Unless someone in the enemy ranks had her level of skill, it would be hard to kill Lester Liew in single combat.
But he was just a lowly porter—not worth surrounding or ambushing.
That left only two possible causes for his death.
First: He might've been executed for slacking off and violating military discipline.
But his name wasn't on the death list, so that couldn't be it.
Any porter executed under military law would be officially recorded. In severe cases, the punishment extended to three generations of the family.
But the entire Liew clan was alive and well.
Second: Natural death due to poor health.
Like catching a cold from the rain or dying of tetanus from an untreated wound.
But Lester had swindled Ben's little coin stash—he had a full 398 copper coins. For common illnesses, he could absolutely afford medicine.
As for tetanus? Even that wasn't a guaranteed death sentence.
"Tch…" Clara rubbed her brow. She really didn't want to keep analyzing with the chief and rose to take her leave.
The village chief watched her go, visibly relaxing.
After hearing Clara's detailed breakdown, he became convinced that Quinn Liew had been with Lester all along—and was reassured.
Clara lay on the narrow guest bed in her small room, frowning at the pitch-black night outside the window.
If that good-for-nothing Lester really wasn't dead… then where was he?
"Achoo!!!"
Out in the vast grasslands, Lester sat up from his feverish stupor, letting out a mighty sneeze. Two long strings of snot shot out—and landed squarely on the faces of Quentin Wang and Quinn Liew, who were lying right in front of him.
Quentin: "…"
Quinn: "…"
Lester wiped his nose with the back of his hand—then wiped his hand on his clothes with perfect ease. He tightened the thick cotton robe around himself, then glanced around and noticed the fire had gone out.
He got up to rekindle it, and as the flames leapt back to life, the flickering light made him see double. He took a deep breath—his nose was too stuffed, so he had to breathe in a lungful of cold air through his mouth, which triggered a round of coughing.
Quentin and Quinn wiped their faces calmly, pulled their straw mats tighter around themselves, and went back to sleep.
They weren't worried about enemy raids anymore—Northern Mong and the Sheng Dynasty had agreed to a ceasefire. The Grand Princess's daughter, Princess Helena, had even volunteered for a political marriage to seal the deal, and all military operations had been suspended.
The vast grassland stretched around them. Their fire was the only source of light in the darkness—eerie and unsettling, but the three of them were used to it by now.
They'd been lost on this damn grassland for a full month and had only just made it to the gates of Darkmoon Gate today.
Come to think of it, this porter mission had been… strangely fortunate or downright unlucky, depending on how you looked at it.
They hadn't died, and the mission had been completed smoothly under Officer Rex's command.
Right after their delivery, Northern Mong and the Sheng Dynasty entered peace talks, and the remaining supply runs were canceled.
But because the mission was cut short, they didn't get a single coin of return compensation.
Each porter was given a sack of grain and told to find their own way home.
At first, Lester, Quinn, and Quentin had left with the main group.
But then they encountered a pack of wolves.
Everyone scattered in panic, running for their lives—and in the chaos, the three of them got separated from the others.
Just their luck. They ended up wandering the unfamiliar prairie for a whole month.
In the end, it was Lester—the half-baked scholar—who led them out. He insisted on heading opposite the direction of the North Star, and that finally brought them south, all the way to the gates of Darkmoon Gate.
Their good luck had clearly run out the moment the mission ended.
Just when they finally escaped the grassland and reached Darkmoon Gate, they missed the curfew and couldn't enter the city.
So they had no choice but to camp outside for the night and wait until morning.
And of all times, Lester came down with a raging fever.
He had been unconscious all afternoon, cared for by Quinn and Quentin.
Now, in the dead of night, he woke from the cold. His fever hadn't gone down at all, his nose was clogged with "mud," and he was freezing, starving, and woozy—all in all, worse than death.
He used to dream about returning home.
Now all those dreams had been beaten out of him by harsh reality.
He had only one thought left in his head: Get off this damned grassland.
In October, Northern Mong's nighttime temperatures could freeze a man solid.
Lester stoked the fire high and wrapped himself tightly in his padded robe, but still shivered uncontrollably. He nearly passed out again from the cold.
They'd been stuck in the grassland for a month. The sack of grain was long gone—they were down to chewing on grass.
Lester still had money—three hundred ninety-three coins, stuffed in his inner shirt. But what good did that do when there was no food for sale?
His eyes were locked on the towering walls of Darkmoon Gate, praying for dawn, praying the gates would open so he could get inside and buy medicine.
He clung to that sliver of life through the long night, sitting by the fire until morning.
The moment soldiers appeared atop the city wall, he roused Quinn and Quentin. The three of them, looking every bit like beggars, scrambled toward the gate.
Thankfully, they still had their documents and were allowed in.
After walking another 1km past the city gates, they finally reached a populated area.
Lester had reached his limit. He pulled out the string of coins hidden in his shirt and stuffed it into Quinn's hand—and collapsed with a thud.
"Uncle Lester, don't die!" Quinn shouted, panicked. "If you die, how do I explain this to Aunt Clara?!"
Quentin stared at the string of coins in shock. He hadn't expected Lester to still have money.
But this was no time to be shocked. Seeing Quinn panic like a headless chicken, he barked, "Don't just stand there—carry him! We need to find a doctor!"
When Lester came to again, he found himself inside a shabby Taoist temple.
A fire crackled nearby. Quinn and Quentin were resting on piles of straw.
The bitter scent of herbal medicine filled the air. The medicine in the clay pot bubbled noisily.
Lester knew then—he had survived.
But he was completely exhausted. He tried to call out to Quinn, but his voice was hoarse and cracked. After a long struggle, he gave up and chucked a small rock instead.
"Ow!" Quinn yelped, jolting awake. Seeing Lester with open eyes, he exclaimed in delight, "Uncle Lester! You're alive!"
Lester rolled his eyes.
He turned his gaze toward the boiling pot. Quinn followed his eyes and saw that the medicine was bubbling over. He hurried over in a flustered mess.
The noise woke Quentin. Seeing that Lester had come to, he let out a long sigh of relief.
But after Lester finished drinking the medicine, the three of them faced an even greater crisis—they had no money to get home.
It would take at least half a month of walking to get back to Willowridge, and they still had to eat along the way.
Quentin patted his pockets—completely empty.
Quinn shook out his clothes and produced a chipped machete. He tried pawning it off, but no shop would take it.
Lester discreetly patted his chest. He still had two strings of coins. Renting a cart would be enough.
He'd help Quinn, sure. They were from the same village, distantly related—he could ask the chief for reimbursement later.
But why should he pay for Quentin?
(End of Chapter)
Enjoying the story? Get early access to new chapters on my Patreon: patreon.com/c/TinaWriterXD
Thank you for your support! 💛