Chapter 1365: Chapter 89: Rebuilding the Nation (16)

With just one glance, Gerard could tell that among the two elderly and one youth who wanted to join the table, the expressionless, tall middle-aged man and the curious boy looking around were father and son.

Though the elder and the young one had differing temperaments, their noses and chins were unmistakably cast from the same mold.

As for the round-faced, chubby man who approached to ask, he should just be a companion.

“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” Gerard readily agreed to their request to join the table, “Anyway, the two of us just casually came together.”

Used to making decisions impulsively, it wasn’t until Gerard picked up the cap placed on the spare chair that he remembered he hadn’t asked the tablemate’s opinion.

“What do you think?” Gerard asked the blonde gentleman somewhat embarrassedly.

The blonde gentleman smiled generously, “If you don’t mind, then I certainly have no objections.”

Having said that, he stood up, moved to sit across from the old Dusack, and left half the table for the three newcomers.

However, he barely glanced at the new table mates, only nodded slightly as a greeting.

The round-faced man thanked repeatedly and pulled the father and son to sit.

The boy, stepping into an adults’ setting for the first time, was led by his father. His excitement was evident, eager to take in everything around him, and he sat down enthusiastically.

The seemingly slow-witted father, however, discreetly observed old Dusack’s cap, the earrings, and the blonde mercenary’s sword.

Clearly, the boy’s father was reluctant to join this table, but with the other two already seated, he didn’t create extra complications and sat down with them.

However, the boy’s father hadn’t anticipated that old Dusack and the blonde mercenary had intuition far beyond ordinary people’s.

Despite having drunk quite a bit, they still swiftly noticed the former’s gaze lingering “too long” on them.

The blonde man’s left hand instinctively rested on the pommel of his sword.

Gerard inspected the expressionless middle-aged man for a moment and straightforwardly asked, “This elder brother, judging by your looks, have you served before?”

The boy’s father turned his head to meet old Dusack’s gaze, but did not respond verbally.

“Good eye!” Fortunately, the round-faced man caught the conversation, instinctively building rapport, and warmly asked, “How could you tell?”

“Hey, I can’t explain it in just a few words,” Gerard smoothed the silver-streaked brown curls, took a small sip of wine, gestured with his cup toward the young blonde, “But he gets it.”

He pointed at the boy’s father, “He gets it too.”

Gerard winked at the latter, “Am I right, brother? Just like how I don’t wear earrings or have a fringe anymore, but you could figure out I’m a Dusack.”

Although the boy’s father remained sparing with words, he nodded, acknowledging old Dusack’s statement.

“May I ask, under whom did you serve?” Gerard asked again.

The middle-aged man, seemingly younger than old Dusack by a few years, didn’t respond, instead asking old Dusack with a puzzled look.

“Just curious,” Gerard opened his hands with goodwill, “Maybe, we have the chance to share a drink.”

Though the expressionless middle-aged man was reluctant to speak, upon mentioning that name, he straightened his back and solemnly replied, “Marshal Ned Smith.”

Gerard was momentarily stunned, then burst into laughter, “Then we definitely have to drink together properly.”

He promptly turned to call out to the waiter, “Bring more glasses! And another bottle of good wine!”

The round-faced man looked in surprise at his fellow townsman. He had long known his companion made his way through military honors, but had never heard him boast of serving under a marshal—not even once.

The round-faced man then glanced across the table at the old drinker—a big nose, wide mouth, carefree blue eyes, clothes of fine materials yet worn exceedingly casually—how he seemed more and more like some country squire.

The round-faced man licked his lips and cautiously asked, “Brother, from what you said, did you also serve under… a marshal?”

“‘A marshal’?” Gerard, somewhat displeased, retorted with a stern face, “Who else is there besides Marshal Ned Smith?”

“No! No one else! Just one! There’s only one marshal!” The round-faced man shook his head like a pendulum, amiably asking, “So you are also a subordinate of Ned… Marshal Ned Smith?”

“Subordinate? I wouldn’t say,” Gerard smacked his lips and plainly said, “I’m just a dogface who sells my life.”

The round-faced man wasn’t bothered in the least, eagerly asking, “Then… are you also here for the Freeman’s Congress?”

“Otherwise, why would I come to this lousy place?” Gerard poured the remaining wine down his throat, wiped his mouth, put the cup heavily on the table, snorted lightly, “It’s hard to find someone to drink with.”

“Coming.”

The voice arrived even before the person did.

The still charming tavern proprietress, a bottle and glasses tucked under her left arm, a tray hoisted high in her right hand, maneuvered skillfully between the backs and chairs, swaying as she came by the group’s table.

She set down the tray—half filled with some pickled appetizers, the other half laid with sliced salted pork—and then placed the glasses and wine bottle, finally picking up old Dusack’s overturned cup to pour him a drink personally.

“No need to rush like this,” the tavern mistress playfully chided, casting old Dusack a coquettish glance.

Faced with such a formidable character, Gerard also admitted defeat.

The round-faced fat man and the teenager at the other end of the table were wide-eyed in amazement.

“Boss lady.” Gerard cleared his throat softly, pulled out a money pouch, and handed it directly to the tavern owner, instructing, “Please keep an eye out, as soon as the bottles on this table are empty, bring a new one.”

“Alright.” The lady owner deliberately dragged her words long, pointing at the dishes on the plate, she cheerfully said, “These are on the house.”

After speaking, she took away the empty bottles and went to attend to other guests.

Before leaving, she did not forget to throw a flirtatious glance at the blonde man.

This time, it took the round-faced fat man and the teenager a moment to recover from the shock.

“I told you staying here was worth it!” The round-faced fat man chuckled, “If we stayed at the place arranged by the Blood Wolf, would we see such sights?”

The teenager pouted a little, incredulously asking his father, “When you go on errands, do you always…?”

“No.” The taciturn middle-aged man answered succinctly.

“Don’t get it twisted, kid, this is a place for drinking, the boss lady’s tricks are just a means to draw customers in.” Gerard interjected with a smile, looking around the packed tavern, he shrugged, “It works, doesn’t it?”

The teenager sheepishly scratched the back of his head.

Gerard picked up the bottle and rose, pouring drinks for everyone at the table, teasing the young man opposite him, “I’ll pay for the wine, you pay for the side dishes, now we’re even.”

The blonde man couldn’t help but give a wry smile.

“Hey, after two bottles of wine, we still haven’t exchanged names.” After serving everyone drinks, Gerard volunteered, “I’m Gerard Pleninovich Mitchell. According to the Paratu People, I should be called ‘Mitchell Gerard’.”

“I’m Mikhail, in the lumber business.” The round-faced fat man also introduced himself, then helped to introduce the father and son traveling together, “This is Majiya Milock, and this is Majia Lauer.”

Old Majiya nodded, and young Majiya also shyly nodded along.

“You can call me Siegfried.” The blonde man nodded.

“Well then, the first glass of wine.” Gerard raised his glass, “To Marshal Ned Smith.”

“To Marshal Ned Smith.” Old Majiya toasted solemnly.

Young Majiya and the chubby lumber merchant Mikhail echoed the toast.

The blonde man named Siegfried smiled, but remained silent.

The chance-met group downed tonight’s opening drink, even young Majiya had half a glass with his father’s permission—of course, considering how much certain individuals had already drunk, whether this drink counted as an opening drink was up for debate.

After downing the drink, Gerard immediately picked up a small pickled cucumber and began chewing.

Young Majiya imitated old Dusack’s example, but was so sour he shivered.

While everyone was fighting against the burning sensation rising up their esophagus, Siegfried, sitting at the table’s corner, seemed unaffected—because he hadn’t drunk at all.

“Ned of Tormes…” The blonde swordsman stared at the reflection in his glass, letting out a long sigh, a sigh filled with both reminiscence and regret.

“Since you both once served under him.” Siegfried turned his gaze to old Dusack and old Majiya, seriously asking, “Can you tell me, what kind of person was Ned Smith?”

Gerard and old Majiya exchanged a glance.

“A brave person.” Gerard replied, “He led us to countless victories.”

“A kind person.” Old Majiya replied, “He never sought personal gain.”

“Bravery doesn’t necessarily win battles.” Siegfried gently shook his head, “And kindness doesn’t necessarily equate to selflessness.”

Regarding the superior-judging-the-Old-Marshal attitude of the young man, Gerard and old Majiya both felt a trace of displeasure.

“But, I can see how deeply you respect him from the heart. A commander who earns the respect rather than fear of his soldiers deserves the first glass of wine.” Siegfried sighed again, “It’s a pity I never got the chance to face him myself…”

He raised his glass, toasting alone, “To Ned Smith, the greatest military strategist after the Duke of Arlen, who twice defeated the Empire’s men, founder of the Alliance, and the sole marshal of the Various Republics.”

After speaking, Siegfried drained his glass.

Young Majiya, mistaking the handsome blonde fellow’s toast as something very impressive, cheered and applauded on the side.

Old Majiya cast a puzzled glance at old Dusack.

Gerard, too, felt somewhat awkward, wanting to explain but not knowing where to start.

At this moment, a sudden loud voice rang in everyone’s ear.

The musician with the lute and an exaggerated hat, who had left at some point, appeared at their table.

“Siegfried! You rascal!” The musician clutched his chest, looking at his blonde companion with an incredulous expression, as if deeply betrayed, “There’s drinking and you didn’t invite me?”