Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 533 - 98 Migration_2

If Antonio had heard Winters’ thoughts, he would inevitably have chided him, "Naive! A fool blinded by first love! How could you ever head a household in the future?"

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However, considering General Serviati’s family status, this remark seemed somewhat pale and powerless.

...

The few children there were sat in crates, carried by long-haired cattle.

There was no ceremony, no acts reminiscent of smashing wine bottles or sprinkling Holy Water for commemoration.

As if it were a regular walk outside, the camp where Winters was started its "migration."

The riders led the herd of horses at the front, followed by the long-haired cattle carrying all the household belongings, with the huddled goats and sheep trailing at the end.

The adult men and women either rode horses or walked, leading the bulls.

Winters, with his left leg fixed in a wooden brace, enjoyed the special privilege of sitting in the ox-cart, much like several old grandmothers who were nearly toothless.

Since Lieutenant Mason took the wrong path, the most frequent command from Colonel Jeska became, "Lieutenant Montaigne! Take the lead!"

The old shaman therefore teased Winters, purposely teaching him a line of poetry: "To him, the grace of princes cherishes still, a sudden leader in the vanguard thrills."

Being in an ox-cart "trailing" was a first for Winters.

He felt somewhat ashamed yet couldn’t help wondering: What were the Colonel, the old shaman, and the others doing now?

But the old grandmothers were delighted. They mumbled unclear words and shakily made room, trying to make him more comfortable.

From their muttering, Winters could only make out one word: Hestas.

He still did not understand why the Herders called him "Hestas." Did they see him as the old shaman’s successor?

He suddenly recalled the blood oath ritual with the ointment, which solved some of his doubts yet brought forth even more.

Winters had a fiery temper at times, but he rarely showed it to the elderly. Even when faced with the old shaman’s disrespectful behavior, he was mostly the one being bullied.

So he curled up as much as possible, not wanting to burden the elderly.

One of the old women, after straining to look at Winters for a while, suddenly grabbed his hand and began to shout.

Winters couldn’t understand what she was saying, but Erhulan came over at the sound.

As Erhulan listened to the old grandmother, his face grew paler and paler.

"What is the old lady saying?" Winters asked, turning serious.

"You won’t want to know," Erhulan said with difficulty, "I’ll find you another cart."

"No, tell me. It’s okay," Winters felt a sort of readiness for the pain to come.

He was well aware that he had killed so many of the Red River Tribe and that a day like this would come sooner or later.

"Grandma Tucha was also once a slave at Hongsong Manor. She has seen you, she wants to ask you," Erhulan’s eyes brimmed with tears: "Were you there the day the Paratu People killed prisoners outside Bianli City?"

"I was there," Winters only answered that.

I was there, but I didn’t do anything. To Winters, such words had no meaning, and he disdained to speak them.

"If you seek revenge, then come," thought Winters: "Everyone thinks I have a deep vendetta against Antonio, but my grudge with the Red River is far deeper than mountains, deeper than seas."

Erhulan translated Winters’ answer truthfully.

The old woman named Tucha, holding Winters’ hand, tremblingly pressed it to her forehead, then to her chest, muttering something.

"She said, she knew she saw Hestas that day," Erhulan translated as he listened: "She knew it was Hestas who saved them. Otherwise, they would all have been killed. She said she knew..."

Winters withdrew his hand as if scorched by a branding iron, his voice trembling slightly: "No, I didn’t save anyone. You should hate me!"

"I can’t stay in this cart..." He struggled to climb out, and in Erhulan’s outcry, he fell to the ground.

...

Erhulan found another cart for Winters.

To call it a cart was an exaggeration; it was more like a plank of wood. One end was fixed to the ox yoke, while the other dragged along the ground. It didn’t even have wheels but was just dragged along.

Winters lay in the cart, weighed down with heavy thoughts, unable to calm down for a long while.

When he finally regained his composure, they had already traveled quite a distance.

He looked around and suddenly realized, "This is what nomadic life is."

"Herder, a term indicating a pastoralist. The Herders, those who graze large livestock, settle wherever water and grass lead."

The text in the books was hollow and cold, yet Winters found himself inadvertently living within it.

Whereas knowledge learned indirectly was one thing, witnessing "nomadism" firsthand was a completely different experience.

On the desolate plains, there was just this one group of living beings; not another soul was in sight.

The cattle and sheep sometimes scattered, sometimes regrouped, with the riders occasionally prodding with long poles any animal that strayed from the herd.

Both people and livestock walked with strides as if they all knew where to go, as if they could keep walking like this forever.

After six or seven hours of walking and stopping, the migrating group halted beside a small lake.

The livestock were led to drink water, people began reassembling their felt tents, and the Little Lion had been waiting here all along.

Winters suddenly realized that nomadism was not about boundless horizons and had nothing to do with carefree drifting.

It was more like a series of carefully planned finite journeys, not at all a matter of wandering without purpose or luck.

This lifestyle was distinctly different from settled agriculture; migration was an integral part of it.

Yet this life was no different from the lives of the farmers from Wolf Town that Winters had seen.

It was hard, simple, and ordinary, not spectacular or interesting, just a group of people striving to live.