Remembering the Past

The morning sun hadn't yet risen, and the air was wonderfully refreshing.

Stepping out after a night of sound sleep and stretching, a gentle breeze carried the slightly astringent scent of distant bitterthorns, making it the most pleasant and comfortable time of day.

But the Gale Wolf tribe was in no mood to enjoy this beauty; they were thoroughly gripped by panic.

The warriors who had set out yesterday hadn't sent back any news since their departure. Only a few stragglers returned in disarray early this morning, trembling as if with malaria and refusing to speak.

Their appearance spoke volumes. News of defeat spread through the tribe like wildfire in winter.

Now, even the women and children knew that the warriors who had gone with the shaman had been defeated. The men were hotly debating whether to flee or wait, but no one could make a definitive choice.

So, they turned to attacking each other's direct female relatives.

Losing nearly eighty percent of their warriors in a single day was akin to severing a major artery for the Gale Wolf tribe. No matter what they chose, the fate awaiting them would be crueler than a starving tiger.

As noon approached, Centaurs began to appear wandering around the tribe, occasionally drawing their bows to shoot arrows into the encampment, slowly tightening their siege.

They were cautious and skillful, not rushing to plunder this poorly defended tribe.

This behavior alone was enough to show they were seasoned warriors, sending a chill down the Gale Wolf tribe's spine.

And when the Werewolves, with their excellent eyesight, discovered that a group of burly Barbarians were also lurking suspiciously near the tribe, their resolve to resist instantly shattered into dust.

Richard hadn't expected the Werewolves, known for their resilience, to surrender so easily.

"Sir, Werewolves aren't wild wolves, so why must they have the disposition of wild wolves?" Nehru, tied to a wooden pole and carried by two Barbarians, complained indignantly. "You Pompeii people have far too much prejudice and discrimination against the locals."

"But I see you, Kobold, clearly have the potential to be a sycophant," Richard retorted, leading the way into the tribal encampment without bothering to be polite.

The common folk of Pompeii always viewed Werewolves as teeth-grinding, blood-sucking monsters, believing they could all use dark magic and even transform into giant wolves on the full moon.

But what Richard saw were just three or four hundred herders, at most a bit shorter and more agile. There were cattle and sheep in their pens, and they lived in leather tents, a far cry from the legends.

High Mountain Keep, as a territory, was actually very incomplete. Everyone was a warrior, with no commoners at all, like a weapon with only a blade and no hilt.

Richard had once pondered how to make Pompeii commoners abandon their warm, rich homelands to live in this barren, cold land. His conclusion was: just go to sleep, you'll have everything in your dreams.

At this moment, he suddenly realized his perspective was too narrow. Why confine himself to Pompeii? These Werewolf herders could also become subjects of High Mountain Keep, cultivating the land and herding cattle and sheep.

Richard had Hert lead the Centaurs to drive the Werewolf tribe to relocate. The women and children, not knowing what was happening, cried out in fear, causing utter chaos. According to the rules of the wilderness they knew, it was entirely possible they would all be beheaded!

Richard watched all of this with a cold eye, his heart unmoved. After all, this was a tribe he had once fought against. Not reducing everyone to slaves was already the full extent of his mercy.

"Boss, what are we doing?" Gunther reinserted his Javelin into the leather sheath on his back, feeling there was no room for him to contribute.

"Let's see if there are any spoils of war," Richard said, unsure if there would be anything worthwhile. After all, this tribe seemed to be the epitome of backwardness.

"I know where the Gale Wolf tribe chief's tent is! It has generations of their savings! I know where it's hidden!" No one was comfortable hanging upside down on a pole. Nehru quickly seized the opportunity to blurt out, hoping to gain some attention and be let down.

"As if we need you to tell us!" Gunther kicked him. Barbarians looked down on such spineless people.

The two Barbarian porters intentionally made trouble, lightly lifting the pole so that Gunther's foot struck Nehru's liver area. The pain made him contort into a trembling shrimp.

"Everything I said is true!" The Kobold placed his last hope on Richard. "Their chief died yesterday. Only I know there's a large ox skull in the chief's tent, and a box of gold buried underneath it."

"Stop, Gunther." Richard waved his hand, signaling Gunther to stop.

"Let's go take a look."

The chief's tent was easy to find; it was the largest and best-situated.

Most wilderness dwellers, after all, didn't have good hygiene habits, and a foul, musky odor emanated from the tent. Several Barbarians went over, cut the ropes anchoring it to the ground, grabbed the bottom edge of the tent, and together, with a heave, flipped it open.

The interior furnishings revealed were cluttered: a sleeping area made of straw and furs, and several large clay pots whose purpose was unknown. In the center was a millstone-sized rock, on which sat a particularly large ox skull.

The Barbarians haphazardly moved the rock and skull, pulled out their spears, and began digging with grunts and groans.

Richard suddenly caught a strange scent, seemingly coming from the dusty large clay pots nearby. He gently nudged Nehru with his foot and asked, "What's in there?"

"My own and the chief's wine. We hadn't had a chance to open it yet, so I don't know if it succeeded."

"Wine?" Gunther's eyes lit up. He rushed over, slapped open the clay seal of a pot, and peered inside. The excited expression on his face immediately fell.

The clay pot was full of a dark brown, translucent liquid, with large clumps of dark, clotted circular particles floating on top. Due to water evaporation, thick black residue was left on the pot's walls, and more importantly, there wasn't the slightest hint of alcohol.

"Boss, this guy must be lying. I bet it's some kind of witchcraft material."

The moment the clay seal was broken, Richard's state suddenly became very odd. He was loose and slack, as if his soul had left him, his mouth half-open and motionless.

Gunther babbled on about how he would deal with Nehru to vent his anger, before belatedly realizing the atmosphere was wrong and quickly shutting his mouth.

Richard walked over, dipped his finger into some of the dark brown liquid from the clay pot, and put it to his mouth to taste.

He suddenly sighed.

So familiar, yet so strange a taste.

He had thought those distant things had long been forgotten, but it turned out they had always been hidden deep in his memory, never fading.

His entire former life: familiar friends, intimate lovers, tacit partners, gorgeous sunsets, winter night's plain noodles... all incredibly real, yet like flowers in a mirror or the moon in water, beyond recollection there was only emptiness.

Sometimes Richard couldn't help but wonder, living two lives, was it Zhuangzi dreaming he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it was Zhuangzi?

The sunlight shone on his face, wistful and serene, as if he had suddenly awakened from a profound dream.

"Boss, what is this?" Gunther asked cautiously.

"It's soy sauce."