By dawn the next day, after their rest, Lester Liew's unit set out once more. Only then did the rest of the grain transport teams arrive at the post house, soaked and battered.
As the teams crossed paths, Lester couldn't help but ask a fellow porter in the trailing group what had happened to leave them in such a sorry state.
The porter replied that their commander was a kind-hearted man. When the rain started, he had immediately ordered the team to stop and take shelter by the roadside, thinking it would pass within half an hour.
But not only did the rain not stop, it intensified.
The oilcloths meant to shield the grain wagons were flapping wildly in the wind, and it was only then that their commander realized the severity of the situation. He hurriedly ordered them to push forward through the downpour.
However, by then, the road had already been churned into a muddy mess by Lester's team, who had passed earlier. Following that path had turned into a nightmare.
One misstep, and both man and horse could tumble.
Seeing how difficult it was to move forward, their commander had ordered the team to stop again—to use everything at their disposal, including the tarps, raincoats, and even their own bodies, to shield the sacks of grain from the rain.
And so, the entire group had stood in the storm, soaked to the bone, for the whole night.
Their clothes were drenched, and with no shelter or fire, they'd endured the cold rain without warmth.
By morning, although the rain had stopped, the firewood was soaked through. They couldn't light a fire even if they tried. Hungry and miserable, they finally staggered into the post house, half dead from exhaustion.
Hearing the man's tearful account, Lester winced in sympathetic pain.
He glanced up at the towering figure on horseback ahead—Officer Rex. For the first time, that harsh back seemed a little more imposing, maybe even admirable.
Between prolonged suffering and short-term pain, anyone would choose the latter.
A smart commander might be fierce—but that was better than following a fool.
Before parting, Lester gave the porter a half-round flatbread that his group had baked that morning. It was still warm.
The man was visibly touched. "Brother, you're actually pretty decent."
Lester patted his shoulder, then turned and caught up with his own group, continuing toward the frontlines.
The heavy rain had left lingering consequences. The roads were slick and treacherous. Just as soon as they cleared mud from the wheels, it caked up again.
Officer Rex grew increasingly irritable. No matter how careful Lester was, he still ended up getting whipped on the backside. The pain nearly made his soul leave his body.
The strange thing was, when the group stopped to rest that night, he asked a teammate to check if the lash had broken skin. To his surprise, the man reported, "Nope. Just a big bruise."
"How's that possible?" Lester groaned. "It feels like my skin split open!"
The man shrugged. "Really. Your skin's fine."
Impatient, he yanked Lester's trousers back up. "No one wants to be staring at a guy's ass anyway."
Lester clutched his rear, wanting to rub it but too afraid to touch it. He muttered that all soldiers must be crazy—how could someone be that skilled with a whip?
Just as he was about to sneak in a moment of rest, a messenger soldier appeared again.
Startled, Lester shot upright, standing ramrod straight—just like how Clara trained Adam and Ben to stand at attention. In contrast to his slouching teammates, he looked absurdly disciplined.
The soldier shouted, "After tonight, we'll be crossing Darkmoon Gate. Once past it, we'll be in contested territory—where the Sheng Kingdom faces off with the enemy! The enemy could strike at any moment!"
"Ready your weapons. Once we crossed the Gate, if we're ambushed—you fight!"
"Any cowardice or desertion will result in group punishment and military execution. We'll purge your entire clan!"
After relaying Officer Rex's words, the ten soldiers pulled out the roster for a final roll call before crossing the border—also meant as a psychological warning.
On that list were their names, hometowns, number of family members, and clan records—every detail noted. No one could harbor fantasies of slipping away unnoticed.
Each wagon had six porters. Twenty wagons meant one hundred and twenty men.
Lester recalled the battered teams they'd passed on the road—many porters had collapsed and never risen again. Others had tried to escape, only to be dragged back and executed on the spot. A shiver ran down his spine.
But compared to the terrifying woman he had back home, the battlefield didn't seem quite as bad.
The final roll call: all 120 men accounted for.
Lester exchanged glances with his team. Given all the wailing from the trailing groups, it was almost unbelievable that not a single person had died.
That night, Lester fell asleep hugging his homemade wooden saber.
In his dream, their supply team was ambushed. A savage soldier, blade dripping with blood, raised his sword to strike him down. Lester jolted awake in terror—
Only to find himself in a dream within a dream.
There stood Adam, Ben, Chad, and Deb, all staring at him in concern.
Behind them, Clara stood with arms crossed, smirking coldly. "Another nightmare?"
Lester nodded frantically. Seeing the warm candlelight and the cozy room, he realized the grain run must be over.
He rushed to say, "Wife, I was wrong. I truly understand now. I'll study hard from now on. Please don't be angry anymore…"
"Lester Liew!"
A sudden shout shattered the illusion.
The warm home, the worried children, Clara's stern voice—vanished into mist.
Lester bolted upright, face-to-face with a dark, grimy teammate.
"It's time. We're crossing Darkmoon Gate."
The man eyed him up and down. "Dreaming about your wife again?"
Wiping cold sweat from his brow, Lester murmured, "Yeah…"
He glanced up. The fortress of Darkmoon Gate loomed just ahead.
He really hadn't wanted to wake up. In that dream, everything was already over. But in reality—it was just beginning.
Lester trudged along, spirit deflated. He kept to himself, silently chewing through dry rations as the team rolled out once more.
Surprisingly, Officer Rex didn't rush them that day. He even told them to slow down.
But just half an hour after crossing the pass, something felt wrong.
The group was ordered to halt, and two scouts were dispatched ahead.
An hour later, they returned and whispered in Officer Rex's ear. No one else could hear what was said, but the officer's face darkened noticeably.
Then came another order: rest for an hour before moving again.
Lester and the rest of the porters were puzzled by the strange behavior.
Two hours later, they came across a grain transport team that had crossed the pass before them.
The wagons were there. The grain was there.
But most of the people were dead. Over a dozen horses had collapsed as well.
The area was in utter chaos—clear signs of a fierce battle.
Only now did Lester's team realize: they had narrowly avoided an ambush.
The opposing team's commander rushed toward Officer Rex the moment he saw him.
An arrow was still embedded in the man's arm—only the tail had been hacked off. He had no time to treat himself. Seeing Rex, he begged for reinforcements to help finish the grain delivery.
Whatever deal they made privately, Officer Rex agreed to help—but only to escort them. The injured team would have to find their own manpower and horses to finish their grain delivery.
(End of Chapter)
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