Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 530 - 97: Ashes_2

Winters tried to enter a spellcasting state, but intense phantom pain made it impossible for him to concentrate.

Such a situation didn’t surprise him; he had mentally prepared for it through the times he pushed himself to the limit.

Being unable to use magic didn’t mean he would just sit and wait for death.

While the attention of the firekeeper was divided, Winters discreetly took a small knife from the plate and hid it in the palm of his hand.

Considering the condition of his left leg, it was impossible to dodge the opponent’s attack.

Winters was prepared to grab the firekeeper’s arm and stab him in the neck with the knife, opening it up, as they pierced his abdomen.

His only worry was that lying in bed had made his muscles too stiff to mount a counter-attack. So he gently moved his wrists, slowly regaining strength.

Winters hadn’t realized it himself: His mindset had undergone a tremendous shift.

His body had left the battlefield, but his spirit remained there. He considered himself already dead, any exchange would be a gain.

The firekeeper and the strange girl were arguing fiercely.

Winters listened carefully, unable to understand what they were saying, but he could tell that the strange girl was protecting him.

He also heard the girl mention the word "Yahachi."

"Little Lion?" He quickly assessed the situation and concluded, "This must be Red River Tribe territory."

The firekeeper, losing the argument, grabbed the handle of his knife, kicked aside the tent flap, and stormed out in a huff.

The Hurd girl sat back down on the small stool, took up the bowl of milk, and gently blew on it.

As she blew, tears began to fall.

"Why are you crying?" Winters didn’t know what else to say.

"It’s nothing." The Hurd girl wiped away her tears and brought the milk to Winters’ lips, "It’s cool enough to drink now, take some."

Winters raised his stiff arm, anxiously took the bowl of milk, "I can do it myself."

"Okay, you try."

Unable to tell how long he’d been in bed, Winters found his muscles unusually stiff and sore. Half the milk didn’t make it into his mouth but was spilled instead.

The Hurd girl brought a towel to wipe him clean.

Just then, another person entered the felt tent.

The newcomer spoke in the common tongue, albeit with a heavy accent.

They asked with a smile, "Busy, are we?"

When Winters saw the face of the newcomer, his expression gradually became calm, "Is that you?"

"It’s me." The newcomer nodded.

Winters could not mistake him; how could he forget someone who almost killed him?

Even though the other party had grown taller and stronger and was wearing better clothes, the stubbornness inherent in him had not diminished one bit from before.

It was as if a clear glass door in his mind was shattered, awakening Winters: the slave boy in the dim longhouse on Red Sulfur Island, also known as Little Lion—White Lion’s younger brother.

"How should I address you?" Winters simply lay back down.

Little Lion sat cross-legged next to Winters, "Whatever you like, ’hey you,’ ’kid,’ anything is fine."

"Then I’ll call you Little Lion?"

Little Lion scratched the back of his head, "I always feel embarrassed when I hear that name, I’m not worthy of being a lion."

Winters was eager to know the situation outside, "Where am I?"

"Where else could you be? The great plains."

"How many days have I been unconscious?"

"Six days," Little Lion added, "since I found you."

Winters pondered: Six days? Red River Tribe didn’t pursue across the river?

These questions were too sensitive, and he prudently remained silent.

Little Lion pointed at Winters’ abdomen, "You were shot here, the original stitches came loose and we sewed you up again."

He pointed at the back of Winters’ head, "You took a hit to the back of your head too, knocked you unconscious, but the bones are fine."

A blow to the back of the head? Winters had no memory of it.

He tried to remember, but his memories only went up to when he met up with Colonel Bod.

What came after was fragmented and disjointed.

Little Lion tapped Winters’ left shin, "The bone’s broken, trampled by a hoof. We got you the best doctor for this kind of injury. Don’t move around, rest well. Hey, focus on healing first."

"Focus on healing first," those words were ambiguous.

Winters nodded.

No matter what others were thinking, Winters didn’t plan to stay in the wilderness for long. But this was something he needed to know for himself, there was no need to say it out loud and stir up anyone.

"The most amazing thing was here." Little Lion pointed interestedly at Winters’ chest, "You were shot in the chest as well, close-range fire, the armor was completely penetrated."

"Then how am I still alive?" Winters raised an eyebrow.

Little Lion took out an object from his bosom, laughing loudly, "Because of this!"

The object that saved Winters’ life turned out to be the flask given to him by Alpad.

The lead bullet the size of a thumb was broken in half, with the remaining half embedded in the flask. The flask was completely deformed and punctured.

Winters covered his face, "This is just too cliché!"

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

Little Lion’s smile curled up at the edges, "Doesn’t matter, the main thing is it saved your life."

"Where did you get this iron furnace from?" Winters pointed at the Soria furnace.

"This iron furnace is a great thing, specially moved here for your use." Little Lion expressed his excitement, "It saves fuel, has no open flame, and it’s easy to transport. It took twenty sheep to trade for it, a pity there’s only one."

As a Venetian, Winters subconsciously calculated the profit of the trade. He knew all too well how much iron Belon used, even at ten sheep there would be a profit— but the key was the labor cost.