Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

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Winters went to see the messenger from the New Reclamation Legion.

Tang Juan warmly embraced Senior Mason's shoulders in the conference room. "Senior, our infantry and artillery are inseparable; we should drink together more often in the future."

Mason and Winters had a close relationship, and Juan had fought alongside Winters, who was also his direct senior.

But Tang Juan and Richard Mason weren't really familiar with each other.

Mason was from the artillery branch, while Juan was from the infantry; the two were only related as alumni.

Moreover, with Juan's naturally awkward disposition and his reluctance to get close to others, it couldn't be said that they were particularly friendly toward each other.

Juan's sudden warmth caught Mason off guard, and he could only nod repeatedly.

Juan joked, "Why don't you count, there are three from the cavalry branch, and just like that, cavalry occupies three votes. We from the infantry and artillery must unite to gather three votes and form a strategic balance with them."

Mason returned to his gloomy demeanor, nodding absentmindedly.

"Got a trouble weighing on your mind? Want me to share your worries?"

"Sigh," Mason showed a bitter smile, "It's nothing."

"What's wrong? Come on, tell me."

"I found time to visit the ranch today."

"The ranch?" Juan frowned slightly. "And then?"

"Damn Ronald!" Mason's voice trembled with sorrow and rage that he could no longer contain, and he cursed while slamming the table, "He slaughtered all the breeding pigs that I raised with all my heart and effort!"

...

In the garrison's prison, Winters met the messenger from the New Reclamation Legion.

To his surprise, the messenger turned out to be a staff officer.

The man was leaning against the wall, dozing off as if he was not in a damp and dark prison, but just napping in his living room at home.

Upon seeing Winters, the officer greeted him with composure, "Good day, Captain Montaigne."

Winters had never seen the man, and presumably the officer had never seen him either.

"And how should I address you?" Winters asked in return.

"Stiebel Zoltan, Major," replied Major Stiebel with a smile, "No need for salutes, or I'd have to return it."

Winters nodded.

"Did you receive the headquarters' documents?" Major Stiebel shifted to a more comfortable position.

"I did."

"Good, even though I didn't personally hand them to you, my mission is accomplished," Stiebel said with a smile, "So what's your response?"

Winters pulled a chair over and sat down, replying succinctly, "No handover."

"Captain Montaigne," Major Stiebel brushed dust off his trousers, asking unhurriedly, "Do you aspire to be a warlord?"

"Warlord? A warlord carves out territory, exploits the people, gambles on opportunities. I've no desire to become a warlord," Winters scoffed, "In the Newly Reclaimed Lands, isn't Kevin Adams the biggest warlord?"

The air in the cell grew three degrees colder.

"Regardless, General Adams has maintained order in the Newly Reclaimed Lands Province; he didn't let the flames of war spread to the Newly Reclaimed Land." Stiebel sighed, "Do you think the people of the Newly Reclaimed Lands are suffering miserably? You should take a look at both shores of the Ashen Stream River—those were once Paratu's most fertile lands; you would know what hell on earth is."

Winters did not respond.

"General Adams is recruiting refugees to clear the land; he's pushing things in a positive direction," Major Stiebel stared sternly at Winters, "Pay up your quota, and if you want to play house in Iron Peak County, be my guest."

"Not a single grain of wheat, not a spoonful of flour, I will give," Winters said, locking eyes with the major, "If General Adams wants them, let him come and get them himself."

"General Adams keeps the flames of war out of the Newly Reclaimed Lands, yet you wish to start a raging inferno here," Major Stiebel narrowed his eyes, "Do you realize how many people you'll be killing? The number of people General Adams has killed to date won't even equal a fraction of those you'll end up killing."

"You don't need to tell me this! Without shedding blood, there's no victory. We both know that," Winters said, his gaze still fixed on the major's eyes, "If my men aren't willing to die for me, you'll come to know. And if they are willing, you'll find out just the same. What I'd like to know is, how many are willing to die for General Adams?"

Stiebel let out a laugh mixed with a sigh, "It seems I can't persuade you."

Winters did not speak. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Major Stiebel's left thumb pressing against his ring finger.

Winters's body felt as though plunged into icy water, his every hair standing on end.

Without thinking, he immediately entered a spellcasting state and unleashed a fissure spell with all his might, pouring all his "magic" into Major Stiebel's skull.

With a "bang," Major Stiebel's skull was ripped apart.

Blood and brains splattered all over Winters.

Upon hearing the noise, Moritz burst into the cell.

The sight that met his eyes was unnaturally gruesome: the messenger's skull had been torn to pieces, hanging off his shoulders. The slippery brain was exposed, only half remaining. The man's heart had not yet ceased to beat, with red fluid gushing out in spurts from the severed arteries.

And Winters stood before the corpse, motionless.

"What happened?" Moritz frowned as he approached the body, starting to examine the deceased.

"This man," Winters pondered aloud, "might have been a Spellcaster."

"Reason?" Moritz reached for the hidden pocket on the dead man's coat, trying to find casting materials.

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