While the convoy paused to rest, some of the laborers and soldiers from the other unit came over, asking Lester Liew's team for help.
They were all drafted laborers, after all—hard-luck folks pressed into service. And with a few fellow villagers among them, it was a classic case of "eyes welling up when old neighbors meet." Most people would naturally agree to lend a hand.
Seeing his own group softening with the same intention, Lester quickly called the five of them back. "Don't meddle," he urged.
He had a persistent sense of unease, and that grain cart before them was their lifeline. He wasn't about to let it out of his sight.
If anything happened to the military provisions, even if they survived, they'd still be as good as dead.
Who had the luxury of worrying about others in times like this?
Thanks to the sugar-laced water Lester occasionally handed out and the fact that he handled all their meals—always adding an extra pinch of salt—they still trusted him, even if they grumbled that he was being cold. In the end, they stayed put, keeping to their cart in silence.
Naturally, the others started casting judgmental looks at them—tsk-tsking, calling them heartless.
Sensing his teammates getting antsy, Lester casually pulled off his canteen and handed it over. "Thirsty, aren't you? Here, have a sip."
He said it so cheerfully, you'd think he was passing around some fine wine.
Well, maybe not wine, but it was just as precious out here.
That strange-tasting mixture of sugar and saltwater might make you cringe at first sip, but once it hit your stomach, it was like magic—your energy returned and your legs felt stronger.
It was this "secret weapon" that had kept their group in good shape and ahead of schedule, sparing them from the whip.
And it all came from Lester.
With drink in hand and bellies filled, the five teammates couldn't bring themselves to refuse. With no better options, they "reluctantly" chose to stick with him.
When they'd left home, they thought the government would at least feed them during their service, so none of them had prepared food. Just a machete for defense and a couple of coins in case of emergencies.
Some were so poor they didn't even own a decent pair of shoes. When their straw sandals gave out, they had to walk barefoot.
But Lester? Not only did he pack his machete and coins, he'd brought sugar, salt, two pairs of thick-soled shoes, and warm clothes—rain capes and straw hats included.
Nobody knew where he kept it all, either. Back when they were still adjusting to the blistering heat, it had been his sweetened water that kept them going.
Then, at dinner one night, Lester pulled out a small pot and rigged it up on some stones.
If Adam had been here, he would've immediately recognized the pot—custom-forged by the blacksmith in Riverbend Village at Clara's request, specially made for cooking on the go.
Though only about sixteen centimeters in diameter, it was quite deep, giving it decent volume. It was made of thin iron and came with a detachable handle that locked into a groove. When not in use, the handle could be stored inside, along with other soft packing materials—ingenious and compact.
While others gnawed on their days-old dry rations to save effort, Lester made savory veggie pancakes, seasoned with salt and packed with flavor—a far cry from bland gruel.
Especially in the chilly days following the rain, having something warm in your belly was a real morale booster.
And so, with sugar and salt in hand, Lester had quietly become the leader of their group—an "invisible captain," which gave him some leeway to slack off here and there.
Whenever he got too tired to walk, he'd lean against the cart, sneak a foot up onto the back, and let the cart pull him along. The others not only turned a blind eye, but even helped shield him from patrols.
That time he got whipped? Just poor timing—they hadn't covered for him fast enough.
Still, it taught him to be more cautious. Funny thing was… he'd somehow gotten used to it.
Maybe this was what Clara meant by a "glutton for punishment."
The five teammates drained the sugar-salt water and handed him back the empty bamboo flask, resting in the cart's shadow like it could hide them from judging eyes.
Lester gave the flask a shake—bone dry. Not a single drop left for him.
He shot them a look, grumbling to himself, then tucked it away, leaned on his long wooden machete staff, and dozed upright for a bit, all while keeping an eye on the other group's commotion.
Outside the Darkmoon Gate, all he could see were undulating hills covered in grass, with no natural cover in sight.
It baffled him—how could enemy raiders just sneak up on them like that?
While he was still imagining wild scenarios, Officer Rex suddenly shouted an order. All the laborers scrambled back into formation.
"Full speed ahead!"
The grasslands beyond the pass were much easier to travel—wide, flat, and open.
The temperature dropped noticeably as they passed through the gates. Those who had warm clothes swapped into them.
When they came to a river, everyone filled their water flasks to the brim.
Their destination was still 150km away.
That city—Moonwatch City—was their end point, the northernmost stronghold of the Sheng Empire and the last defense along the border.
Moonwatch City was home only to military families. Long before the Sheng Empire was founded, it had been occupied by the nomadic tribes of the Northern Wastes for over thirty years.
Now that Sheng had reclaimed it, those same tribes were unwilling to give up such a fertile grassland, leading to frequent provocations.
Lester suspected the recent skirmishes were likely tied to this vital city.
Before this, as a mere commoner, he had never cared for national affairs.
But this grueling journey had shown him just how vast and varied the empire truly was.
Comparing the prosperous heartlands to the barren wilderness out here, if he were a Northerner, he too might be tempted to march south and seize such rich territory.
He'd overheard older laborers say that even further north lay a range of snow-capped mountains, where frigid winds blew year-round. Farming was impossible, and only herding livestock kept people alive.
If the climate turned against them, Darkmoon Gate would be the first to suffer. The Northerners were fiercer than bandits, raiding at lightning speed—stealing livestock, grain, and people—leaving only scorched earth in their wake.
Their horses were unrivaled. Even three-year-olds knew how to ride. After plundering a border village, they'd vanish like the wind—damn near impossible to catch.
Now, with all that in mind, seeing the long line of grain carts stretching before and behind him, Lester couldn't shake the feeling that those raiders might pounce at any moment.
Still, there were over two hundred of them now, two full grain teams. The Northerners wouldn't dare act too boldly—right?
As night fell, a scout returned with news: ahead lay a small lake, suitable for both teams to set up camp.
Reinvigorated, the laborers quickened their pace, eager to rest at last.
Besides, it was late. The enemy had already struck once. If they were going to come again, they'd have done it by now. Everyone relaxed.
And just then—hoofbeats thundered from the horizon.
Silhouettes surged over the ridgeline like a rolling storm.
Black shapes, cloaked in dusk, hurtled toward them with terrifying speed—
(End of Chapter)
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