Chapter 535: Chapter 30: Country Woman

In the third winter after the end of the war, Gray Stone Town finally welcomed a long-lost tranquility.

Messiah sat by the hearth, her rough fingers stroking a faded wooden cup. Time had etched ravines in her face, and once sunlit golden hair had long turned to the gray and white of withered grass.

She gazed at the snowflakes outside the window, her mind filled with a variety of mixed and messy thoughts.

The war was finally over!

Although they ultimately lost the war, did it really matter?

Over the decades, Messiah had witnessed too much suffering and felt too much pain.

The so-called glory, badges, and courage were nothing more than a spiritual shackle fabricated by the nobles to maintain their interests, deceiving the common folk into going to war for them and risking their lives.

In reality, ordinary people didn’t care about so much; everyone just wanted to live well.

Lost, then lost it is.

It’s heard that in a while, the council from Feiyan City will come to take over this remote town, and from now on, it will no longer be the nobles who manage them, but the officials dispatched by the council.

What difference these officials had from the former nobles Messiah still did not know, but based on her decades of life experience, she feared it was just the same old soup in a new pot, perhaps just another title for nobles.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. As long as there’s no more fighting, life can go on as usual.

There’s talk that the council might want to move them out, as their place is too remote, hidden in remote mountainous areas, with hardly any roads out, making it inconvenient to manage.

After a war, everything needs rebuilding, and now everywhere lacks population; merging their almost desolate little town into a larger one is only expected. Newest update provided by N0v3l.Fiɾe.net

Yet Messiah didn’t want to move.

She’d lived here for so long, long enough that she’d come to truly see this place as her home.

She even no longer remembered where she came from, what her previous identity was, only that she seemed always to have stayed in this remote town, as an ordinary townsperson, an ordinary farmer.

This was her home.

That’s why she really didn’t want to leave here, just wanted to stay until the day her life ended.

Throughout the decades, Messiah’s empty soul had finally been filled with content.

Content that belonged to humanity.

“Knock, knock, knock!”

Just then, a knock sounded on the door.

Messiah rose and walked over, trembling, to unlatch the door. Outside, she saw a tall figure draped in a tattered cloak standing in the wind and snow.

“Aunt Messiah.” The hoarse voice sounded like it had been scoured by sandpaper.

The hood of the cloak fell back, revealing a scarred face. The left eye was covered by a patch, and the right sleeve hung empty and knotted. Yet those amber eyes were just like the shy boy of years past.

This was Max’s son, Kuma.

Despite experiencing some tribulations, Kuma was fortunate enough to survive on the battlefield and returned home after the war ended.

He was not young anymore, and upon returning to town, he soon married a young woman who had lost her husband. They rebuilt a family, and last year they welcomed a pair of twins.

Kuma took off the basket from his back and placed it on the ground, filled with various agricultural products: wheat, soybeans, potatoes, vegetables, tomatoes, and more.

Kuma said, “I went to the cellar today and took some farm goods. Martha asked me to bring some to you too.”

Warm laughter immediately spread in Messiah’s clouded eyes, and she stepped aside for Kuma to enter, “Come in, child, it’s snowy and windy outside, aren’t you cold?”

Kuma bent down and, with his remaining left hand, somewhat clumsily lifted the heavy basket into the small room. The warm and dry air quickly filled with the scent of fresh earth and root vegetables. He placed the basket on the ground by the hearth, rubbing his frost-red cheeks and remaining left hand.

“Aunt, see,” he said, squatting down and stirring the contents with his left hand, “these are all from our own cellar. The wheat is from last year’s harvest, selected as good wheat, fragrant whether ground or boiled as porridge. The potatoes and sweet potatoes are large and keep well.”

“These radish greens are still fresh, Martha said they’re great for soup. And these tomatoes, stored from the summer, stayed good in wheat bran; though their skin is a bit wrinkled, their flavor remains, a fresh taste for you.”

Messiah shakily squatted down too, her age-spotted hand lightly stroking those cool-to-the-touch cellar vegetables. The potatoes’ skin rough and specked with dry dirt; the radish greens a deep color touched by frost; those few tomatoes indeed wrinkled, but firmly red. Her fingertips could sense the life force contained in these foods, the most honest gift from this war-torn land following peace.

“Good… really good… Martha is thoughtful, do you have enough to eat for yourselves? And the two children?”

“Enough, more than enough, rest assured, Aunt,” Kuma said, “the cellar at home is still full. Little Anna and Little Tommy are strong, they eat well and sleep well. Anna has already started crawling, she’s really mischievous.” Mentioning his children, the scars etched like knives on Kuma’s face seemed to soften a bit.

Messiah looked at Kuma, this boy who years ago bid her goodbye in the snow, now a one-armed, one-eyed father with his face etched by war’s marks. Time and hardship had left indelible traces on him, yet also granted him a calm strength.

“That’s good… as long as the children are well.” Messiah slowly stood up, patting Kuma’s solid shoulder, “Sit awhile, warm up by the fire, I’ll pour you a hot drink.” She turned to fetch the earthen kettle warming on the stove.

Kuma obliged, sitting on a small stool by the hearth, the warm firelight driving away the cold from his body. He watched Messiah’s hunched figure bustling about, his gaze sweeping over the familiar yet worn little house, finally resting on Messiah’s aged yet peaceful face.

“Aunt,” he held the bowl of hot water Messiah handed him, warmth transferring from the rough pottery to his palms. After hesitating a moment, he still spoke, “The town’s saying… that over in Feiyan City… they’re planning to move all our scattered small places to the newly planned larger town to the east… have you… heard about it?”

Messiah’s hand, holding the wooden cup, paused. Her cloudy gaze turned toward the still-fluttering snow outside the window. After a moment’s silence, the fire on her face danced, casting deep wrinkles and faint loneliness.

“I’ve heard,” she sighed softly, her voice low as if speaking to herself, “This old body of mine… where else could I move to?” She slowly returned to her chair, sitting down, her withered fingers unconsciously stroking the armrest worn smooth by time, as if drawing some kind of supporting strength.

“Kuma,” she lifted her head, looking at this man she regarded as her own child, eyes filled with a nearly stubborn calm, “Gray Stone Town… is my root. I don’t want to go anywhere else. Just here… guarding this old house, this hearth… it’s fine.”

The fire crackled, and the wind and snow outside seemed even stronger. Inside, the smell of food, the warmth of the hearth, and a heavy sense of attachment intertwined, forming a small, yet incredibly resilient harbor in this desolate post-war winter.

…..

Messiah no longer needed to worry about the relocation.

Because,

Before she even got moved… she…

was going to die…

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