"Hehehe——"

The crowing rooster announced the time with a loud call, as the oppressive wind made the red and black banners sway side to side.

It had been five scorching sunny days since the Salvation Army captured Monkulus Manor, finally ushering in a humid and oppressive overcast day.

The sauna-like heat swept over this small fortress, and as usual, the construction site was a scene of bustling activity, with increasingly irritable brigade commanders.

"I'll █ your kin's ▇! The template is set! The frame is up! Where's my mortar? Where the hell is my mortar?!!!"

"You said it would start at 9, and now it's 12 and the mortar hasn't arrived, and you tell me they're gone?!"

"What the █ are you eating for, get to work quickly, finish this and I'll treat you to meat tonight!"

After two days of material transportation and three days of construction, the fortress's outline was gradually taking shape.

After hurriedly finishing the task, the bitter Holy Gunners continued cementing, while the sappers and locals finally could have a lunch break at two in the afternoon.

After these days of working together, and as fellow Langsande County people, the sappers and villagers were getting increasingly familiar with each other.

Hiding under a cool shelter, eating raw cabbage and rice mush, they sat cross-legged and chatted as usual.

"Do you really get 3 dinars every day?"

A local villager curiously asked the limping old sapper beside him, eyes filled with disbelief.

"3 dinars is nothing, I used to get 4 dinars a day in the legion, and after battles, I got 2 gold pounds in loot!" With a crooked smile, the limping old sapper swallowed the rice mush and raised two fingers.

In fact, the sapper's daily wage was 1 dinar, but the limping old sapper had alchemy skills for mortar reinforcement, receiving a 1 dinar allowance, and as a retired veteran, he got another 1 dinar stipend daily.

This resulted in the limping old sapper's daily income being six times that of the local villagers, while the ordinary sappers earned twice as much as the villagers.

"Is it really that good?" The young villager looked envious.

"Our lives are much better than here." Another sapper chuckled as he ate.

"Humph, liar, if you had that money, why work as a sapper?" An old farmer holding a wooden bowl snorted disdainfully, "Ruled by heretics, and you call it a good life."

"I work as a sapper to fight demons, besides, not earning money is foolish." The old sapper patted his belly, "Do I look like someone suffering? But you, you're as thin as a stick."

"The Master Knights say the Salvation Army is heretical, the enemies of our true faith." A local villager still expressed doubt.

"Who told you that? Those Master Knights are the greedy devils oppressing you, taking your land and grain." A sapper retorted.

"But the Church says..." The villager continued stubbornly.

"The Saint's Grandson said the real heretical devils exploit believers in the name of the Holy Father." The sapper said seriously, "The fact is, the Church is exploiting believers!"

"What do you mean by exploitation?" The old farmer retorted, "You're saying I'm being exploited? I don't feel exploited at all."

The retired limping old sapper sneered; they had discussed this topic back when they were doing group confessions with the Saint Father Order Monks on Autumn Dusk Island.

"Remember the Celestial Kingdom dream you sang these days?"

"Of course, why?"

"In the Celestial Kingdom dream, there's a line about growing your own food, more work means more harvest, do you agree?"

The old farmer immediately replied, "Of course, it's only natural, do you need to say it?"

"Then let me ask you, does the lord grow his own food? Does he work? Why does he get your harvest?"

The old farmer opened his mouth several times but couldn't utter a word.

Instead, an Armed Farmer beside him jumped out: "The lord protects us, that's his work."

"Did he protect you? Then why are you in the hands of us 'heretics'?" Griz, who had been listening for a while, stood up, his gaze as sharp as a longsword.

The limping old sapper added in agreement, "Protection should ensure your safety, yet they're slaughtering you, how is that protection?"

"Even if they can protect you, don't you think they're taking too much? Hiring a mercenary costs less than 4 gold pounds a year. A knight takes 20 to 30 gold pounds a year and still wants you to serve in the military to protect yourselves." Griz continued to land blows.

Several Armed Farmers were immediately left speechless, and a few village heads looked at them in surprise, no wonder he's called a War Monk, he's as eloquent as a Master Monk.

"I don't care, you're heretics, that's what the Master Bishop said." The old farmer, though the lowest-level Public Register Farmer, still jumped up and shouted.

"The Thousand River Valley Bishop is a devil, and even the Holy Father said so!" The limping old sapper slapped the ground fiercely, roaring with pity and anger, "Those nobles and knights have even done things like brewing wine from children, and you still defend them?"

It was fine not mentioning this, but as soon as it was mentioned, the old farmer, for some reason, stood up from the ground, driven mad by anger.

He violently threw his rice mush to the ground, his whole body trembling, eyes wide open, and hoarsely shouted, "You, you... nonsense, you're spouting nonsense!"

Rolling up his sleeves, the old farmer charged fiercely at the limping old sapper, "That's a rumor, made up by you!"

But fueled with fury or not, against a veteran tempered by the battlefield, he was nothing more than a small fry.

Despite having a lame leg, the limping old sapper was still agile; he pushed off the ground to jump up, shifted sideways, and used his lame leg to trip the old farmer.

The old farmer lost his balance, flopping face down to the ground, blood streaming from his nose and scraped lips, mixing with the dirt sticking to his chin.

He supported himself to climb up, reddened eyes wanting to fight back, but the limping old sapper assumed a fighting stance.

But before they could fight, Decrama rushed over, eager enough to tattoo urgency on his forehead.

"Decrama Steward..."

"Slap!"

Without a word, Decrama gave two slaps, angrily shouting, "You've lost your mind, daring to hit the lord, do you know what freedom and equality are? Kneel and apologize to the lord."

Over this period of observation, Decrama could identify who the War Monk lord was.

Anyone wearing an iron gear pendant, with some small disability but a straight posture and upright walking posture, was a War Monk lord.

The old farmer stood with his mouth agape, bright red handprints on his face, frozen in place.

"What are you waiting for? Apologize!"

"No need." The limping old sapper frowned at Decrama, then said earnestly to the old farmer, "Seeing is believing, hearing is deceiving, why not come see for yourself?"

The old farmer looked desolately at the limping old sapper, said nothing more.

He went back to his spot, crouched down with his head lowered, picked up the dust-covered rice mush with his hands, and ate it greedily.

"Hey? Told to apologize, and you're just eating!" Decrama became furious, pulled out a rattan stick, and approached, "The lord said it's excused, you really dare to excuse it?"

The limping old sapper helplessly looked at Griz.

Griz got the message and stepped forward, just about to intervene when he heard a sudden urgent whistle.

His expression turned serious, immediately abandoning what he was doing, running out of the shelter, looking around at the sky.

Sure enough, a red smoke column rose from the southeast.

"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"

Just as Griz shouted, a deep horn sounded from within the fortress.

"Southeast, a large cavalry force is approaching!"

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