarf Peter wanted to run but didn't dare. He closed his eyes tightly, shrank his body, and instinctively leaned in the opposite direction, waiting for the platoon leader's whip to come down.

The vine whip, dried in the shadows, was tough and gave a fiery sting with each strike. The wounds Dwarf Peter had received from the vine whip during the battle of Hammer Fort had yet to fully heal.

Dwarf Peter waited anxiously with his eyes closed for a long time but didn't hear the sound of the whip cutting through the air.

Tamas's arm was raised in mid-air. Seeing his diminutive subordinate's fearful demeanor, he couldn't bring himself to strike.

He threw away the vine whip and continued to wrap his leg bindings, his tone still as cold as ice, "Who do you think you are? To promote or demote as you please. You want to be platoon leader? Why not just go ahead and take the position of Military Civil Official too?"

Dwarf Peter didn't dare speak again and shook his head vigorously.

"This is the military; promotions and demotions aren't up to you! Can't get used to it? Fight a few more battles and you will," Tamas scolded sternly as he finished his leg wrappings. "Let me tell you, not only promotions and demotions, even life and death aren't in your hands! Do you think you were given three hundred acres of land for nothing? Being a soldier, count yourself lucky if you find a superior who values your life. Just be grateful for that!"

Dwarf Peter scratched his head in thought for a while, then hesitantly asked, "Platoon leader... are you talking about yourself?"

Without a word, Tamas picked up the vine whip again.

Dwarf Peter shrank back in fear.

Tamas kicked his subordinate, "I'm talking about lord Montaigne, the Military Civil Official! I'm talking about Blood Wolf!"

Dwarf Peter, kicked to the ground, got up quickly, thinking, "How would I know what Lord Montaigne is like? I've only ever seen you."

"Go back and get ready," Tamas said fiercely. "If you're late, you'll get a taste of the whip!"

"But I still have a lot of land to plow and sow!" Dwarf Peter begged pitifully, "Platoon leader, can you give me two more days? With two more days, I can get it all planted! Even one day would be enough."

"Forget the rest; leave it for the women and old men to plant."

Dwarf Peter said sadly, "My home... has no women or old men, it's just me..."

"Aren't I a bachelor too? What can I do about it except leave my land fallow?" Tamas revealed a rare touch of melancholy. "Never mind! If we can make it back alive, the land we've already planted is enough for us to eat our fill. We only have one mouth, how much can we eat? Don't be greedy over small gains; packing your gear is what's important."

Dwarf Peter fidgeted with the corner of his clothes and said desolately, "Oh."

"What are you standing around for?" Tamas glared again, "Get moving and pack your gear!"

After being chased out of the platoon leader's home, Dwarf Peter returned to his own. Anyone who saw it would laugh.

What kind of "home" is this?

A shabby plank house, with drafts on all sides; a huge chunk of the thatched roof had collapsed, looking like an old grandmother's missing tooth.

Luckily it was autumn, and there was little rain. If it were summer, well, he'd be watching a waterfall inside!

Rickety willow branches fenced a yard in front of and behind the plank house, many showing signs of being nibbled by cattle and sheep.

A wooden sign reading [Iron Peak County Regiment First Platoon | Peter Buniel] was nailed squarely on the gate, proudly proclaiming to passersby—even if it's a dilapidated hovel, it has an owner!

The shack used to be worker's quarters for Perilla Manor. The houses for workers had poor materials and construction quality and would fall apart in a few months without care.

Better houses were prioritized for soldiers with families, leaving the run-down shack to the bachelor Peter Buniel.

The new owner, focused on the land, had no time to renovate it.

That's why everything in the house and yard was old, except for the cowshed, which was newly built.

Inside the cowshed was a very thin six-year-old bull, its ribs sticking out and belly hollow. Endless labor had worn down both the man and the bull.

The skinny bull was now carefully regurgitating its chewed cud, savoring it bit by bit.

Dwarf Peter sat silently on his bed.

Was this courtyard dilapidated?

It was.

But to Dwarf Peter, there was no better, more beautiful, or more lovely house and courtyard in the world!

Because it belonged to him, it truly belonged to Peter Buniel. Since leaving his mother's womb, this was the first time he had his own land, his own house.

He always felt as if he was in a dream, afraid to wake up, but the wooden plaque nailed to the gate firmly told him: this is yours.

Dwarf Peter looked around his humble yet comforting house. Everything was fine—it just lacked a woman, missing the flavor of life.

A single man's life inevitably became carefree.

That's how it was for Dwarf Peter, and so it was for his platoon leader Tamas—after coming back from the fields, they would just lie on the bed, too lazy to move or eat, and wear sour-smelling clothes all the same.