Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 924 - 23 Ordinary People and Demon_2

The old man wasn’t paying attention to what the Demon had said; he was more astonished as he asked: “Old language? The words of the lord? You can speak it?”

Pierre just smiled ambiguously in response.

The old man was overjoyed: “Then… then are you a lord too? Hey! I knew you must be someone important!”

Pierre said with self-deprecation: “If I were a lord, would I be sitting here waiting to rot?”

“Hey!” the old man dragged out the sound in disagreement, excitedly saying: “Even a good horse has to pull a heavy cart now and then!”

Through the small window of the dungeon, Pierre could see the gallows on the other end of the prison, where bodies always hung frozen.

Crows swarmed over the gallows, like a flowing black cloud.

“No matter what kind of horse, they all die,” Pierre’s throat was swollen badly, making it difficult for him to speak: “Here, it’s only a matter of time.”

The old man comforted Pierre: “Don’t worry about it, your name hasn’t come up so many times, and it won’t come up next time either.”

“You’re not the one deciding, old master,” Pierre said with a bitter smile.

“I’m not just talking nonsense!” the old man insisted: “I really think your name won’t come up.”

Pierre was a bit tired; he leaned against the railing, trying to find a more comfortable position to sit and doze off in.

The space in the cell wasn’t enough for everyone to lie down, so the prisoners could only sit curled up to rest and sleep.

Seeing that Pierre didn’t want to talk anymore, the old man also closed his eyes to nap.

After a while, Pierre’s weak voice reached the old man’s ears: “Old master?”

“What is it?”

Pierre wrapped his coat tighter, the stone he used for warmth had long gone cold: “I, I might not be able to hold on, I’ll either die from hanging or eventually die of illness.”

The old man reached one hand toward Pierre’s forehead, and the other to his own: “Hey, what are you saying? Your fever has already subsided! In a few days, in a few days you’ll be back to being a strong young man.”

The high fever left Pierre too weak to muster strength; he struggled to pull up his sleeve, not picking up the old man’s reassurances, he continued speaking: “Old master, look, here’s a silver bracelet, my father gave it to me on my twelfth birthday…”

The old man pressed down on Pierre’s sleeve, his old face flushed and embarrassed: “That… that… that’s not there anymore…”

“That what?” Pierre asked, confused.

The old man licked his lips, humming: “The bracelet.”

Pierre, in disbelief, felt around and after checking several times, finally realized the bracelet really wasn’t on his arm anymore.

Not daring to look at Pierre, the old man coughed and stammered in explanation: “It’s not stolen, I didn’t steal from you. That silver bracelet of yours… I gave it to the jailer. The stone you use to warm yourself… and our bread, they were all exchanged for that bracelet… Otherwise, you think those snake-like jailers would have been so kind? Don’t you agree?”

Pierre was stunned for a moment, then shockingly touched his earlobe: “Then my earring…”

“Also given to the jailer.”

“The one tied in my hair?”

“That too.”

“And also…”

“All.” The old man was very embarrassed: “All gone.”

“This… you… when did you…”

“A while ago, when you were asleep.”

Pierre was dumbstruck, then suddenly he sat up as if awakened from a dream, quickly taking off his boots and frantically searching inside them.

“Ah.” Pierre stopped, letting out a helpless sigh, and put his boots back on: “The bracelet and such… couldn’t have been kept anyway… Thank you, old master. Well bribed, well bribed.”

Hearing that Pierre wasn’t angry, the old man hurried to help him with the boots, pleasingly: “Hey, I knew you would understand. Gold and silver are good, but they’re not filling! In prison, a piece of bread is more useful! Don’t worry, if push comes to shove, I’ll find a way to get them back for you.”

“It’s alright.” Pierre leaned tiredly against the railing, the “intense” activity earlier had made his face a bit red: “Anyway, I was planning on giving them to you.”

“Ah?”

“I’ve estimated my inheritance.” Pierre said with a self-deprecating laugh: “Apart from a bit of gold and silver on my person, it’s just this coat.”

Pierre patted the coat on his body: “Even though it’s dirty, it’s made from good material. After I die, you take it to wear, don’t let it go to waste.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“I have something to ask of you.”

“Tell me, tell me.”

Pierre was coughing painfully, his cheeks showing an abnormal redness. After stopping the cough, he straightened his back, speaking earnestly and seriously to the old man: “I am Dusack, you know that, right?”

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“Of course.” The old man scratched his thinning hair: “You Dusans… are quite obvious.”

“After death, I want a Dusack funeral, I don’t want a Paratu funeral.” Pierre quickly added: “I don’t mean to look down on the Paratu People… but… I just want… to be buried as a Dusack…”

“I understand you, rest assured, rest assured, I also don’t wish to be buried carelessly after death.” The old man felt the weight behind Pierre’s words and unconsciously became more solemn.

But he scratched his head again, troubled: “But what does a Dusan funeral look like?”