Chapter 65: The Davo City Juicer

The night passed quickly.

Fred did not order the troops to keep attacking the inner city of Davo City. Instead, while the night was still thick, he stationed the troops near the outer city wall and reorganized the ranks. After all, after a whole night of slaughter, the soldiers were already exhausted. And with the brave fighting of the enemy general Gutierrez, the inner city’s defense line had plenty of time to prepare, and our morale had taken a heavy blow. At a time like this, rather than make the soldiers keep fighting with tired bodies, it was better to let them rest fully.

We kept our promise and sent Gutierrez’s body, along with those of his brave men, into the city. One staff officer suggested that we should abuse their corpses to anger the defenders in the city and lure the enemy out to fight. His idea was not wrong, and if we had done it, I think it would have been very effective. But no one wanted to hear such words at a time like this. Before he could even finish speaking, the furious Dakla slammed a heavy punch into his stomach, cutting off his advice.

As he fell to the ground in pain, wailing and rolling around, no one stepped forward to help him. Even the lowest-ranked soldier in the army looked at this officer with contempt.

“Don’t lose the last bit of humanity just because of war. The biggest difference between a brave warrior and a murderous machine is…” Rodrick said in a low voice while dragging the officer by his collar, “No matter how the battle goes, a warrior’s heart never loses its reverence for heroes.”

We sent the enemies’ bodies to the city gate by carriage. There was a moment of silence, and then the gate opened. The defending commander, Carlisle, personally took the reins of the horse pulling the carriage and slowly and solemnly brought his friend’s body through the gate. At that moment, all it would have taken was one arrow or a squad of light cavalry to easily rush through the gate. But no one was willing to do it. It seemed that if we did such a thing, we would have insulted our dignity and honor as “human beings.”

Before long, from the other side of the wall came the sound of sorrowful sobs, suppressed yet impossible to hold back. Then, four officers in formal dress quietly carried the wooden board bearing Gutierrez’s body up onto the wall. On the wall, there was a pile of firewood that had just been stacked.

Gutierrez’s body burned quietly on the pyre, and the flames lit up the loneliness of the night. The moon had drifted out of the clouds at some point, spreading its cool silver light over the earth, as if laying a glorious road between heaven and earth to guide the noble spirit of the fallen hero. It was not just the Winston people—all of our soldiers were also watching this plain yet solemn battlefield funeral. What burned with the flames was not just a soldier’s body, but the unquenchable spirit of several thousand Winston soldiers.

We made the battle harder. Perhaps more of my men would fall forever because of this moment of mercy, but I did not think we had done wrong.

Why? Between life, victory, and our own feelings, how should one measure and weigh what is right?

“Did I do the right thing, Jeff? Maybe I should have accepted that officer’s advice. It would have been better for this war. But I still couldn’t bring myself to do such a thing.”

He sighed and said, “Have I also picked up that foolish aristocratic sense of honor?”

“If it were me, I would have done the same. This sense of honor doesn’t belong only to nobles,” I answered. “The fact that you did this shows that war hasn’t driven you mad yet. You’re still a normal person with feelings…”

When morning came, golden sunlight climbed up the towering city walls and lit up a new day. Cooking smoke drifted in the morning light, carrying a smell that comforted the soldiers. They did not need to hold steaming hot food in their arms—just smelling this scent was enough to bring relief. Even just smelling it was a right that only the living possessed.

By comparison, our opponents were much more pitiful. The shortage of supplies forced them to reduce their food rations. We did not need to see it with our own eyes—from the prisoners’ words, we knew that the soup in their bowls was far thinner than ours. On this cold autumn morning, having to fool their stomachs with large amounts of hot water and small amounts of food was not a pleasant thing. But we had to put away our sympathy and make the greatest use of the enemy’s miserable situation.

This was war.

This was war!

The so-called outer city was not the first line of defense surrounding the whole city. It was only an extra layer of wall in front of the city gate, facing the plain, used to block the main road in and out of the city. On the side near the docks, there was only the inner wall, and the inner city was the real wall that circled the entire city. Between the two walls was an open area about two arrow-shots wide. This had originally been a place for some trade within the city, and sometimes it was used as a drill ground for soldiers.

Now, the soldiers on this ground were not drilling. The swords in their hands were destined to be stained with blood.

In the biting wind of arrows, our soldiers struggled to approach the wall. They set up scaling ladders against the wall and began the deadly climb.

The first wave of attack was doomed to be ineffective. Almost everyone knew this. But someone had to charge forward first, to throw away their lives for a reason that was either foolish or noble. Facing the enemy’s high morale, our soldiers climbed up the ladders one after another, and one after another they fell. They had to endure sharp arrows, deadly heavy objects, scalding liquids, and merciless blades. Many of them fell forever, using their lives to exchange for a meager pension for their wives, children, and parents, so they could buy a small piece of land stained with human blood. Perhaps this was a good thing for them—at least, they no longer had to worry about their own lives or how their families would survive. And this, perhaps, was exactly the reason they could go die.

For the dead, there was indeed nothing left for them to worry about.

Even so, they were not afraid. They were no longer the army that had been called “trash.” Under the command of this young general beside me, they had won glorious achievements that were no less than those of strong enemies. They had shaken off their shameful reputation. No longer did they flee in fear, struggling to survive; instead, they raised their proud banners high and became the bravest group in battle. Perhaps, once a person has been brave, they will unconsciously despise their own cowardice; once a person has been surrounded by the halo of honor, they will chase after even greater footsteps.

On the outer city wall, the ranged weapons originally meant to defend the city were now turning around to destroy the city’s defenses. Because the two walls were not far apart, the large trebuchets that could actually damage the wall could not be used, so what truly played a role were the ballistas—weapons with a narrow area of effect but tremendous power. These powerful weapons exchanged deadly goods with the opposite wall, providing as much cover as possible for the troops climbing the walls.

At the city gate, a battering ram was working hard to break through the thick gate. This clumsy but practical weapon was carried by dozens of strong men, who kept moving and slamming it forward. Beside them were heavily armored Heavy Infantry, holding up their shields to form a thick defensive cover above and on both sides, blocking attacks from the wall for the men below. Although the slow movement speed reduced the ram’s power, the iron-tipped head still gnawed at the wooden gate like sharp teeth, scraping off wood shavings and making tearing sounds.

“Put in more effort, brothers! Let those bastards on the wall know that Winston isn’t the only place with brave men!” Dakla’s voice came from the middle of the ram formation. The impulsive, brave son of a stonemason could not restrain his boiling blood, and had actually charged to the most dangerous place on the battlefield to stand together with his soldiers.

“Sir, it’s dangerous here. Please command from the rear!” his adjutant shouted, trying to persuade his young superior.

“My soldiers are here, so my battlefield is here!” Dakla answered loudly, refusing the adjutant’s advice.

“Let’s smash this piece of junk to pieces!”

Perhaps it was his shouts, or perhaps it was his courage in leading from the front, that inspired the soldiers. The bare-chested men carrying the ram answered his hoarse voice with wild yells, slamming again and again into the wooden door with destructive force. Arrows occasionally slipped through the gaps in shields and armor, dropping one burly man after another to the ground. Then someone else would take his place and continue the dangerous task.

“Dakla, danger, fall back!” Suddenly, Riley from the rear line gave a warning. But it was not timely enough. On the wall, a huge cauldron of boiling oil was poured down. The splashing liquid clung to the soldiers’ skin, making harsh hissing sounds and robbing them of their will. Many clutched their heads and faces, writhing in agony before the city gate. Their screams were enough to make even the coldest heart tremble. On the most severely injured, skin and hair melted away from the high heat, exposing their muscles. Almost every patch of ground they rolled over was left with pieces of flesh. Even the Winston soldiers who had caused all this could not bear to let them suffer such inhuman pain, and they used arrows and falling rocks to end their lives early. The originally tight formation collapsed. The Winston archers seized this rare opportunity, searching for targets in the broken formation and causing even greater destruction.

A torch was thrown down from the wall. The flames it started completely shattered the formation, and the battering ram that had seriously threatened the city gate was abandoned on the ground, burning quietly.

“Dakla!” Riley worried about his friend and charged forward into the dense rain of arrows. Dakla’s chest was scalded, and he had an arrow in his back and one in his calf. Two soldiers were carrying him back. Riley used his shield to protect his friend and dragged him toward a safe place.

“Dakla, are you okay! Doctor, doctor!” Seeing Dakla’s blue-purple lips and listless expression, Riley panicked. We did not know Dakla’s condition, and hurried over to check.

“It’s nothing… Won’t die…” The tall stonemason’s son grinned painfully, then seemed to pull at his wounds and frowned slightly.

“Hold down his arms and legs.” Hearing the call, Millia quickly came to us. She pulled out a sharp little knife and gave us the order. We did as she said.

“If you have the guts to get hurt, then don’t be afraid of pain.” She tore open Dakla’s upper garment and looked at the position of the arrow. Seeing this, Riley rolled the torn shirt into a ball and stuffed it into Dakla’s mouth.

“Ah!” Millia’s little knife cut open Dakla’s wound, and dark red blood flowed from the turned-up flesh. Seeing Dakla’s wide eyes and body trembling violently, I knew he must be in terrible pain.

“Huff…” Finally, she pulled a barbed, three-edged wolf-tooth arrowhead out of his back, then quickly applied a bottle of purple-red medicinal liquid to the wound. This medicine seemed even sharper than the arrowhead that had pierced him. It greatly stimulated Dakla’s nerves, making him roar in a low voice, his limbs struggling desperately, his fingers clenched so tightly that he nearly snapped his own bones. If not for the cloth in his mouth, he might have ground his teeth to pieces. But from what I observed, the medicine was indeed effective. Not long after it was applied, the bleeding from the wound stopped.

Only after Millia treated the wounds on his calf and chest did Dakla’s torture come to an end. He looked pale, and his mind was beginning to grow unclear—perhaps he had already passed out.

After finishing everything, Millia turned and ordered the soldiers carrying the stretcher: “Carry him down. Find a ventilated place, open his chest, and leave the burned area exposed. If he gets a fever, tell me.”

“Is he going to be all right, Miss?” Riley could not stop worrying about his friend.

“The wounds on his leg and chest are light, but the wound on his back is serious. It may have hurt his internal organs. We need to be prepared…” Millia bit her lip and answered in a low voice.

Our hearts sank.

“Fred.” Riley suddenly called out to our young general.

“Give Dakla’s position to me.” Riley demanded seriously.

“Riley…”

“I have to do something for him. I don’t want him to wake up and find that wall still belongs to the enemy.” There was fanatical determination in Riley’s eyes. He suddenly lowered his head and said quietly, “Even if he can’t wake up, this victory should still belong to him.”

“I understand, Riley.” Fred gave up trying to persuade him. “That wall is yours…”

“For Dakla.” Riley glanced toward the direction where the stretcher carrying Dakla had left.

At the front line, Dakla’s injury had left the soldiers without their commander. Even though they had not received the order to retreat, they had already begun to fall back. The ladders that had already been placed on the wall were pushed off one by one. The following troops hesitated and dared not advance. The soldiers who had already climbed onto the wall had no support and grew fewer and fewer under the enemy’s blades. The warriors’ courage seemed to have been badly wounded along with Dakla, unable to give their full strength in battle.

“Attack!” Suddenly, a short but sturdy figure replaced Dakla at the front line, giving orders to the soldiers who were gradually retreating.

“Attack, soldiers! Your commander fell while fighting at the very front—how can you retreat!” Riley loudly scolded the faltering warriors, pouring courage and strength back into their bodies.

“That is your wall, that is your commander’s wall. Think about how your commander fought. Do not fall back. Move forward. Victory belongs to Dakla!” Riley shouted, encouraged, and charged to the foot of the wall at the very front. Together with the few soldiers still there, he lifted the ladders back up and paved the way for the troops behind him.

He succeeded. Behind him, thousands of soldiers shouted “Victory belongs to Dakla” and approached the wall once again. Their fierce fighting won honor for their commander and for themselves.

The struggle for the top of the wall became even more intense. Perhaps this wave of attack that had turned back and returned had come too quickly, catching the Winston warriors on the wall off guard. Although I had to admit that they were already very brave, the huge gap in numbers put them at a disadvantage. Their blood and our blood hung like red waterfalls on the brick walls, looking no different from each other. It was fresh juice squeezed out of human bodies, still carrying the warmth and breath of the living. In one exchange after another, wave after wave of red liquid carrying the breath of death was splashed out, as if the gods had put human lives into a juicer.

This tall wall of Davo City was one giant juicer. It devoured bodies, squeezed out blood, and crushed uncountable lives from both sides of the battle into its own embrace.

This giant Davo City juicer…