Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 925 - 23 Ordinary People and Demons_3

“This.” Pierre was stunned: “I… I can’t explain it clearly in a few words.”

The old man fell into deep thought.

Pierre was silent for a long time and then suddenly slapped his thigh and laughed loudly: “Let it be then! It doesn’t matter! Where isn’t red earth enough to bury a person? What do I have to be so picky about?”

He clutched the railing, struggling to stand up.

The old man looked at Pierre with concern.

Pierre looked through the window at the distant gallows, and muttered through clenched teeth: “I am Dusack, I will not die on the gallows, never!”

The old man pulled Pierre down to sit: “Don’t worry, I guarantee that your name will certainly not be called. That demon won’t pick you.”

Pierre cracked a smile and sat back down.

“If only I had paper and pen.” Pierre curled up and muttered: “If I had them, I would entrust you with a few letters to deliver.”

“You can still write?” The old man was overjoyed.

“Of course.”

“Could you teach me? I want to know how to write my name. The Priest from the parish taught me once, but I forgot a few days later.”

“That’s easy. Your name is?”

The old man swallowed: “My name is…”

Just at that moment, with a “creak,” the dungeon’s door opened.

The stench-filled dungeon was so unpleasant that even the jailers didn’t want to stay long. Therefore, the door would only open in a few circumstances. For example, lunch served at noon every day, the unfailing thrice daily inspections, the emptying of the chamber pots every two days, and… roll call.

But the current time obviously didn’t match any of those circumstances.

The dungeon suddenly fell silent, and the prisoners one by one stood up.

The old man and Pierre’s “seats” were in the corner of the cell, so they couldn’t see what was happening in the corridor. But they couldn’t mistake the intense suffocating sensation.

The temperature in the air dropped abruptly, whether from the outside cold wind blowing into the dungeon, or a trick of the human mind.

“Tap”

New novel chapt𝒆rs are published on ƒгeewebnovёl.com.

“Tap”

“Tap”

The sound of boot heels knocking against the floor.

This way of walking, each step like driving a nail with a heel, was also something Pierre would not mistake.

The old man and Pierre both froze, seeing the same answer in each other’s eyes—roll call.

But today was not Monday!

Both men propped each other up as they stood, but with everyone in front of them, Pierre and the old man in the corner could still see nothing.

Roll call, all the prisoners understood, it was time for roll call.

To the left of Pierre, a prisoner who was usually tough to deal with was already sweating profusely. The fierce prisoner wiped his sweat while trembling and incessantly reciting prayers.

In front of Pierre, another prisoner grabbed the sleeves of the two people beside him, babbling madly: “I’ve figured out the devil’s pattern for roll call! I know it all! I’ve calculated it! Not this time, not next time either…”

And many more prisoners just stood silently, rigidly.

The sound of boot heels striking the ground disappeared, followed by the sound of the roll being unfolded.

All prisoners swallowed involuntarily.

The demon hummed lightly, seemingly hesitant. Then, slowly, the demon read out a somewhat awkward name:

“Pierre Gerardnovich Mitchell — Sir.”

The old man’s face turned pale, and he shivered as he looked at the young man beside him. The old man saw the young man slowly sit down, “He’s frightened” — this was the first thought that leaped into the old man’s mind.

Next, the old man saw the young man take off his boots — this was completely beyond what the old man expected.

“What is he doing?” the old man wondered.

Then, the old man saw the young man tear away the boot’s upper and pull out a knife.

A knife?

A knife?

Rather than a knife, it’s more appropriate to say it’s a handleless blade, yet it was indeed a sharp edge flashing with a faint cold light.

The old man’s saliva in his mouth had completely disappeared, and his heart slammed into his chest like a hammer. Every single hair on his body stood on end from top to bottom. He wanted to speak, to stop the other party, but his body was stiff, unable to move.

Other prisoners also saw the blade in Pierre’s hand; they were equally shocked, equally silent, and motionless.

“Mr. Pierre Gerardnovich Mitchell,” repeated the Demon.

Pierre put on his boots again, stood up, and responded: “Here.”

“Please leave the cell.”

The old man felt that in the blink of an eye, the blade had disappeared from Pierre’s hand.

Pierre took his coat off and handed it to the old man, then walked proudly towards the cell door.

The prisoners parted ways for Pierre, who walked steadily forward as if strolling through the corridors of the Mitchell estate.

No one had ever walked towards death with such composure after being called by name. The prisoners gazed at Pierre with a mix of reverence and pity.

The old man also stared fixedly at the young man’s back; he wanted to shout, to go with him, but ultimately, he couldn’t make a sound or take a step forward.

Pierre reached the prison door, and the Demon gestured to the jailer to open it for him.

Pierre took a deep breath; his body was weak, lacking the strength and agility he once had, so he didn’t have a second chance – he needed to be patient yet decisive.

The Demon sized up Pierre, nodding his head.

Then the Demon revealed an unprecedented smile, turned to look to his left, and humbly asked: “Your Excellency, is it this gentleman?”

Pierre subconsciously followed the Demon’s gaze and saw a middle-aged military officer in a field officer’s uniform.

And the field officer was looking inquisitively at another man in a captain’s uniform: “Is it him?”

Pierre felt as if struck by lightning; he shivered, stiffened, and his hair stood on end just like the old man earlier, the blade nearly falling from his palm.

But the captain paid no attention to the field officer, striding up to Pierre and hugging him tightly.

“It seems there’s no mistake,” the field officer said, unannoyed, nodding his head.

“That’s good,” the Demon replied with a smile, almost servile; he bowed his head, “That’s good.”

At that moment, Pierre suddenly realized that the Demon was not a demon at all; the Demon was just an ordinary person, one that could be found anywhere.

An ordinary person, eager to exert pitiable power to torment and servilely bow to a field officer’s uniform.

“Let’s go,” said the field officer, wrinkling his nose. Clearly, the stench of the prison was uncomfortable to him.

“Let’s go,” the captain urged Pierre, holding him tightly: “Your father, Vasya, Priest Caman… and your mother, Scarlett… we’re all waiting for you.”

Pierre felt a lump in his throat and tightness in his chest. He turned to look back at the cell, seeing faces numb, envious, resentful, anguished, contorted.

He bit his tongue hard, not even noticing that he had drawn blood.

The field officer covered his nose and walked out of the dungeon; the captain was also urging Pierre, “Let’s go.”

Pierre stared hard at the face of the “ordinary person” and grasped the blade in his hand tightly.

The “ordinary person” smiled at Pierre.

The captain noticed Pierre’s odd behavior and asked with concern, “What’s the matter?”

“I…” Pierre was in extreme agony, a single spark away from plunging the blade deep into the “ordinary person’s” chest: “I… you… Can you take one more person with you? Just one, just one…”

Hearing this, the field officer turned his head back, frowning slightly: “Another deserter?”

“No, not a deserter, a debtor.”

The captain asked bluntly, “How much money is owed?”

The field officer chuckled, waving his hand dismissively; the “ordinary person” reopened the register, politely asking: “May I ask, what is the debtor’s name?”

Pierre was stunned because he realized that he never knew the old man’s name from beginning to end.

“Fugget! My name is Fugget!” the old man rushed to the bars, crying out through tears: “I only owe twenty-three silver shields and a corner piece!”