Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 787 - 67 Gemini_2

Chapter 787: Chapter 67 Gemini_2 Chapter 787: Chapter 67 Gemini_2 With his left arm, Winters trapped the spear shaft and slanted his cut toward the opponent’s neck, which was bent down and wrapped in a leather gorget.

His saber was blunted, so the cut, which should have been fatal, was stopped by the tough leather gorget. Still, the blunt force of the blow struck the foe hard enough to see stars.

Unable to use his saber effectively, Winters drove the dulled blade into the opponent’s chest. As he did so, he felt no emotion.

Instinctively, the enemy grabbed the blade and screamed as he fell from the saddle.

Winters let go of the saber and picked up the enemy’s long spear instead. Using Spell to kill might have been faster, but the night was far from over, and he needed to conserve his magic power.

The Terdun Cavalry had already realized that this armored warrior was extraordinarily brave, and no one dared to confront him anymore.

In the chaos of battle, Winters saw a cluster of swaying red feathers. He gripped the long spear and jabbed at the horse’s ribs, charging straight toward the red feathers.

...

The people of Terdun, who were in his way, fled for their lives, not daring to stand in his path.

The one with the red feathers realized he was alone with the fearsome armored warrior and didn’t hesitate to spur his horse into a run.

Seeing this, the will of the Terdun people wavered, and they too withdrew from the melee, riding off in all directions.

Winters spurred on his warhorse, continuing the pursuit. Just then, the Dan-black warhorse with a white star on its forehead let out a heartrending neigh.

The horse’s front legs could no longer support its body, and with a “thump”, it knelt down, its chest harshly slamming into the ground. Its body slid forward a short distance due to inertia, immediately staining the contact area with blood.

It was as if the ground suddenly collapsed beneath him; Winters sank down and was then thrown from the saddle.

The world spun as he tumbled several times before coming to a stop. Warmth trickled down his forehead into his ears, a buzzing filled his skull, and pain throbbed everywhere—shoulders, arms, neck…

Struggling to his feet, Winters saw his horse lying on the ground, mouth open, hooves twitching slightly, and looking at him with sad eyes, almost as if to say, “I can go no further.”

The red feather, having fled a distance, saw Paratu’s armored warrior fall and was overjoyed. He loudly shouted and blew his whistle, ordering his men to return.

Nearly half of the fleeing Terdun Cavalry regained their spirits and turned their horses to come back to the fight.

Leaning on his long spear, Winters struggled to his horse’s side. He hadn’t named this warhorse, and his emotions were hidden beneath his helmet, unknown whether he was crying, enraged, sorrowful, or numb.

The battlefield doesn’t need a person with feelings; feelings make one appear weak. It needs a numb, heartless, armored killing machine.

The Cavalry of Iron Peak County, realizing Winters was in danger, abandoned their current foes and rushed over to protect him, risking their lives.

The people of Terdun, seeing this unfold, became even more convinced that the downed knight was someone of high rank, and they desperately whipped their mounts to attack Winters.

Arrows accompanied by whistling sounds flew toward him, either falling into the dirt or ricocheting off armor.

Winters no longer looked at his horse. Clenching the long spear tightly, he rested it on his knee and with a forceful push, snapped it in two.

The red feather wondered why on earth the opponent would break the long spear, and then saw something flash by in a blur.

Pain came to the red feather slower than the realization, a crushing agony as if a bone club had slammed into his chest.

The red feather too fell from his horse.

What the surrounding Terdun people saw was the knight breaking the long spear and throwing the upper half with unbelievable force, knocking their leader Kota to the ground.

More hoofbeats were approaching from afar—the likes of Xial, Tamas, and others who had lagged behind were reaching the battlefield one after another.

Nothing could impede the terrible rout of the Terdun forces now. They hunched over their horses and fled like startled birds from this field of death.

Before losing consciousness, the red feather’s last vision was of the knight approaching with the other half of the long spear, speaking words he couldn’t understand.

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What Winters actually said was, “Now it’s just you and me.”

After crushing this strong force of Terdun centurions, Winters paused briefly to regather his scattered men.

Tamas brought Winters another chestnut warhorse.

“Leave the wounded.” Winters mounted, his voice cold and clear, “Signal the other side to come for them and clean up the battlefield.”

“Yes.”

After a brief rest and changing horses, the cavalry once again charged toward where the enemy was.

…

Iron Peak County, Revodan, Mitchell Manor.

In front of the house at Mitchell Manor, many iron pots were set up, bubbling and boiling with something inside.

Inside the house, it almost transformed into a tailor’s workshop as women cut undyed hemp and cotton fabric into strips.

Behind the house, numerous clotheslines were set up, and the strips of boiled fabric fluttered in the wind like tassels on clothing.

Tying her hair with a scarf like a married lady, Anna oversaw everything inside and outside the manor—as well as three other similarly sized “workshops.”

“Mrs. Montaigne, we’re running out of firewood!” A little girl with her hair and cheeks smeared with ash ran over to Anna in a panic.

The girl was likely rubbing her eyes because ashes had gotten into them while she spoke.

“Don’t rush, speak slowly,” Anna said as she took the girl aside, delicately wiping her with a handkerchief and patiently asked, “How could that happen? Didn’t Captain Mason bring two carts last night?”

Indeed, Captain Mason had sent two carts of firewood last night, but women working here had secretly taken some home.

Each person only took a handful, but with everyone taking a little, it wasn’t enough for today’s work.

The girl didn’t dare to say, but Anna, with her keen mind, roughly figured out what had happened.

“They didn’t dare to come to me and sent you instead, right?” Anna asked gently.

The little girl nodded.

“It’s not your fault,” Anna said as she patted the girl’s head. “Go back. I’ll handle it.”

Obediently, the girl walked away.

Recently, Revodan had also been trying to implement a system of gender-segregated camps, but progress was not smooth. In Winters’ absence, Mason couldn’t suppress the local gentry and merchants.

With no other choice, Mason had to settle for a less comprehensive implementation of gender segregation, applying it only among the families that came for shelter.

Thus, residences like Mrs. Mitchell’s and the Navarre sisters became home to many women and girls.

Just as Anna thought of Mason, he walked into the yard from outside.

“Mr. Mason,” Anna curtsied in greeting.

“Lady Montaigne,” Mason removed his cap.

“Is there news of Winters…” Anna’s eyes brightened with hope as she asked, but feeling shy to speak his name directly, she corrected herself, “Do you have news of Mr. Montaigne?”

“I’m sorry, no,” Mason shook his head with a trace of regret.

There was news, but “No word from Winters since he crossed the river for battle” was something Mason couldn’t bring himself to say. He’d rather wait until he had definite information.

Anna’s expression dimmed slightly as she politely requested, “If there’s any news, please inform me right away. Whether it’s good or bad.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Mason answered, his voice betraying unease, and he shifted the subject. “How about Mrs. Mitchell and Miss Catherine?”

Anna felt a twinge of fatigue—the man had departed and since then, there had been no word from him although geographically close, not even a letter.

She maintained a strained smile, “They are preparing for another fundraiser.”

“You are truly a great help to us,” Mason sincerely praised, lavish in his compliments, “If the troops were in charge of preparations, who knows how long it would take and the quality would be uneven. Clean bandages like these, packed three to a bundle, are unheard of.”

“We’re only doing what we can.”

“Is there anything I can assist you with?”

“There are a few matters,” Anna perked up, stepping back into the role of Lady Montaigne, “What restricts this little ‘shop’ now is not manpower, but rather supplies and tools. We need more pots—four iron pots are no longer sufficient—and more firewood. The same goes for materials; donated fabrics are limited and relying on them is not sustainable…”

Mason took out a notebook, listening and noting, nodding frequently.

“That’s all for the moment,” Anna stated as she held the hem of her dress, curtsying slightly, “I appreciate your attention, Mr. Mason.”

With respect, Mason returned the gesture, “It’s my duty to help. The fabric might be a bit tricky, but pots and firewood are an easy fix; I’ll send a few carts your way first.”

With nothing else to discuss, Mason took his leave.

Anna gazed towards the horizon, her thoughts drifting far away to the south.

“Winters, where are you?” she wondered.