When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist-Chapter 765 - 720: Carriage and Cold Crow

The morning mist had yet to dissipate when Old Laver's carriage rolled over the seventh icy mountain pass.

The wheels slipped on the gravel-strewn slope, and the axle groaned with a whistling sound like a dying man.

Old Laver tilted his ear toward the carriage like a brilliant physician listening to the spasmodic wheezing of the axle.

"This axle won't last much longer." Old Laver gripped the rope tying the goods on the carriage and shouted to the coachman, "We need to stop and fix the axle."

"Are you Captain Bai or Captain Ten?" The coachman in front didn't even turn around, "If we delay, the entire troop convoy has to stop.

If you want a break, wait until we reach Bear Chomping Castle to rest, if you want to slack off, no way!"

Old Laver immediately cursed at the coachman, "You pig-headed fool, do you think I'm kidding? The longer we wait for the carriage to break, the longer it will block the route!"

"Who do you think you are? I'm the coachman!"

"You'll regret it, I'm telling you. I've transported goods down this road before, and those who didn't rest had their axles break. The weather's too cold, iron nails will shrink, and the wood will become brittle, understand?"

"Damn you…"

After several rounds of trading curses with the coachman and receiving a whip from Captain Ten, Old Laver returned to the lineup disgruntled.

Against the snow-covered, bluish-gray mountainside, the pale red dragon blood moss interspersed with the common low green mosses.

And beneath the perilous steep cliffs, a dark gray dragon-shaped line moved slowly along.

The new recruits wore uniform double-breasted wool coats with dog or wolf skin hats atop their heads.

They moved silently and ruggedly like wolfhounds, with only the old horses exhaling warm, moist breaths.

The chilly wind between the mountain passes stung their faces, and those as experienced as Old Laver had already purchased pig or sheep fat to apply on their skin in advance.

The inexperienced new recruits, or those from the plains either had to pay double to buy from them or just tough it out, pressing on with faces full of cracked wounds.

They had been away from home for over half a month; first, they sailed downstream along the Ibe River, then proceeded to Rapids City, before transferring to the Nao'an River.

Then they traveled upstream along the Nao'an River and were towed by trackers across the rapid Gorge River.

Continuing north from Horn's home in Shangruifo County, they arrived at the borders of Thorn Garden, Shattered Stone Plain, and Thousand River Valley.

They faced formidable mountains and increasingly cold air.

As he stepped on the creaking frozen soil, Old Laver could see the carriage wheels sway more and more.

It struggled to support itself, clenching stubbornly onto the axle, but was inevitably loosening.

Finally, while crossing the ninth pass, the axle gave out completely, cracking with a snapping sound that even startled the snow owl from the rock crevices.

"Oh, damn!" The coachman jumped down from the carriage, stared blankly at the wheel wedged in the ice crevice.

Though the broken axle was nothing, the immense pressure had pinned the wheel into the frozen ground crevice.

"Oh, damn!" Old Laver cynically imitated the coachman's exclamation.

But the coachman had no mood for another argument, and, in this freezing weather, was sweating profusely, "What do we do? What do we do?"

"What the hell is going on... Damn it, what's wrong with this wheel?!"

Captain Ten, who arrived quickly, had no solution other than to give the coachman a few whips.

"You guys, get the shovels and picks off the carriage."

A few eager recruits immediately stepped forward and took the shovels and picks from under the oilcloth, straightened their backs, bent down, and swung the picks high and then down.

"Clang——" To everyone's stunned amazement, the picks struck the frozen ground and emitted a metallic sound.

After several strikes, not only did the wheel not budge, but the hands of a few soldiers went numb from the vibrations.

By then, the convoy behind them had also arrived.

"Hey, what's going on up front? Why aren't we moving?"

"The axle's broken, the wheel's stuck in the ice crevice!"

"But we need to keep moving; what are you doing, can you make way for us?"

"Stop arguing, there's hardly enough space, do you expect us to fly?"

A young recruit, apparently full of vigor, reached out to grab the wheel hub but was pulled back by Old Laver: "What do you think you're doing?"

"Getting the wheel out, we can't just block the way, can we?"

"If you want to lose a layer of skin, go ahead!" Old Laver yanked the recruit back roughly.

This recruit was about the same age as Little Laver, but Old Laver wasn't without a temper, and if he insisted on doing something rash, Old Laver wouldn't stop him.

I didn't expect this young man to be so obedient. He retracted his hand: "Then why don't you tell me what to do?"

The coachman, as if seeing a lifeline, stepped forward: "Old brother, it's my fault, I was short-sighted. If you have a solution, please suggest it. This delay affects the entire team's progress, and I can't bear the responsibility alone."

Seeing the coachman's admission of fault, Old Laver nodded in satisfaction: "If you want the wheel to come out, you have to use hot spring water to thaw the frozen ground."

"Old brother, stop joking. It's so cold in these mountains. Where am I supposed to find hot spring water for you?"

"Don't worry, who said we don't have hot spring water?" As Old Laver spoke, he started undoing his belt.

Golden warm liquid poured onto the wheel, and wisps of dreamy, hazy white mist rose, obscuring the recruits' view.

People stared in shock at this robust mountain man, until the ice began to crack with a stench.

"Holy Father above!"

As dozens of strong young men's hot urine was poured on, though the carriage carried a stench of urine, the convoy finally moved forward again.

When they finally crossed the pass, the endless Shattered Stone Plain seemed to suddenly pop into their view, glaringly entering their sights.

Clusters of grass, sporadic puddles, stones large and small, and cold crows filling the sky.

Shepherds dressed in animal skins and wool stood on the hills, watching them alertly yet peacefully.

"Clang——"

At the boundary between the foothills and the plains, the bronze bell on the watchtower suddenly boomed, startling the old horse pulling the cart into raising its front hooves.

"We're here!"

Old Laver lifted his head.

Hexagonal low walls and the central fortress displayed eight three-pound falcon cannons.

The cold wind in the mountain pass blew over the massive windmill blades on the slope, and Old Laver occasionally heard the creaking sound of gears turning.

The cold wind howled, the horses neighed, and the recruits, frozen stiff, oddly felt the first breeze they encountered on the plain carried a hint of warmth.

The long convoy slowly entered this mountain pass and immediately bundled into a mass, stirring the once calm air into turbulence.

The horses neighed, causing the sheep on the distant hills to bleat in response.

New recruits piled up in front of the ironwood gate, unable to find their respective groups.

They craned their necks, looking around, shouting loudly for their team leaders' names.

But everyone was shouting, so no one could hear anything.

Several officers in padded coats, exasperated, waved cane sticks as they paced the grass in front of the bastion, organizing order and ranks.

"You maggots! Stand still, stand still! What kind of War Monk do you look like, stand still! I'm talking to you!"

"Line up in two rows! Hold the damn recommendation letter above your head!"

In front of these rough officers, even Old Laver, usually defiant of authority, shrunk his head low, holding the recommendation letter above his head.

He rubbed the edges of the recommendation letter — where Brother Ansel had sketched the holy emblem with a wax seal.

"Name!"

"Laver de Hunt."

The registrar's writing hand paused: "De?"

"My grandfather's grandfather..."

"The Duke Hemashi's coachman?" The quartermaster suddenly cut in, the cane sparking on the frozen ground, "There were already six of the Duke's coachmen before you, record him as Laver Hunter, next!"

Withdrawing his hand, grabbing the blanket allocated to him, Old Laver adjusted the wolf-hunting bow on his back and was about to walk into the bastion.

Suddenly, the crowd became agitated, as if something had happened in the distance.

"Holy Father!"

"Is that the Shepherd?"

"Let me into the bastion, let me into the bastion!"

"Mama!"

Several officers clumsily swam through the crowd, agitated, whipping with their cane sticks, loudly questioning: "What happened? Why don't you spit it out!"

The recruit who earlier tried to grab the wheel suddenly grabbed Old Laver's arm:

"Old uncle, look over there!"