When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

#329 - Before

“Cock-a-doodle-doo——”

The crowing rooster announced the time, and the sweltering wind swayed the red and black flag from side to side.

Five days of scorching sun had passed since the Salvation Army captured Moncrus Manor, finally giving way to a humid and overcast day.

The sauna-like heat engulfed the small fortress, and as usual, the construction site was a scene of bustling activity and increasingly irritable squad leaders.

“I f*** your mother! The formwork is set up! The supports are in place! Where's the mortar? Where the f*** is the mortar!!!”

“We agreed to start at 9 a.m., but the mortar didn't arrive until 12 p.m., and now you're telling me the guy's gone?!”

“What f***ing lunch? Get back to work! Finish it, and I'll treat you to meat tonight!”

After two days of hauling materials and three days of construction, the outline of the fortress was gradually taking shape.

After finishing this frantic rush, the poor Holy Gunners were left to continue mixing cement, while the engineers and locals were finally able to have lunch and rest at 2 p.m.

After these days of working together, and being fellow countrymen from Langsand County, the engineers and villagers became increasingly familiar with each other.

Hiding under the awning, eating raw cabbage and rice porridge, they sat cross-legged in a circle as usual, chatting and joking.

“Do you really get 3 dinars a day?”

A local villager asked the lame old engineer next to him curiously, his eyes filled with disbelief.

“3 dinars is nothing! When I was in the Legion, I got 4 dinars a day, and after the battle, there were spoils of war. I got 2 gold pounds all to myself!” The lame veteran smiled smugly, swallowing the rice porridge and holding up two fingers.

In reality, the engineer's daily wage was 1 dinar. The lame veteran had the alchemic ability to reinforce mortar with Holy Power, which earned him a 1 dinar subsidy. He was also a retired veteran, so he received an additional 1 dinar allowance each day.

This resulted in the lame veteran's daily wage being six times that of the local villagers, and the average engineer's daily wage being twice that of the villagers.

“Is it that good?” The young villager looked envious.

“Our lives are much better than yours here.” Another engineer ate his meal happily.

“Hmph, lying. If you had that much money, why would you be a sapper?” An old farmer holding a wooden bowl snorted disdainfully. “How can you live well under the rule of heretics?”

“I'm an engineer to fight devils, and besides, only an idiot wouldn't make money.” The old veteran patted his stomach. “Do I look like someone who's suffering? You, on the other hand, are as skinny as a stick.”

“The Knight Lords say that the Salvation Army are heretics, enemies of our true faith.” A local villager was still somewhat skeptical.

“Who told you that? Those Knight Lords are the greedy devils who oppress you and steal your land and food.” An engineer retorted.

“But the Church says…” The villager still insisted.

“Saint Sun said that the real heretical devils are those who exploit believers in the name of the Holy Father.” The engineer said seriously, “The truth is, the Church is exploiting believers!”

“What do you mean by exploitation?” The old farmer retorted, “You say I'm being exploited? I don't feel like I'm being exploited at all.”

The retired lame veteran sneered. Back on Autumn Island, they had discussed this issue during their collective confession with the monks of the Holy Father Society.

“Do you remember the Heavenly Kingdom Dream you've been singing these days?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“There's a line in the Heavenly Kingdom Dream that says, 'Grow your own food, and the more you work, the more you harvest,' do you agree with that?”

The old farmer immediately replied, “Of course I agree. That's a matter of course. Do I need you to tell me that?”

“Then let me ask you, does the lord grow his own food? Does he work? Why can he get your harvest?”

The old farmer opened his mouth several times, but couldn't say a word.

Instead, an armed farmer jumped out, “The lord protects us, that's his labor.”

“Does he protect you? Then why did you fall into the hands of us 'heretics'?” Gretz, who had been listening for a long time, stood up, his gaze as sharp as a sword.

The lame veteran echoed, “Protection is to ensure your safety, but they are slaughtering you themselves. Why do they say they are protecting you?”

“Even if they can protect you, don't you think they take too much? I hire a mercenary for less than 4 gold pounds a year. A knight takes 20 to 30 gold pounds a year, and you still have to serve in the military and protect yourselves.” Gretz followed up with continuous blows.

The armed farmers were immediately speechless. Several headmen looked at them in surprise. No wonder they're called War Monks, they can really talk like the monks.

“I don't care, you are heretics. That's what Bishop Lord said.” The old farmer, who was clearly the lowest-ranking serf, still jumped and shouted.

“The Bishop of Thousand River Valley is a devil, that's what the Holy Father said!” The lame veteran slammed the ground, roaring with disappointment and indignation, “Those nobles and knights have even done things like brewing wine with children, and you still want to defend them?”

It would have been better not to mention this. As soon as he said this, the old farmer immediately stood up from the ground, as if he had gone mad with anger.

He threw the rice porridge on the ground, trembling all over, his eyes wide open, and shouted in a hoarse voice, “You, you… nonsense, you're talking nonsense!”

Rolling up his sleeves, the old farmer rushed towards the lame veteran, “That's a rumor, you made it up!”

But even with his anger buff, he was just a piece of cake in front of the veteran who had been through the battlefield.

Despite having a lame leg, the lame veteran was still agile. He jumped up, braced himself on the ground, and squeezed sideways, using his lame leg to trip him.

The old farmer lost his balance and fell to the ground with a thud, his nose and scraped lips bleeding, smeared with mud on his chin.

He propped himself up and wanted to fight back with red eyes, but the lame veteran put on a fighting stance.

But before they could fight, Declama rushed up, wishing he could tattoo 'urgent' on his forehead.

“Steward Declama…”

“Slap!”

Without saying a word, Declama gave him two slaps, back and forth, and shouted angrily, “Rebellious! You still want to hit the lord? Do you know what freedom and equality are? Kneel down and apologize to the lord.”

After this period of observation, Declama could basically recognize who the War Monk Lords were.

Anyone with a steel gear pendant around their neck, a slight disability, but a straight figure and walking in a rigid manner was a War Monk Lord.

The old farmer opened his mouth, red palm prints rising on his face, and froze on the spot.

“What are you doing? Apologize!”

“Forget it.” The lame veteran frowned at Declama, and said earnestly to the old farmer, “Seeing is believing, hearing is not. Why don't you go and see for yourself?”

The old farmer gave the lame veteran a desolate look and said nothing more.

He walked back to his original position, squatted on the ground with his head down, picked up the dusty rice porridge with his hands, put it to his mouth, and ate it in large mouthfuls.

“Oh? I told you to apologize, and you're eating instead!” Declama was furious, pulled out his cane and walked over, “The lord said to forget it, and you really dare to forget it?”

The lame veteran looked helplessly at Gretz.

Gretz understood and stepped forward, about to stop him, when he heard a burst of urgent whistles.

His face straightened, he immediately abandoned what he was doing, ran out of the awning, and looked around at the sky.

Sure enough, a red plume of smoke rose from the southeast.

“Enemy attack! Enemy attack!”

As soon as Gretz finished shouting, a deep horn sounded from the fortress.

“Southeast, a large group of cavalry is approaching!”