Chapter 108: Reunion, Night of Revelry

The wooden drums beat out a passionate rhythm, and the wild bonfire danced along with them. The night wind rolled up burning charcoal, sending a trail of sparkling embers into the air. On this festive night, laughter could be heard in nearly every corner of the vast jungle. People of all ages, all genders, and all races embraced one another warmly, expressing their friendship through languages they could not fully understand, exaggerated body language, and lovely smiles.

This was a grand gathering celebrating “brothers meeting” and “friends reuniting.” This reason might seem laughable to us, but to the indigenous inhabitants of the Holy Fox Highlands, it was something incredibly sacred and momentous. As it turned out, their flesh-and-blood kin who had come from afar—that is, us—had appeased the wrath of God Lumburi and saved their entire race. No matter how fervently they expressed this joy and gratitude, it would still seem pale and insufficient.

Some tribes had not appeared at all, whether due to the great distance or other reasons. No one knew how the plague was spreading in their lands. Millia taught the method of preparing the medicine to people from various tribes, entrusting them to deliver the prescription to those tribes that had not come. Through counting, we learned that this race, collectively called the “Lumburi” after their god, consisted of nearly a hundred tribes both large and small, with a total population possibly exceeding two hundred thousand (this figure was quite vague, because they used “too many to count” to replace any unit of measurement above “ten thousand”). They were the most numerous and most powerful race on the Holy Fox Highlands. Besides them, there were smaller human races such as the “Glin,” the “Chaqink,” and the “Lorrig,” who lived farther away and only had occasional contact with one another. The truly massive population here should have been the Elves living deep in the forest. But this was hard to confirm, because few people could penetrate deep into the Moonstream Forest, which belonged to the Elves, to verify it.

This was the first time we felt genuine warmth in this distant foreign land. Our hospitable hosts nearly dragged our entire army into their camps. They were so enthusiastic that one hardly knew how to refuse. For safety reasons, Fred still left a thousand soldiers stationed on the road at the southeast corner of the camp to guard the route. Surprisingly, Red Flame voluntarily stayed behind. This bold Elf had always loved lively scenes, and he was usually the center of attention in such gatherings. Yet this time, he actually chose to stay away from this once-in-a-lifetime grand celebration and spend this quiet night with the thousand unlucky soldiers—he wouldn’t even keep Kelsey company. This puzzled us all. But regardless, it gave me some comfort. I had originally worried that Roll would choose to stay behind to organize the defense. Whenever I thought of Evlinna’s delicate, rosy cheeks, I felt it was best to bring Roll along with me.

Nearly twenty thousand soldiers were instantly swallowed up by more than a hundred thousand indigenous residents. Not all of those simple, honest residents could be lucky enough to exchange a few words with their savior Millia. They poured all their gratitude onto these brave soldiers. Sometimes, several families would even get into fights over which one got to host a soldier as a guest. Those poor young men, who would not have wavered even in the face of thousands of enemy troops, were terrified when a dozen or so indigenous men and women first fought over wrestling them to the ground, then vigorously tore at their clothes and pants, then brawled right in front of them, and finally had the victor drag them home by force with a bloody face. After this night, many soldiers privately said to me:

“These residents here really have strange hospitality customs. They actually hold a martial arts contest before inviting a guest?”

Of course, these small disturbances were not enough to dampen the joyful atmosphere of the entire night. Under the arrangement of the various tribal chieftains, people sat in groups around several large bonfires, forming several lively celebration grounds. As for us, we naturally sat before the largest bonfire, accompanied by Evlinna and Eckdin.

Several indigenous women placed clay bowls made of fired pottery in front of us, and then someone poured rich, mellow wine into them. Almost instinctively, I picked up the bowl before me and drained it in one gulp. Suddenly, an unprecedented cool, crisp sensation pierced straight through my throat, like the pure morning air soaking into my breath. I had never drunk anything like this before. It was completely different from all the known wines in the world. It was clearly a fruit wine, but I had never tasted such a delicious fruit outside the Holy Fox Highlands.

“This wine shouldn’t be drunk too quickly,” Evlinna whispered to me. “Even the strongest man can’t drink too much of it. When Uncle Eckdin was young, he once showed off by drinking more than forty bowls in one go, and ended up sleeping for four whole days. They say many people thought he was already dead. If he hadn’t woken up in time, people might have cremated him already.”

With my knowledge of alcohol, I didn’t doubt her words, but I didn’t think this stuff could really do anything to me.

“What fruit is this wine made from?” That was the question I was actually interested in.

“It’s made from a fruit called the Snake-Sleep Fruit. It’s a strange fruit. If you eat it directly, even just one or two, you’ll fall asleep immediately and won’t wake up for a very long time. Even after you wake up, you’ll feel weak and limp in your limbs for a long while. But after it’s brewed into wine, drinking a bit more isn’t a big problem. Because people who eat this fruit sleep as long and deep as snakes in winter, that’s how it got its name.”

Hearing her introduction, Millia, who had been silent all along, immediately looked very interested. The illness of these past days had indeed greatly harmed her health. She still appeared very weak now, though her spirits were excellent. I almost suspected her spirits were a bit too good, because this was the first time I had seen her show such great interest in the ingredients used to make wine.

“Where can I find this fruit you mentioned?” Millia asked.

“It’s in many places around here, and there’s a lot of it. You often see it. For example…”

I wasn’t very interested in listening to the two ladies’ conversation. More importantly, at this moment, someone in the center of the grounds had spontaneously started a wrestling match. Naturally, that attracted a man’s attention far more than where fruit grew. The victor currently standing in the center of the grounds was a bald indigenous man. The muscles on his body looked as if they had been cast from a mold, every single one solid as stone. He had just easily defeated a warrior from another tribe, and now he was pointing at the sky with both hands, loudly challenging everyone around him.

“I’m coming!” At this moment, a soldier stepped forward, bare-chested and wearing only the trousers of a Heavy Infantry soldier. He looked to be around thirty years old. Though he didn’t appear as strong as the opponent he was challenging, his bare chest and back were covered in scars, giving him a different kind of masculine bearing.

“Lance, if you bring shame to the Heavy Infantry regiment, don’t bother being a squadron leader anymore. Go back and be your platoon leader.” Behind him, Dakla not only made no move to stop him, but was loudly cheering on his subordinate. Wrestling was also one of the favorite pastimes of these rough and wild soldiers. And the burly, massive Dakla was the most enthusiastic supporter of this game of the strong.

Seeing that the one who stepped up was a foreign warrior, the previous victor was a bit surprised, then became especially delighted. He shouted boisterously: “Great! Foreign brother, look, so strong.” He strode forward. A moment later, the two burly men locked together. They collided violently with each other, like two mountains crashing together, producing frightening sounds. Both men were giving their all, eyes wide open, teeth grinding audibly, each desperate to throw the other to the ground. Although the Holy Fox Highlands had a warm and humid climate, the nights of late winter and early spring still carried some chill. Even the hosts, who were accustomed to going bare-chested, had some draped animal skins or blankets over themselves. But the two burly men locked in combat certainly felt no cold at all, because both were already panting heavily and drenched in sweat. Large beads of sweat slid off their bodies, staining the dirt beneath their feet a deep brown.

Suddenly, the indigenous giant exerted force from his waist, seeming to try to lift Lance up. Lance strained his body backward, not wanting to let his opponent succeed. Unexpectedly, his opponent was far craftier than he looked. He suddenly reversed direction and pushed forward, forcefully pressing Lance down to the ground.

The crowd erupted. Seeing their own champion defeat a foreign warrior, no matter how close our feelings were, those indigenous residents would not hide their pride. Our soldiers, on the other hand, looked somewhat dejected, feeling ashamed by their comrade’s defeat.

The victor pulled Lance up and shouted loudly in his not-quite-standard common tongue: “Foreign brother, strong! Very strong!” Although Lance had lost, he didn’t seem unhappy at all. Panting heavily, he patted the indigenous warrior’s shoulder and admitted loudly without any awkwardness: “You, formidable! Stronger than me!” Seeing these two foreign warriors being so friendly, the atmosphere in the grounds grew even more heated. As I had guessed, whether for the fierce indigenous residents or the brave soldiers, this kind of intense wrestling match would not hurt their feelings toward one another—it could only help them understand each other better and respect each other more.

“Let me have a try, let’s see just how strong our brothers are!” As soon as Lance walked off the field, the competitive Dakla stood up. He tore off his shirt in a few quick motions, slapped his chest hard, and strode forward with a loud shout. Our soldiers immediately cheered. For a moment, slogans like “Lieutenant Colonel Dakla is the strongest!” and “Lieutenant Colonel Dakla will surely win!” came from every corner of the gathering. Some quick-tongued soldiers had already started describing Dakla’s heroic feats on the battlefield and the wrestling ground to the indigenous residents. Many of them had suffered at Dakla’s hands before.

Dakla’s left leg was slightly lame, a lingering injury from his old wound beneath Davo City. This small flaw didn’t put him at a disadvantage—it almost gave him a small advantage. His movements made his opponent very uncomfortable, and his unusual center of gravity shifts repeatedly helped him break free from his opponent’s fierce attacks.

This was a well-matched contest. The two giants used their hard, solid limbs to give the best possible interpretation of the word “strength.” The foreign champion held onto Dakla’s left leg, repeatedly trying to flip him over, while Dakla firmly gripped his opponent’s waist, unmovable no matter how hard the other man pushed. Likewise, whenever Dakla tried to throw his opponent, that powerful giant always found a way to break free. The two men remained tightly entangled, fighting not only with their bodies but also with their firm convictions and unyielding fighting spirit. Dakla’s opponent must have been a remarkable foreign warrior—I had never seen anyone last this long wrestling against the big man Dakla.

After a long, unresolved but exhausting stalemate, the indigenous warrior finally began to stagger. Dakla wrapped his arms tightly around his opponent’s waist from the right side, swinging him violently left and right, forcing his legs to move back and forth continuously, hoping to find an opening in his opponent’s movements and throw him off balance. Finally, he got his chance. As the indigenous man moved, his right ankle lightly caught on his left foot, and his upper body lurched. Dakla would not let this rare opportunity pass. He stomped his right leg forward heavily, planting it beside his opponent’s left side, then threw his whole body to the left with tremendous force. At last, that powerful warrior was helplessly brought down to the ground.

“You’re strong, almost stronger than me! If you hadn’t wrestled several matches earlier, I wouldn’t have beaten you so quickly.” After winning, Dakla reached out his hand in a friendly manner and pulled his defeated opponent up.

“Amazing! Good man! Strong! Strong!” The indigenous warrior, without even bothering to wipe the dirt off his face, said to Dakla with genuine admiration.

“Strong, strong! Good man, good man!” Dakla laughed heartily, returning the same words to his worthy opponent.

Once Dakla stepped onto the wrestling ground, he wouldn’t leave easily until he’d had his fill. Before long, he perfectly proved his qualification to be the commander of the Heavy Infantry. Whether in strength or speed, Dakla was slightly better than his opponents, but more importantly, in terms of combat experience, the battle-hardened Dakla was far more experienced than any of them. I guessed that his first defeated opponent was already one of the best wrestlers of this race. After that, Dakla successively defeated six or seven more tall opponents, but none of them cost him much effort. Though drenched in sweat, he didn’t look tired at all, and his breathing remained smooth and steady, as if he’d just finished warming up. At first, the hosts were still cheering for their own champions. But later, Dakla’s outstanding performance completely won them over, and they began cheering for him instead. In the final match, Dakla even grabbed his opponent by the belt with one hand and the neck with the other, lifted him high overhead, carried him in a full circle around the bonfire, and then gently set him down on the ground. The flames burned behind him, shadows blurring his face but making his silhouette look especially tall and radiant. At that moment, he looked like an invincible war god, proudly yet rightfully holding victory in his grasp.

Dakla’s strength won him thunderous cheers that didn’t stop even after he returned to his seat. The martial hosts raised their wine bowls and came before the strong warrior one after another, offering sincere blessings to their guest with deep respect. Some of the defeated warriors even went up to feel Dakla’s thick, powerful arms, seemingly marveling at how such astonishing strength could be contained in one person’s body.

Unfortunately, this strongest man’s drinking capacity was not as strong as his muscles. Before long, his face was flushed red and purple, his tongue was tied in knots, and his body swayed like it was being blown by a hurricane. Even so, my honest, straightforward friend did not refuse a single friendly toast. He kept patting the shoulders of whoever stood before him, shouting in a tone that was badly out of tune: “Strong, strong; good man, good man; cheers, cheers…” I doubted whether he could even see clearly who was standing in front of him, because when several young, beautiful girls shyly offered him a toast, he also patted their shoulders, said “good man” a couple times, and drained his bowl. This left those girls, who so admired his bold heroic spirit, extremely embarrassed. Heaven knows how he managed to associate these foreign young women with slender waists and rosy lips with the word “good man.”

Finally, amid the crowd’s laughter and commotion, Dakla crashed to the ground, completely drunk and as limp as a pile of soft flesh, no longer bearing any trace of his former valor. Even lying drunk on the ground, he still kept mumbling “strong,” “good man,” making our friendly hosts smile warmly. Worried that drinking too much might harm his health, Millia specially went over to check on him. Seeing that he was fine, she found two soldiers to drag him into an empty tent to rest.

I looked around. Fred was surrounded by a group of respected elders in warm conversation, including the High Priest, who had just recovered and was still somewhat weak. Their expressions sometimes turned serious, sometimes relaxed, but they had little to do with the lively atmosphere around them. Poirot and Eliot were surrounded by a group of children, whose little magic tricks had the children spellbound. After Red Flame’s introduction, I noticed that the people here didn’t feel very friendly toward the Elves. Some mothers were uneasy about their children sitting next to the Dark Elf, watching from a short distance away. But the difference between Eliot and ordinary Elves was obvious, and besides, who could harbor ill intentions toward such a gentle, beautiful stranger?

Kelsey was dancing some special folk dance with a group of young people. Without Red Flame by her side, the red-haired female pirate definitely wasn’t feeling lonely. Rodrick, meanwhile, maintained a restrained and rigorous attitude throughout. His bearing made the hosts respect him more and more, especially after they heard from the soldiers about Rodrick’s heroic deeds. He was practically worshipped by many of the young people.

As for Roll, he was the exception among us. Almost everyone present knew he was a fearless warrior, the most outstanding among countless brave champions—he was practically synonymous with courage and victory. Yet not many people were willing to approach him. Apart from a few particularly thick-skinned men and some children, almost no other faces appeared around him. While everyone else sat in groups of a dozen or even several dozen, an almost empty circle surrounded him. Within three steps of him, not a single person could be seen. The cold-blooded attitude he had shown during the standoff between the two armies had truly frightened our hosts. People didn’t want to withhold their respect, but they didn’t know how to approach him. Many who had personally witnessed Roll cutting open his own artery for Millia to treat were telling their friends about the scene, their expressions both respectful and fearful, carrying an indescribable complexity. Some who heard the story were astonished and refused to believe it, but when they looked carefully at Roll’s hollow gaze and cold expression, they lost the courage to verify it.

Nor was that all. Every warrior present who had won glorious achievements on the battlefield had received invitations to contests, even Kelsey and Eliot. Only Roll—not a single person challenged him. Whenever the victors strutting in the center of the grounds happened to glance toward the corner where Roll sat, they would instinctively look away, turning toward places with more people and more liveliness. The fighting style Roll had displayed left our hosts feeling uneasy. No one was willing to face a mad opponent who was ready to give up his own life at any moment, even in a friendly match.

To my relief, Roll’s loneliness didn’t last long. As everyone deliberately ignored that dark corner, a light, agile figure hopped closer to Roll and gently set a jar of wine before him. It could be no one else—it could only be the most adorable of our enthusiastic hosts: the High Priest’s granddaughter, the young and beautiful Evlinna. She was no longer wearing that neck ornament symbolizing divine authority and majesty. Her slender neck revealed its brownish-red skin, and her whole demeanor seemed livelier and more spirited. Although she still appeared somewhat nervous and fearful facing Roll, she forced a smile, sat down beside him, and occasionally pointed at various people around the grounds, saying something—perhaps introducing him to her friends. Whenever Roll happened to say something in reply, she would beam with joy and chatter on at length. Roll already knew what Evlinna had done for us. His eyes held gratitude and warmth when he looked at her. But I could tell he didn’t quite know how to express such feelings. I didn’t know how he felt about Evlinna, but at least for now, it didn’t seem bad.

It was a pleasant night. The heroes received the treatment they deserved. I was somewhat neglected in a way—you can’t expect those soldiers to tell our friendly hosts, “That’s our logistics officer. He’s amazing because he can deduct our allowances.”—but there was nothing to complain about. Compared to my outstanding friends, I truly was an ordinary person. To these indigenous residents who revered heroes and warriors, I was just a regular soldier. Out of politeness, they talked with me and toasted me. What more could I possibly want?

Just when I thought the climax of the night had passed and we could peacefully wait for dawn amid the noise, suddenly, a loud shout came from the center of the grounds. The shout sounded so familiar, so heart-pounding. As soon as those words rang out, the grounds fell silent for a moment. Then suddenly, the entire crowd went wild. All the men shouted loudly, and many of them rushed into the center, afraid of falling behind anyone else. Several soldiers also ran over to join this contest that no man could dislike.

Rodrick stopped his socializing and looked at me. Roll also temporarily ignored Evlinna, fixing me with a look of enthusiasm I hadn’t seen from him in a long time. Even Fred stopped his conversation and looked toward where I was sitting. They shouted my name loudly, pointing toward the center of the grounds. At that moment, they looked like a bunch of children, with none of the bearing of a commander or a king.

“Show them what you’ve got!” Fred shouted, waving both fists. His excited expression was so different from his mature, steady attitude just moments before that it startled the High Priest.

Without hardly thinking, I shouted back in agreement. Then I stood up and strode firmly and cheerfully toward the center of the grounds—that place where countless remarkable warriors had already sweated and received honor tonight. As I walked, I made encouraging gestures to my friends. I was confident that before long, I would be standing there, receiving the most fervent blessings of the night. Only this kind of blessing brought me joy, and only this kind of blessing could I accept without feeling undeserving.

The shout had been: “Who dares to compete with me in drinking capacity?”