Amidst the towering hills, the riverbank trickled through, dampening the grassy roadside.
The original dirt road had been mostly destroyed by the flood, and with every step, the mud sank to the ankles.
Yet even so, countless straw sandals or bare feet stepped into the mud, pushing carts stuck in the mire forward.
Beside them, armored soldiers and night guards, dressed in chainmail, were lazily strolling while joking about which girl in the village was the most charming yesterday.
The man leading this group was none other than Militia Captain Quincy from High Castle City.
Quincy's face was covered with red blotches, and his swollen eyes made it seem like they might pop out at any moment.
At this moment, he sat on a carriage, humming a tune and counting the silver coins in his pocket.
It was already September 25th, and he should have reached the Gulag Monastery by now, but he had only covered two-thirds of the distance.
