Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

If there were a woman in the house, things would be different: someone to wash your clothes, prepare your food and drink, and keep the house and yard clean and tidy.

Every time Dwarf Peter saw other soldiers' wives bringing food and drink to their husbands in the fields, and the couples affectionately nestled together at the edge, he was so jealous his eyes almost bled.

Dwarf Peter sat silently on his bed, hoping that one day he, too, could have a wife. But then he remembered the conscription order that followed.

Three hundred acres of land were great, and so was the house. He had gained what he never had before, but it was all to be exchanged for his life.

Dwarf Peter did not want to fight; he was afraid of dying, very afraid.

Everything in front of him was too good, he hadn't repaired the roof yet, nor had he properly fenced in the yard. The crops had just been planted and still needed weeding and watering.

He couldn't bear to leave, he really couldn't.

But it was also because he couldn't bear to leave everything behind that he had to go to war.

If he didn't go to war, all these things would no longer belong to him. He could still dream of the lifeless eyes of executed deserters.

Dwarf Peter sighed, took the yoke off the wall, walked slowly to the cattle pen, and harnessed the lean ox.

"Good buddy, one more hardship." Dwarf Peter stroked the ox's head and couldn't help crying: "I don't want to leave you either."

Dwarf Peter picked up the plowing tools and led the skinny ox out of the house. The thought of the remaining unplowed land made his heart ache like it was being scratched by a cat.

In the end, his smallholder mentality prevailed, and the platoon leader's instructions were forgotten.

"I'll just work harder; I should be able to finish the rest of the work before departure." Dwarf Peter calculated. "As for the gear, it's not too late to prepare it later."

Working on his own land, Dwarf Peter felt incredibly at ease.

Survival or death? That wasn't the question at all, because Peter Buniel had already stopped thinking about these things.

He saw many comrades with the same mindset, also leading their draft animals from home to the fields.

...

The first army settlement was a sight to see, while the second army settlement was a different scene altogether.

Bart Xialing was addressing the soldiers granted farmland in the second company.

The warriors stood in straight lines, while girls, wives, elders, and children watched from not too far away, whispering to each other and making the small square noisy.

"Enough!" Bart Xialing frowned and scolded the onlooking family members: "You bunch of sparrows! If you want to watch, then watch, but don't chirp all the time! Whoever dares to make another sound, I will whip your husband, your son! Just try me!"

The crowd immediately fell silent, and the soldiers burst into laughter.

Bart Xialing had become more comfortable with public speaking. He no longer trembled in his legs, and he dared to speak up without blushing or getting flustered.

After quelling the family members, Bart Xialing addressed the soldiers:

"The conscription order has come, you all know that. But do you know what's going on? Do you know why you have to drop your farm work and pick up spears and muskets?"

"I'll tell you! The Herd Barbarians are coming!"

"When barbarians come, they want to steal your livestock, kill your children, rape your wives!"

"Which one of you wants someone to sleep with his wife." Bart Xialing roared crudely. "Then contribute your wife, let everyone have a turn, and you won't have to go to war!"

The square fell dead silent, and many warriors showed displeasure. Even if they were willing to fight, they did not want to be subjected to such an insult.

Bart Xialing had now gradually grown to be able to manipulate the emotions of his audience, seeing the effect he wanted, he changed his tone:

"Listen up! My words are harsh, but that's just the way it is!"

"Where do the Herd Barbarians live? They live in the far west! It takes ten days and nights to walk from there to here!"

"Dammit, the barbarians come all this way, do you think they are coming as guests? Are they your second cousins who can't lift the potlid, who will leave for a couple bags of flour?"

"They're coming to get rich! And get rich off of you! They want to loot, to burn, to kill!"

"Loot you! Burn you! Kill you!"

"Don't believe it?!" Bart Xialing tore open his shirt, exposing the horrifying scars on his chest: "These were all left by the barbarians!"

Not just the warriors were frightened, but a few gasps also came from the onlooking family members.

"Let's stop the damn nonsense here!" Bart Xialing slowly buttoned up, dismissively disbanding the formation. "Go pack your gear! Prepare two weeks' worth of dry food! Those willing to join me in killing barbarians, assemble the day after tomorrow morning!"

The warriors saluted silently and the formation quietly dissipated.

...

Meanwhile, in the third army settlement, a soldier in his thirties hurried back home.

"Mother!" he called out as he entered: "Prepare some 'son's rations' for me!"

"Oh? What's happened?" The soldier's mother rushed out shakily, asking in alarm: "Is it war again?"

The soldier's mother was a very thin elderly woman, with wrinkles on her face and arms as dense as a spider's web, aged prematurely by a hard life.

"Never mind that!" said the soldier, taking a sword from the wall and striding into the bedroom.

The voice of her son pierced the thin wall into the mother's ears: "Go prepare my son's rations."

Dusack left for service, and his mother stuffed dry food into his knapsack before leaving—this was "son's rations." Only Dusack would use this term.

But all the Able-bodied Dusacks had already been enlisted, and those left were... deserters.

To avoid going to war, the thirty-something Dusack had left with his mother, changed names, and left his home behind. Yet, fate had it that he had to eat his son's rations once again, here of all places.

The elderly mother, with tears streaming down her face, went to knead the dough.

...

In the twelve military settlements, many similar and different stories were unfolding.

The reason was the same—for war was at hand.