There Are Also Valiant Warriors

The casualties were too heavy.

Suleiman sat inside the only house in the village that could still be called intact.

He looked at the statistics with a sense of alarm.

Even with an absolute advantage of three hundred men against forty.

The Burned Men Wildlings had fought like cornered beasts afflicted by a foul plague.

His own side had still paid the price of over twenty men, with many more wounded.

Suleiman felt a headache coming on; this also pointed to problems with his method of commanding troops. Thinking about it, using money as an incentive was not a long-term solution.

These temporarily conscripted soldiers, lured by gold, were like true starving wolves.

In order to scramble for credit, they had rushed forward like beasts, vying with one another.

Some even fought over the corpses of the Burned Men Wildlings, eventually having to divide them up.

That no fighting or mutual killing had occurred over the scramble for merit was, under the current circumstances, already a sign of decent discipline.

But there was absolutely no other way for now.

Some people could command obedience with their family name, but for the moment, he could only trade gold for loyalty.

After all, these three hundred men were not subjects from his own lands; once the war ended, they would have to return to their respective lords' territories.

Three hundred able-bodied men, counting their families, amounted to over a thousand subjects—a lord's precious assets.

Even if Suleiman wanted them, House Deddings would never give them up.

The plan had to be accelerated: he needed to build his own force.

Although Lady Roslin had promised that he could recruit soldiers from her villages and towns.

Yet, what farmer who had not been touched by the ravages of war would be willing to go to the battlefield to have his head chopped off?

The town magistrate even made excuses of every kind to shirk the request.

Suleiman had an idea: to recruit fleeing refugees.

Keep the able-bodied men and send their families to Foulkeep.

But Foulkeep currently had no land to offer for cultivation.

To hell with it, he would just issue empty promises for now.

When the time came, wouldn't it be up to him to decide how to handle it?

He felt quite stifled.

Suleiman slammed the table with a loud bang, giving Lushen, who was standing guard at the door to protect Master Suleiman, a fright.

Lushen rushed in immediately, hand gripping his sword hilt, eyes alert, quickly scanning his surroundings.

Seeing no danger, he felt puzzled and scratched his head with his right hand.

"What are you doing! Lushen! Hahaha!" Suleiman pointed at Lushen and laughed heartily, the feeling of oppression instantly vanishing.

It was mainly because Lushen looked so ridiculous right now, wrapped head-to-toe in bandages, his face invisible save for his eyes.

His right hand was still pressed to his sword hilt, looking around.

Suleiman had once heard a saying: a man with the talent to govern a county is enough to govern a nation. Whether that was true for a nation, he didn't know.

But in the age of cold steel, such a man could certainly become a fierce general.

When attacking the farmstead, Lushen had drawn his sword, shouted "Follow me!", and charged in at the lead. To be honest, Suleiman had been a bit shocked, though he hadn't lost his composure.

Although he believed that in the age of cold steel, an officer needed to stand where the soldiers could see him.

That did not mean he thought an officer should lead the charge, especially when the situation inside the farmstead was unknown.

The first person to rush in faced an uncertain fate and had to be prepared to die.

But the soldiers were willing to give their lives for him; that was likely the reason.

Lushen was harsh to his soldiers; they feared him, yet they admired him.

He had been the first into the fray, suffering over a dozen wounds, covered in blood, yet his sword never fell.

A true warrior. If he hadn't met a patron, he would likely have remained a farmer his whole life.

Suleiman felt a touch of emotion in his heart.

Lushen felt a bit embarrassed by Master Suleiman's laughter and moved his hand away from the sword hilt.

His face was covered in bandages, making his expression unreadable, and he scratched his head with his right hand, saying:

"Master Suleiman, a loud noise came from the room just now, and I thought there were still Wildlings hiding and trying to ambush you."

Suleiman reined in his laughter, though his face still held a joyful expression.

He waved a hand at Lushen, signaling him to relax: "It's nothing, nothing. It wasn't an ambush; I just thought of something annoying and couldn't help but slam the table."

Then Suleiman pointed at Lushen again: "But the way you rushed in, all bandaged up and looking so tense, it was a bit comical, and I found it funny for a moment!"

Hearing Suleiman say there was no danger, and feeling his own worries vanish along with the master's laughter at his ridiculous appearance, Lushen felt a surge of joy.

He scratched his head and gave a simple, honest smile. "If I can make Master Suleiman happy, then this look of mine was worth it."

He knew Master Suleiman wasn't mocking him with any malice, so he laughed along, though his face was covered in gauze, making his expression impossible to see and only adding to the absurdity.

But this time, Suleiman did not laugh; his smile vanished, and he felt a touch of sorrow.

He looked at the burly peasant before him—wrapped in bandages, looking comical, yet willing to die for him.

Having just walked back from the brink of death, covered in over a dozen wounds and soaked in blood, he had still been the first to bring men to his side to stand guard.

He suddenly realized that he had always tried to disguise himself as someone detached from this world.

Everyone else is different from me, he had constantly hinted to himself.

But just now, his heart told him otherwise.

He did not want Lushen to die.

Thinking of the possibility that Lushen might never stand up again after some future battle, and realizing that beneath those comical bandages lay a life that could be extinguished at any moment, he found he could no longer smile.

Seeing Master Suleiman's smile suddenly vanish as he stared intently at him, Lushen could no longer laugh either, feeling nervous and restless.

Just as he began to worry if he had done something wrong, he finally heard his Master Suleiman speak.

"Lushen, when I ordered the attack on the farmstead, why were you the first one to charge in?"

Suleiman suddenly didn't know how to phrase it, so he could only look into Lushen's eyes and ask.

Lushen assumed Master Suleiman was blaming him for rushing into the village first, fearing that his squad would lack command in the chaos and thus affect the battle.

He lowered his head, speaking with unease: "I was afraid they wouldn't dare to charge in and would delay your affairs, Master. But if I went in first, I knew they would surely follow."

"I'm sorry, Master Suleiman, I was wro—" His words were interrupted by a hand suddenly pressing onto his shoulder.

Lushen hurriedly looked up to see his Master Suleiman's sorrowful eyes, hearing only a single sentence that made his world go clear and silent, echoing endlessly in his ears.

"Don't you die, Lushen! I still intend to take you with me to enjoy glory and wealth!"

Lushen froze completely.

His mind went blank, with only those words lingering in his ears.

The surroundings seemed to fall into absolute silence.

He wanted to speak, but he felt as if his throat were blocked by something, unable to produce a sound.

He wanted to say, "It is my honor to die for you, Master."

But he couldn't utter a single word.

Lushen began to tremble all over, not from pain, but from agitation.

It was the immense shock of feeling hope and care from a noble lord—he, who was merely a peasant.

He dropped to his knees abruptly, reaching out a hand as if to grab the hem of Master Suleiman's robe.

Yet, he paused in mid-air, afraid that his actions might offend his Master Suleiman.

Suleiman tried to steady him, but couldn't; he had knelt too suddenly, with too much force!

He could only struggle to open his mouth, his voice thick with nasal congestion and choked sobs.

"Master Suleiman, I... I will listen to you!"

Every word seemed to be squeezed out from the depths of his lungs.

The sobbing made his speech slurred.

But Suleiman knew exactly what he was saying.

"I... I will definitely, definitely live on!"