Chapter 1364: Chapter 87: Rebuilding the Nation (15)_2

“Nobles?” Gerard asked again.

The blond man became wary, remained silent for a moment, and reluctantly nodded.

“Exile?” Gerard continued asking.

This time, the blond man didn’t answer. He gave a noncommittal smile, “Sir, are you trying to marry your daughter to me?”

At the mention of Scarlett, a myriad of sorrows engulfed Gerard’s heart, and he couldn’t help but sigh deeply, “Alas, only if she is willing.”

The blond man, hearing the old Dusack’s words, picked up the wine bottle and poured half a glass for him, as well as for himself, “Your daughter is very lucky to have a father like you.”

“You’re mistaken, young man,” Gerard said wistfully, “for a father, a daughter is the most precious gift bestowed by the Lord.”

The blond man’s face unconsciously showed a hint of a bitter smile, “Perhaps, that’s how it is.”

“To every good father,” Gerard raised his glass.

The blond man also raised his glass, “To every good father.”

The two clinked their glasses heavily and drank heartily.

Meanwhile, the troubadour was reaching the climax of the story, seemingly about the protagonist’s deadly battle against the King of the Northern Territory on the battlefield — Gerard wasn’t paying close attention.

The troubadour sang enthusiastically, but the patrons could no longer tolerate his coarse loud voice and began to cause a ruckus.

However, the more the audience jeered, the louder the troubadour sang.

Seeing this, the blond man silently placed his left hand on the hilt of his sword.

Gerard looked at the troubadour with his exaggerated wide-brimmed hat and asked the young man in front of him, puzzled, “Your client?”

“My friend,” the blond man replied.

“That makes sense,” Gerard said relieved, “I was wondering, how could anyone hire such a terrible-sounding bard and afford someone as skilled as you.”

The previously cool-as-ice blond man showed an uncharacteristically embarrassed expression at this.

He explained sheepishly, “Actually… the real singer is someone else. It’s just that she has a place to stay tonight, so it’s just the two of us out here performing.”

“Then you definitely shouldn’t let him continue singing,” Gerard remarked, observing the dissatisfied patrons around them, “If he keeps going, not only will you not earn enough for tonight’s lodging, but you’ll also have to pay for chairs and tables.”

The patrons’ dissatisfaction grew more intense due to the troubadour’s disregard. People began banging on tables, booing, and shouting for him to get off.

Some even threw things at the troubadour, who skillfully dodged them while still playing his music.

“If only I could stop him,” the blond man sighed softly, “we wouldn’t have fallen to the point of having to perform on the streets.”

The sound of banging on tables transitioned from chaotic to a unified thudding.

“What the hell is he singing?” someone cursed, “It’s fucking terrible!”

“Get off!” someone shouted.

“Beat him up!” someone else hollered, “Beat the crap out of him!”

Amidst the deafening cacophony, a timid, duck-like voice drifted in from the entrance, “Who is Siegfried? Why sing about him? Can you sing something else?”

No one expected that it was this nearly drowned-out voice that would actually cause the troubadour to stop.

The troubadour took a deep breath and bellowed, “Quiet!”

The thunderous shout almost blew the roof off, instantly silencing the patrons who had been making a fuss.

Seeing the people around clutching their ears in pain, the troubadour nodded satisfyingly.

He took off his hat, revealing a slightly sparse head of hair, and elegantly bowed toward the entrance, amiably asking, “What would you like to hear?”

Standing at the tavern entrance were three men, two older and one younger. The one who spoke earlier was the youngest of them.

“I want to hear the story of the Blood Wolf,” the young boy summoned his courage and answered loudly, “I want to hear ‘The Battle of the Styx’!”

Upon hearing this, the patrons echoed in agreement, “Yeah! The Blood Wolf story!”

“Uh,” the troubadour became embarrassed this time, and he replied awkwardly, “I don’t know ‘The Battle of the Styx.'”

The young boy was visibly disappointed and asked again, “Then ‘The Battle of Bloody Mud’?”

“The Battle of Bloody Mud is fine too,” the patrons chimed in again, “The Battle of Bloody Mud is fine!”

The troubadour, even more embarrassed, said, “Sorry, I don’t know ‘The Battle of Bloody Mud’ either.”

“How come you don’t know what everyone else does?” The young boy’s eyes showed a hint of disdain as he shook the booklet in his hand, “The latest one, then? ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Claw,’ do you know it?”

The patrons immediately became interested.

You must know, in Maplestone City, the most popular story right now is ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Claw.’

This story, originally printed in the ‘Messenger,’ became wildly popular after its release.

As a public “notice,” every issue of the ‘Messenger’ was posted on the notice boards of cities and villages in the Newly Reclaimed Land.

When it was first issued, people often stole the ‘Messenger,’ prompting the local governments to assign guards to watch over the notice boards with the ‘Messenger’ posted on them.

However, as time went on, the novelty waned, and now, few people bother to steal the ‘Messenger’ anymore.

Those who wanted to bring the ‘Messenger’ home for a closer look mostly resorted to transcribing it on the spot, or simply buying separately printed booklets.

However, ever since ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Claw’ was serialized in the ‘Messenger,’ the “good old days” immediately returned.

Limited by paper size, ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Claw’ couldn’t be published in one go in the ‘Messenger.’ It had to be serialized in chapters.

This scratched a collective itch for the Newly Reclaimed Land’s populace. Everywhere on the notice boards, they posted one, only to have it taken; posted two, only to have a pair snatched away.

There were even bizarre incidents where “the messenger tasked with posting the ‘Messenger’ hadn’t arrived, yet several groups attempting to steal it had already resorted to brawls in front of the boards.”

The distribution department of the ‘Messenger’ had to urgently remove ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Claw’ from it, switching to standalone printing instead.

Storytellers in marketplaces across the region had recently stopped telling the old, worn-out tales of the ‘Magyar Kings,’ all pivoting to narrating ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Claw.’

The most famous theater troupe in Maplestone City was also starting to rehearse a new play based on the story of ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Claw.’

So when the young boy asked if ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Claw’ could be told, the patrons immediately perked up.

However, the troubadour once again disappointed everyone, “I don’t know ‘Escape from the Tiger’s Claw’ either.”

“Then what do you know?” the patrons grew angry, “Get out! Get out!”

Spoons, forks, wine glasses, rotten fruits, hard bread with teeth marks—all began flying again beneath the tavern roof.

“Wait,” the troubadour, holding his head as he dashed and dodged, shouted, “I can tell the story of ‘Reynard the Fox and the Lioness.'”

The mention of the lioness quickly hushed the tavern. The patrons understood tacitly and ceased their commotion.

“Let him speak!” someone said.

“Speak!” the crowd murmured chaotically, “Speak.”

The young boy at the entrance curiously asked the middle-aged man next to him, “Dad, what is Reynard the Fox’s story about?”

The man with a granite-like, stern face also appeared a bit uneasy and awkwardly said, “For you, it’s a bit too soon.”

“Oh, brother Majiya,” another plump middle-aged man said with a chuckle, “it’s not too soon, it’s time for Laor to know what he should know.”

After speaking, the middle-aged man glanced at the young boy and teased, “Didn’t you want to know Reynard the Fox’s story? We can find a seat and listen, can’t we?”

Meanwhile, the troubadour cleared his throat, strummed the lute, and with exaggerated expressions, began to tell “The Story That Had to Be Told of Reynard the Fox and the Lioness.”

The blond man turned his head, covered his face, pretending not to recognize the troubadour.

Gerard burst into laughter.

Just as Gerard was about to pour another drink for the young man, a fawning voice sounded beside him.

Gerard looked up and saw that the trio—two old and one young, who had been standing at the entrance—had already come to his table.

“Brother, everywhere else is full,” the chubby middle-aged man asked cheerfully, “May we join you at your table?”