CHAPTER 108: CHAPTER 106 WHERE IS HOME?

"And the prize for the walking race?" Horn looked disappointed.

"Can’t walk anymore, don’t want it." Frick closed his eyes in resignation.

Gesturing to Chervis in the front to go ahead with the others, Horn crouched down and whispered:

"This walking race is a team competition. If you don’t walk, it’s as if none of us did."

"How could that be?" Frick panted, "It’s not a real race. If we split up, we split up; it doesn’t matter."

Horn swallowed back his original words of persuasion.

"What are you saying? I don’t understand." Horn forced a smile that looked awkward.

"Your Majesty, stop pretending. We’ve known for a long time. We old folks have eaten more salt than you’ve walked miles," an elderly woman said loudly.

The sunlight was harsh, warming the people beneath it, making Horn dizzy.

Frick sat on a big rock by the roadside, like an old man sitting at his doorstep in autumn, his face full of wrinkles, legs crossed, in an artistic yet simple posture.

Over a hundred elderly people found places to sit, reminiscent of resting comfortably after labor.

"I... I don’t understand... You..." Horn’s mouth seemed stuck, unable to speak.

"We’re not those young people. They truly believe in you, but we old folks know you’re not the real deal. Yet, everyone is willing to follow you," another elderly person chimed in.

Like a statue, Horn crouched: "Since you know, why don’t you hurry up and go?"

No elderly person responded to Horn’s words; they just lazily basked under the sun.

After waiting for a while, only Frick raised his head and looked at Horn: "If we continue, won’t we hold back the children?"

"But, but..."

"His Majesty Horn, do you know? I once met the Pope," Frick abruptly started a new topic.

"Years ago, I traveled a thousand miles from the Thousand River Valley to Holy Seat City. The poem I composed spread throughout the city in just a few days."

"Pope Johnny VIII was so kind; he received us gently and arranged for us to stay at a cozy little inn, promising to give me a clear answer."

"Can you believe it? The inn arranged by the Pope is right next to the Pope’s Palace! Next door is the Pope’s Palace, next door!"

"How could there be ruffians sneaking through the window?! How could it be?!"

Frick seemed about to crush his teeth. He trembled all over, and Horn couldn’t tell if it was Parkinson’s or rage.

"In that inn, on that night, my adopted son, Little Rudi, was brutally drowned in the water tank by a sudden rogue."

"I tried to stop them, but they pried my mouth open and poisoned my throat with paint, so I could never sing again."

"Your Majesty, eighteen years later, I lost my family and children once again."

The chirping of birds echoed over the puddles, distant sounds of horse hooves could be faintly heard.

Under the sun, a few butterflies perched on flowers, their eyes fluttering, watching Frick clutching his collar.

Frick reached into his clothes, grasped the measuring stick Madlan had given him, holding it tightly.

"Your Majesty, you are a good Pope."

"You let us eat our fill, you let us taste oil and meat, you let us wear clothes without holes, you let us wash our filthy faces clean."

"You wear the same clothes as us, eat the same food as us, refuse to ride horses but use them to carry the wounded."

"You never abandon us, letting us live with dignity, even if we’re useless old folks."

Kneeling half on the ground in front of Horn, Frick gave the crouching Horn a big hug.

"I’ve always wondered, if, back then, the church had a good Pope like you, would my family, would Little Rudi not have died."

"Such a good Pope, we’ve waited for a lifetime, our fathers waited for a lifetime, our grandfathers waited for a lifetime. We don’t want our children to wait any longer."

Horn crouched there, just like the moment Danji spoke to him, he seemed to have aphasia, unable to utter a single word.

"Your Majesty, this sword hilt is for you." Frick reached into his pocket and pulled out a hilt with a sword guard.

"The hilt was originally for my own son. He heard too many heroic epics from me and insisted on becoming a dragon-slaying hero, demanding a sword."

"I couldn’t refuse him, so I bought a sword hilt and told him I’d buy the blade when he came of age, but he never needed it."

Frick inserted the hilt into a cloth bag on his waist.

Horn was motionless, dumbstruck.

Gripping Horn’s shoulder, Frick helped Horn up, seeming to smile: "Your Majesty, I beg you, don’t let our children die before us old folks anymore."

Forcing Horn to face forward, Frick patted his back: "Go on, walk faster."

Horn stepped mechanically, instinctively moving forward four steps, but couldn’t make his fifth step.

"Walk forward, don’t look back!" Frick shouted at Horn’s back.

Standing in place for three to five seconds, Horn then continued to move, speeding up, eventually almost running away from there.

Until Horn’s figure disappeared at the end of the road, Frick remained there, not knowing what he was thinking.

"Frick, stop standing there like a fool."

"Argh, big brother."

"How about it? Have a sip, get some courage."

An elderly man with a big frame pulled out a jug of wine and half a charred field mouse from his pocket.

Staring at the wine in front of him, Frick smiled, "No more drinking, I’m sober."

Frick rejected the wine brought to his lips and looked up at the azure sky, so high and distant.

Decades without singing, Frick suddenly felt like singing a few lines; he feared he might have forgotten.

"Today, I’ve hurt myself again."

Amidst the countless birds chirping in the woods, Frick’s hoarse singing pierced through the clouds, reaching the sky he gazed upon.

"Wondering if there’s still strength to feel,

Concentrating to experience this pain,

It’s the only real thing."

Beating his thigh to keep time, Frick sang the songs from his minstrel days with his broken voice.

His once rich voice had long become harsh amidst paint, tears, and wine.

Shaking his scrawny body, Frick stood upon the big rock, squinting his eyes, spreading his arms as if on the tavern stage.

Back then, his youngest son would stand behind him playing drums, and his wife would be beside him playing the flute.

In that warm summer-like tavern, day by day, it felt like eternity.

Until the day the tavern owner dragged their bodies back from the church with a cart.

"The tip of the needle stings the wound,

Like the familiar old pain."

The very scent of alcohol wafted from Frick’s hair; it was the first time he was this sober.

He could feel the ruler in his embrace, glowing hotly.

Joan of Arc Castle is a good place, Madlan a good child, but he could never go again, could never see again.

"Also tried to let everything vanish, never to reappear...

But I just remember everything."

Withdrawing his hand from his rib-like chest, Frick softly sang the final line again.

"But I just remember everything!"

In the song, the ground began to tremble, the grass blades shivered along, and the scent of blood rushed forward amidst the sounds of armor clashing.

At the end of the road appeared a group of cavalry in shining armor, towering knights mounted on high war horses.

The edges of their saddles embroidered with intricate patterns, and their cloaks bore the emblem of Prince Kongdai’s house.

The war horses snorted hot air fiercely, turning their indifferent and majestic eyes alongside their masters.

The narrow path cramped with panting people and horses.

The lead knight, his silver armor draped in a black-gray cloak, adorned with gold gleaming in the sunlight along the Milan-style pauldrons.

Standing quietly in front of the old men, the Imperial Knights raised their chins.

At the front, Bo Ao Lie turned his head and exchanged a few words with Cléante.

Cléante nodded, crossed over the crowd, and walked to the group of ragged old men.

Looking at this group blocking the path as if chatting idly at the village entrance, Cléante suddenly felt anxious, but he steadied himself and shouted arrogantly:

"Move along; the knight lord is feeling merciful, won’t pick on you old lot. Clear the road, go home."

Frick propped himself up with a spear, wobbling to stand before Cléante.

"Go home; the knight lord forgives you."

He leveled the spear, yet it shook constantly with his body.

"Barely get to live, what are you dumbstruck for? Is this something you can meddle in? Go home early... are you crazy?"

Stepping back several times, covering his pierced ear, Cléante screamed at Frick.

"Home?"

Withdrew the spear he thrust out; Frick gritted his teeth, smiling, his whole body trembling, like an old wolf with a limp: "Where the hell do I have a home anymore?"

Pushing past the bewildered Cléante, Frick and the elderly stumbled as they pointed their spears, charging towards the high-seated Imperial Knights.

Just like the warriors he had sung about countless times, charging at the dragon.

"Where do we have a home?!"