Chapter 735: The People Rebuilding Their Homeland
A sudden gust swept across the open plain, stirring up clouds of dust, sand, and fallen leaves. It caught the edge of the heavy tarp covering a large truck, lifting it briefly. One of the convoy guards stepped forward, grabbed the slack rope, and tugged the tarp firmly back onto the truck’s side panel. Then he lifted his head, glancing up at the vast, clear sky.
The sky was washed clean, a deep, endless blue, with only a few scattered clouds drifting far above.
“Strange wind…” the guard muttered to himself, puzzled by the sudden, inexplicable flutter of unease that had passed through him.
From a distance came the booming voice of the transport captain: “Truck Three!”
The guard shook his head, brushing away the strange thoughts—stories of winter spirits and plainland monsters that had been swirling in his mind—and called back loudly, “Truck Three ready, boss!”
“Truck Four!” “Truck Four ready!” “Truck Five…”
The mechanics climbed into the elevated driver’s seats, while the guards and co-drivers boarded one after another. The hum of the power cores charging up brought a reassuring sense of readiness. Outside, the convoy commander’s voice rang out: “Check your vehicles thoroughly. This stretch isn’t short, and the Holy Spirit Plain is bitterly cold this time of year!
“The Gorgon River’s shipping has stopped for the season. We’re the only supply line this winter—
“Move out! Our people on the plains are still waiting for these food and medicine shipments!”
The arcane engines rumbled low and deep. Gears and levers turned and ground under mechanical power. One by one, the heavy, massive magi-tech trucks began to accelerate, roaring like steel beasts across the vast winter wilderness. Laden with urgently needed supplies for the Holy Spirit Plain’s rebuilding zones, they carved black tracks across the pale earth, their paths stretching far northward…
Along the Gorgon River in the plains, the dry season had arrived as expected. The river’s water level dropped, making navigation for large vessels difficult and dangerous. As river managers issued warnings, the once-bustling shipping traffic gradually came to a halt.
In years past, this meant everyone who made their living on the river had to enter a kind of hibernation, just like the farmers on the plains. Except for a few reckless souls, most would quietly return to their riverside shacks, huddle with their families, light warm fires, and rely on stored food to wait out the winter. Ordinary sailors did this, and so did the captains who owned the boats.
But this year was different.
A group known as the “Joint Reconstruction Corps” had arrived from Fortress Rock, setting up camps of various sizes across the scorched eastern Holy Spirit Plain. They launched a flurry of rebuilding efforts, shouting slogans like “Take back the land from wolves and winter.” With a fervor that was hard to understand, they were trying to breathe new life into this devastated land.
What was usually a quiet, idle winter suddenly became bustling with activity.
Durin, a boatman, jumped off his raft with his two sons. Workers waiting on the shore quickly moved in, expertly hooking ropes to the raft and pulling it toward land. More hands arrived to untie the bindings and haul the logs ashore, ready to transport them to a nearby camp.
Though the Baishui River was closed to shipping, it wasn’t completely frozen. While large boats could no longer sail, small rafts and light vessels could still navigate the shallows. Durin, a lifelong river man, had been hired by the Joint Reconstruction Corps to help ferry timber cut upstream down to the camps downstream—using the raft-building skills passed down through generations, and the courage and experience honed from years of working among the river’s reefs.
The man, who had spent half his life drifting on the Gorgon River, craned his neck to watch the gray-blue winter-clad workers bustling between the shallows and the riverbank’s high ground. In this bitter cold, on days not suited for labor, they were still busy.
He couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing—this had never happened before.
He didn’t intend to get too involved. He was a simple, honest “river folk,” while these newcomers from Fortress Rock carried royal banners and were escorted by soldiers.
Still, he found himself watching them for long moments—the southerners who seemed unbothered by the cold, and among them, the so-called locals who were said to have originally lived in the eastern Holy Spirit Plain.
Those locals had supposedly escaped during the war, hiding in southern towns and cities. Now, they had returned with the southerners, determined to rebuild their homes.
Durin didn’t recognize any familiar faces among these “locals”—most of his old acquaintances were probably dead by now.
He looked at the people on the shallows and riverbank, envying their thick winter clothes and the savory aromas drifting from their fires—those coats were new, without patches, and the scent of meat occasionally wafted from their cooking pots. They had meat every week.
This winter, Durin’s life was actually better than in previous years. He had expected a harsh season—after the terrible war, the monstrous creatures, the ruined farmlands and villages on the east bank, the nobles either dead or fled, merchants scattered. The river folk who had made their living transporting goods for nobles and merchants had lost half their livelihoods. Everyone thought the coming days would be especially hard.
But unexpectedly, these southerners had returned with their roaring machines to this burned land.
The Joint Reconstruction Corps had brought unexpected work—and a chance to survive—to the river workers, sailors, and captains who had been bracing for a bleak winter.
Durin was grateful for their generosity and happy to trade his skills and experience for enough food to get his family through the cold months. Yet… he still envied those neat, new winter clothes and the meat stewing in the big pots by the riverbank.
A tall, thin man in a gray-blue padded robe walked by and stopped in front of Durin. “Citizen—your quota for today is done. You can collect your wages at the camp anytime.”
He was an official from the Southern Administration Office, his special armband and chest insignia marking his rank.
Durin snapped out of his daze and bowed quickly. “Yes, sir. I’ll go right away…”
The official smiled. “Honestly, have you thought about signing up? We need experienced river workers up north. If you join the Reconstruction Corps, you could help out at the northern camps.”
Durin smiled humbly. “I… think I’ll pass. I have a wife and kids… my youngest daughter’s just over three…”
“You could bring your family with you, actually… but it’s okay. It’s all voluntary. Whenever you want to sign up, just come find me.”
Durin nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”
After dealing with these so-called “grassroots officials” of the Joint Reconstruction Corps many times, Durin had learned the proper etiquette: address them as “sir” or “ma’am,” never “lord” or “master.” He didn’t understand why they disliked more respectful titles, but since they insisted, he obeyed diligently.
“You’re welcome,” the young official waved his hand. “It’s getting late. Collect your pay and head back—be careful on the road, citizen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Durin and his two sons turned and hurried away. The tall, slender official watched them go, shaking his head with a smile.
A young man in black winter clothes walked up behind the official and stopped. “You don’t really need to call them ‘citizens’—most don’t understand it, and the local resident registry isn’t finished yet. ‘Citizen’ is still a bit of a stretch.”
“I like the word ‘citizen.’ I like saying it and hearing it,” the official replied, glancing at the man in black. “Is Minister Norris still outside?”
“Yes, he’s inspecting the soil up north.”
“We didn’t manage to open enough farmland before the freeze. Everything will have to wait until spring. Everyone feels the pressure, but Minister Norris isn’t in good health anymore,” the official sighed. “If only the snow would hold off for another week…”
“Yeah…” The man in black frowned, casting a worried glance toward the northern camp.
The flag of the Cecil Empire snapped in the cold wind. On the camp’s temporary wooden walls, bold letters were painted: “Take back the land from wolves and winter.” Craftsmen and laborers worked busily and in order, reinforcing windbreaks and wooden huts, and building a warehouse for incoming supplies. Soldiers patrolled vigilantly, guarding against hungry wild beasts and the crystal cluster monsters that had somehow survived the purging sweeps.
Agriculture Minister Norris stood with his assistants on a high ground near the northern gate, gazing out over the frozen fields.
Winter. Snowfall. Freeze.
Human flesh and blood trudged across this scorched earth, rebuilding and reclaiming. But nature’s power showed no mercy for human courage or diligence. It operated colder than any machine, delivering rain and snow, freezing the land on schedule—neither delaying nor forgiving.
“We’ve only reclaimed less than thirty percent of the planned farmland… The Holy Spirit Plain’s winter lasts half a month longer than the southern regions. More than half the prepared fields will miss next spring’s planting,” Norris said in a low voice. “We’re burning through the grain reserves painstakingly gathered from the west…”
“But at least several camps have held their ground. The temporary roads are open, Minister,” an assistant said eagerly. “As long as these camps survive the winter, we can start plowing as soon as the thaw comes next spring. At worst, we’ll lose only one harvest…”
Norris sighed. “We have to hope for the best… cough, cough…”
A violent fit of coughing shook him.
The cold air tore through his lungs, damaged years ago by typhoid. He felt the chill seep into his very core, slowly draining the little strength left in his body. Just before he lost his balance, two young hands reached out and steadied the faltering agriculture minister.
“Minister,” one young official called anxiously, “are you alright?”
“I’m alright,” Norris finally steadied himself. He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a small metal vial. Twisting off the cap, he took a sip of the slightly bitter potion inside. Warmth spread through his body, lending strength to his voice. “Ah, well, I’m getting on in years. The cold winds of the Holy Spirit Plains don’t treat me kindly.”
The rejuvenation elixir, specially made by Pittman, helped restore some of Norris’s vitality. Yet he could still feel his organs steadily declining—alchemy and druidic magic might ease an old man’s discomfort, but the deep damage caused by aging was beyond any mortal remedy.
He carefully put away the half-full vial and glanced at the young faces around him, all etched with worry, tension, and concern. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“Go back.”
Norris shrugged off the hands trying to support him, turned toward the camp, and began walking forward at a steady pace.
He entered the camp and headed for his quarters.
Along the road, those dedicated to rebuilding their home bustled about.
Mage engineers from the southern territories were calibrating a magical obelisk, its crystal core humming with energy as it slowly rotated in the biting wind.
Craftsmen measured out foundations in a clearing, preparing to build a warehouse.
A group of laborers worked together to saw through a massive log. The man gripping the saw looked vaguely familiar—one of the refugees who had once received aid from the investigation team. His most prized possession had been a battered little cart piled high with scraps.
Nearby, his wife stirred a large pot with a long-handled ladle, calling out in a clear, strong voice to the men, signaling the end of the day’s work and the start of the meal.
That “precious” little cart was still there, not discarded but parked on a patch of open ground, heaped with potatoes and turnips pulled from the warehouse.
Norris’s mind drifted back. He remembered having a similar cart once—pushing it all the way from Old Cecil to the Dark Mountains.
That cart had been burned for firewood during the first winter, and the land bordering the Dark Mountains had since blossomed into something remarkable.
Norris’s slightly stooped back straightened just a bit.
His work was far from over.
(End of chapter)