Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 561 - 105 Traveler_3

Chapter 561: Chapter 105 Traveler_3 Chapter 561: Chapter 105 Traveler_3 “Yes!” Winters responded.

“Am I pure?”

“Yes!”

“May I return to the east?”

“Never!”

“Good! Good! Good!” Brother Reed laughed heartily, “Now I can depart in peace.”

His head slowly drooped, and he passed away peacefully in the company of Winters and the White Lion.

...

…

In accordance with Brother Reed’s wishes, his body was cremated.

Winters and the White Lion dragged logs from afar and built a pyre.

The Shaman also arrived, dancing before the fire, offering the highest respect.

In his life, Brother Reed had been a monk, a Taoist, a priest, a preacher, a mendicant monk, and finally, he was sent off with shamanic rites.

After Brother Reed’s departure, Erhulan also packed Winters’s bags.

“I’m sorry.” Winters’s heart was wracked with pain, “I’m sorry.”

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Erhulan smiled and shook her head.

Guilt almost crushed Winters, but he still had things to do.

When Winters stepped out of the felt tent, Little Lion was waiting for him, holding the reins of four horses.

“Let’s go, I will see you off,” Little Lion said lightly, “These four horses are for you and Xial, you two can take turns riding them. Do you want to name them?”

“No.”

Little Lion was slightly taken aback, “No, that’s fine. We won’t name the warhorses, just refer to them by their coat colors.”

“No, I don’t want to name horses ever again.”

Little Lion, leading several guards, escorted Winters and Xial on their long journey.

Erhulan ran out of the tent, chasing them all the way to the hillside. Watching that silhouette disappear, she cried her heart out.

The White Lion joined her on the hillside, wiped her tears gently, and said, “Don’t cry, Erhulan, let me sing you a song.”

Gazing into the horizon, the White Lion sang softly:

“The one I love,

has crossed over mountains high;

The one I weep for,

has forded countless streams;

I cry,

but he does not look back at me;

I want to find him,

but his path I can no longer trace.

…”

This was a woman’s love song, yet the White Lion sang it.

The White Lion’s song was haunting, poignant, and sorrowful, drawing birds to circle above and sheep and cattle to stop and listen.

Only someone who has experienced profound sadness could sing such a ballad.

When the song ended, the White Lion said softly to Erhulan, “If you miss him, go find him.”

“But,” Erhulan stopped crying, only to sob softly, “what about the fire-tender?”

“It’s alright.” The White Lion embraced his sister, tenderly fixing her hair, “Big brother will always find a way.”

…

Little Lion escorted Winters all the way to the banks of the Styx.

He first took Winters to pay respects to Strong Fortune.

Strong Fortune rested on a beautiful little hill, with slopes blooming with red and blue flowers.

There was no tombstone, Little Lion had only driven a stake into the ground when he buried Strong Fortune, with a few simple cuts depicting a steed.

Gently touching the wooden stake as if he were caressing Strong Fortune’s neck and mane, Winters felt a connection.

He had no tears left, as ever since he had regained consciousness, he had not cried once, not even a single time.

Not even when Brother Reed passed away, nor at the farewell with Erhulan.

It was as though his ability to cry had been utterly stripped away.

Little Lion and his guards, carrying sheepskin bags and a frame, quickly prepared the sheepskin raft.

Two guards went back and forth to ensure the raft was usable, then returned to report to Little Lion.

The horses were the first to be sent across to the East Bank of the Styx, followed by Xial.

Little Lion accompanied Winters, finally reaching the East Bank of the Styx.

“By the way,” Little Lion asked curiously, “I only know to call you Batu, but I still don’t know your real name.”

“My name is… the Deep Winter of the Mountains.”

“Is ‘Mountains’ your surname?” Little Lion burst into laughter, slapping his hands together, “My father’s tribe is called ‘Wenduoer,’ which also means mountains, high mountains.”

Everything had been transported to the East Bank, the horses, food.

“You won’t get lost, will you?” Little Lion asked Winters with a smile, “The grasslands offer no direction, it’s easy to lose your way.”

“I have this.” Winters pulled out Colonel Jeska’s map, “I won’t get lost.”

“That’s good then.”

“Take this,” Winters took out another roll, tossing it to Little Lion, “you might find it useful.”

“What is it?”

“A map, one I’ve drawn,” Winters said quietly, “of the great grasslands.”

“Great! Thank you!” Little Lion laughed heartily, “Go on then, Deep Winter of the Mountains, head home.”

His farewell was both reluctant and firm, “Never come back!”

Winters flicked the reins and galloped off, with Xial following closely behind.

One hundred and sixty-four wooden spikes were meticulously stored in the deepest part of his bag.