Chapter 736 — The People Who Rebuild Their Homes

When meeting an administrative hall official, one must address them as sir or madam, not as my lord or master — this was the rule Durin had learned after many dealings with these people who called themselves "grassroots officials of the Joint Reconstruction Corps." Though he did not know why anyone would dislike a more honored form of address, since the other party demanded it, he obeyed with all his heart.

"You're welcome," the young administrative official waved a hand. "It's getting late. Take your wages and head home — mind the road, citizen."

"Yes, sir."

Durin and his two sons turned and walked briskly away. The tall, lean administrative official watched the three depart and shook his head with a smile.

A young man in black winter clothing walked past nearby and stopped behind the administrative official, remarking casually: "You don't actually have to call them citizens — first, they don't understand it anyway, and second, the resident register for this region hasn't been fully compiled yet. The word 'citizen' is still a little beyond them."

"I like the word 'citizen.' I like saying it and I like hearing it," the administrative official said, glancing at the young man in black winter clothing. "Is Minister Norris still outside?"

"Yes, he's inspecting the soil to the north."

"...We didn't manage to break enough farmland before the freeze; everything can only be made up next spring. Everyone feels the urgency, but Minister Norris's health is no longer what it was," the young administrative official sighed. "If only the snow this winter could be delayed by a week..."

"Yes..." The young man in black winter clothing frowned and looked toward the north of the camp with a slightly worried gaze.

The banner of the Cecil Empire flapped loudly in the cold wind. On the camp's temporary wooden walls, huge letters were painted in striking pigment: "Wrest the Land Back from the Jackals and the Winter." Craftsmen and laborers were busily at work in tense, orderly fashion, reinforcing the camp's windbreaks and wooden huts and preparing a warehouse for the incoming supplies. Soldiers patrolled warily around the camp, guarding against the hungry beasts of this wilderness and whatever crystalline monsters might still exist, having侥幸 escaped the purification sweeps. In the meantime, Minister of Agriculture Norris and his assistants stood on the high ground near the northern gate, gazing at the great expanse of frozen land.

Winter, snowfall, freeze.

With their flesh and blood, humans trudged across this scorched land, rebuilding, reclaiming, yet nature's magnificent power showed not the slightest mercy for human bravery or diligence. It operated more coldly than any machine, sending rain and snow by rule, freezing the earth by rule, neither delayed nor forgiving.

"Less than thirty percent of the planned land in this region has been reclaimed... Winter on the Holy Spirit Plains runs half a month longer than in the Southern Region, and more than half of the preparatory fields will surely miss next year's spring plowing," Norris said in a low voice. "We are consuming grain that was gathered with such difficulty in the west..."

"But at least several camps have gained a foothold, and the temporary roads have been opened, Minister," an assistant could not help saying. "So long as these camps hold through the winter, we can break ground the moment the thaw comes next spring, and at worst we lose only one season's harvest..."

Norris sighed. "In all things, one can only try to look on the bright side... cough, cough..."

He broke into a violent fit of coughing.

Air coursed through his windpipe, tearing at lungs damaged long ago by typhoid, and he felt as though the cold air had poured into his very organs, bit by bit dissolving what little strength remained in this body. But before the coughing fit could throw him off balance, two young hands reached out from beside him in time and steadied the swaying Minister of Agriculture.

"Minister," a young official called out anxiously, "are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Norris said at last, having caught his breath. He reached into his coat, drew out a small metal vial, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip of the slightly bitter tonic within. A warmth spread through his body, lending a touch more strength to his voice. "Ah, well, I'm getting on in years after all. The cold wind of the Holy Spirit Plains is not kind to me."

The rejuvenating elixir specially prepared by Pi Yunte replenished Norris's strength, yet he could still feel his organs steadily declining. Alchemical potions and druidic spells might make an old man more comfortable, but the deep damage wrought by aging was not something human effort could reverse.

He put away the half-full vial, looked at the young faces around him that showed worry, tension, and concern, and could not help but smile.

"Let's head back."

Norris shook off the two pairs of hands supporting him, turned toward the camp, and set off step by step, walking slowly forward.

He entered the camp and made his way to his own quarters.

Those devoted to rebuilding their homeland bustled along both sides of the road.

Magitech engineers from the Southern Region were calibrating a mana obelisk, its crystal apparatus brimming with magical power slowly revolving in the cold wind.

Craftsmen were measuring out foundations on an open plot, making preparations for the construction of a warehouse.

Several laborers were working together to saw through an enormous timber; the man gripping the saw looked vaguely familiar... He was a refugee who had once received help from the investigation team, and his most treasured possession had once been a small cart piled high with junk.

His wife stood not far off, stirring food in a great cauldron with a long-handled ladle, calling out to the men in a bright, carrying voice to wrap up their work and come eat.

That "treasured" little cart was there too, not discarded but parked on the open ground nearby, heaped with potatoes and turnips hauled out from the warehouse.

Norris recalled that he too had once had a cart much like it. He had pushed it all the way from Old Cecil to the Dark Mountains.

That cart had been burned for firewood in the first winter, and the stretch of land hard against the Dark Mountains had since become a remarkably fine place.

Norris's somewhat stooped back straightened a little.

His work was not yet done.

Miaoshuwu