Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 565 - 106 Blood Wolf_4

Chapter 565: Chapter 106: Blood Wolf_4 Chapter 565: Chapter 106: Blood Wolf_4 Sekler gave up trying, he sat in the chair, quietly waiting for the other to arrive.

The sounds of shouting and clashing weapons grew louder, first at the main entrance on the ground floor, then the staircase, and then the hallway.

Eventually, Sekler’s door was kicked open forcefully, and a Venetian, looking like a Blood Man, walked into the room carrying a rolled-edge saber.

His uniform was covered in bloodstains, it was unclear whether it was his own or someone else’s. Dark red liquid dripped steadily from his saber, leaving a trail of blood from outside the room.

Winters spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, suddenly starting to cough violently.

“You’ve come,” Sekler gestured with his hand, “Please, take a seat.”

Winters threw away the rolled-edge weapon and sat heroically in front of Sekler.

...

By the dim candlelight, they looked at each other.

“This is Mihali, not even twenty years old, a grenade fell by my side, and he used his body to cover it. I lived, he died…” Winters took out a wooden peg and placed it in front of Sekler.

He took out another peg: “This is Tomas, from Saint Town, his skull shattered by a sledgehammer. He didn’t die immediately, instead he struggled in agony for over ten minutes before he died.”

In Winters’s backpack, there were a total of one hundred and sixty-four wooden pegs, representing his one hundred and sixty-four warriors.

They trusted him, followed him, protected him, they fought bravely all the way, leaving their lives in unnamed corners of the Great Wilderness, ultimately being abandoned on the western bank of the Styx.

“You don’t care about them,” Winters’s voice betrayed no sadness or anger, he seemed to be making a judgment from the perspective of an outsider, “You don’t care about them.”

Sekler sighed, “If there were another chance, I would make the same decision, because…”

“Don’t say anymore,” Winters interrupted Sekler, his words surprising, “I can understand you.”

Sekler’s eyebrows raised slightly.

“If I were you, would I make the same decision? I don’t know,” Winters asked himself coldly, “Who knows?”

Sekler shook his head with a bitter smile, a glint of light in his eyes: “This country…”

The next second, his head was suddenly torn apart by an invisible force, red and white splattered on the walls and ceiling of the room.

“I understand you,” Winters released his fist, speaking toward the spot where Sekler’s head had been, “But I am still very angry.”

Sekler was dead, whether he was a great man or a pretender, he was dead. Whatever thoughts he had were now dissipated with the wind.

Was it all over just like that?

Winters felt a sense of unreality.

He had carved one hundred and sixty-four wooden pegs with the most resolute hatred; he had intended to use these pegs to nail his enemy to his death, but in the end, he still gave Sekler an easy death.

Was it really over?

From the moment he was abandoned on the western bank of the Styx, from when he cried and cursed out “fuck it” with laughter, from when he regained consciousness, he had been longing for revenge.

This feeling took him away from Erhulan’s side, from the Hurd wilderness, leading him all the way to Kingsfort.

So what if Sekler was killed? The dead cannot be brought back to life — he understood this well, but he had no option to forgive.

“It’s over now,” he thought.

He didn’t cry his heart out, nor did he feel the gratification of having his revenge, only mild calm and endless fatigue.

Suddenly, Winters felt lost: What should I do? Where should I go? Where could I even go?

Go home!

I still have a home to return to!

There are people waiting for me at home!

With hope reigniting in his cold chest, Winters stumbled toward the doorway.

He could go home, he must go home.

In the distance, the noise of people and the neighing of warhorses suggested someone had noticed the commotion at the old army headquarters and sent reinforcements.

But it didn’t matter, Winters Montagne wanted to go home, and no one could stop him.

…

The darkness of night gradually receded, and the sky began to turn a deep blue.

Outside Kingsfort, one kilometer to the southwest.

Xial stood on a large rock, gazing out the road leaving the city, anxiously waiting.

As the sky grew brighter, Xial could no longer bear the wait: “I’m going to find my brother.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gold said weakly.

“You’re almost dead, how can you go? Stay here,” Xial said, climbing onto the saddle, “If I don’t come back as well, you head to Wolf Town, recover from your injuries, then return to Vineta.”

Gold too wanted to mount his horse: “I’m lucky, I’ll go with you, it’s okay.”

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“No need,” tears spilled from Xial’s eyes: “My brother is coming back.”

A rider came toward them, backlit by the rising sun.

Xial shouted, jumping up and waving vigorously.

Even Gold secretly wiped away tears.

It wasn’t until Winters approached that Xial could see the bloodstains and external injuries on Winters.

“Brother, what happened to you?” Xial helped Winters dismount, his voice filled with sobs, “Why are there gunshot wounds?”

“It couldn’t be helped.” Winters smiled for the first time since the bloody battle at the bank of the Styx, and he said, “It’s just a stray bullet, a flesh wound. Deflection Spell doesn’t guard the back.”

“Don’t move, sit down. I’ll treat your wounds,” Xial said, choking back sobs as he rummaged through the saddlebag for a sewing kit.

“Let’s go home.”

“Alright.”

“But first,” Winters grimaced in pain, “we need to stop by Wolf Town.”