Refugees 1

Translator: Cinder Translations

...

In Kas Village near the southern border of Alden, the atmosphere today was exceptionally tense.

Several roadblocks made of wooden fences were placed in a row on the road south of the village, completely blocking the passage.

Sergeant Markalov, now promoted to corporal, led a hundred militia forming a defensive line, facing south in readiness.

Today was the day the refugees were arriving, and the staff headquarters ordered them to line up here to "welcome" them.

However, their way of welcoming was somewhat peculiar; many were armed with knives, guns, swords, and spears, while those without weapons held farming tools like pitchforks and iron staves.

Everyone had a serious expression on their face, as if preparing for battle.

Several tents were set up at the entrance of the wooden fence, furnished with tables and chairs. Inside each tent sat two heavily clothed individuals wearing large masks that covered their entire faces, with gloves on their hands and only their eyes visible.

"Keep your spirits up when the refugees arrive!" Sergeant Markalov shouted loudly at the militia.

"Remember, be serious! Try your best to look intimidating; make them fear you and feel psychologically oppressed."

"Don't let them think they're here to enjoy themselves! Is that clear?"

The militia responded in unison, "Yes, sir!"

Susan, inside one of the tents nearby, sighed deeply, "Is this really necessary? These outsiders have suffered so much from the wars, shouldn't we provide them with warmth and hospitality?"

She and her mentor Dr. Ward, along with several other doctors who participated in medical training in Alden Town, were requisitioned by the Ministry to come here and conduct "quarantine" inspections on the refugees.

Her tent was specifically responsible for examining women, while her mentor was in another tent examining men.

A militia member ran over from the southern road.

"Report, Corporal Markalov!"

He stood at attention and saluted before saying, "The refugees have arrived."

Markalov raised his hand, "Attention, everyone!"

Soon, a large group of people appeared on the road leading south, within everyone's sight; these should be the refugees received by the Ministry in the south.

As they approached closer, the militia could see clearly what kind of people these were—pale and thin, dressed in tattered clothes, more destitute than beggars in the Northwestern Bay.

Several riders on horseback emerged from the refugee group, galloping to the side of the roadblock and saluting Corporal Markalov.

"Corporal, these people are handed over to you for now. We need to return to Alden Town to report. This is the first batch, totaling 357 people."

Markalov returned their salute, "Rest assured, we will strictly guard this place."

These riders were from the Internal Security Forces, accompanying Hansel on his journey south, responsible for guiding the refugees to the Northwestern Bay, handling customs procedures in the territories along the way, and ensuring that the refugees did not starve to death halfway.

After the handover, they bypassed the roadblock and continued northward.

Markalov ordered the militia, "According to the previous grouping, go and line up the refugees."

"Yes!"

Half of the militia split into five teams and rushed towards the southern crowd.

Upon seeing a large group of people armed with knives, guns, sticks, and clubs running towards them, the refugees became frightened and stopped in confusion, whispering among themselves.

"Listen to me, all of you!"

Militia member Josh put on what he thought was the most intimidating expression and roared at the refugees, "Immediately line up into a single file! Do you see the entrance to the wooden fence ahead? Once there, one person at a time, go to the tent designated by the sentry. No rushing, no disorder!"

Perhaps in the eyes of these southern refugees, Josh's Northwestern accent combined with his "intimidating" appearance seemed somewhat comical; a few couldn't help but chuckle.

Josh looked annoyed, and immediately several other militia members took out whips and lashed out fiercely at those who had laughed.

"Laugh again, and I'll whip you to death, you damned outsider!"

"Ah! Please spare us, sir!"

The whipped refugees pleaded one after another.

After the threat of the whips, the refugees became obedient and compliant.

However, getting them to line up was not easy at all; the militia struggled for half a day before finally forming a single file.

The column continued to advance and arrived in front of the roadblock.

The militia stationed next to the roadblock let through six individuals, directing each of them to one of the six tents.

The waiting refugees suddenly caught a whiff of a tantalizing aroma that made their mouths water. Following the scent, they saw a large tent next to the roadblock with a big pot inside, emitting hot steam—it seemed something was cooking.

"There's food! Real food!"

"Food! It's actual food!"

The news quickly spread backward through the refugee line, causing chaos. Many people ran forward from the rear to the front of the queue.

The aroma wafting over was much more enticing than the makeshift food they had been surviving on during their journey. The adults leading them on the road were only concerned with keeping them from starving.

"What are you doing? Don't you know how to line up?"

The militia ran over, shouting loudly and waving whips at those running amok, attempting to restore order.

"Please, sirs, just give us some food first!"

Josh blocked the entrance with his body, shouting, "Line up properly, and once the doctors have checked you, you'll get food."

But his voice quickly got drowned out in the refugees' clamor.

"Sirs, we've been eating pig feed for nearly half a month. No, those things aren't fit for pigs."

"Yeah, and it's just a tiny bit each day. We're starving to death."

More and more refugees gathered in front of the roadblock, and many began trying to climb over it.

Seeing the situation about to spiral out of control, Markalov shouted, "Everyone, get ready!"

Fifty militia members stood beside him, each holding long wooden sticks wrapped with thick cloth at the ends.

The militia lined up neatly in three rows. Upon hearing the corporal's command, they held their sticks horizontally. The second and third rows extended their sticks through gaps between their teammates in front.

Markalov commanded, "Charge!"

They sprinted forward in small, quick steps, swiftly thrusting their sticks into the crowd of refugees.

The refugees near the roadblock were caught off guard and fell down in a chaotic heap.

For a moment, cries and pleas filled the air.

The militia turned around, pointing their sticks at the remaining refugees who were already petrified.

"Mercy, sirs!"

The first person in front dropped to his knees, begging for mercy.

Seeing one person kneeling, the others quickly followed suit.

Markalov stepped forward and stood in front of them. Towering and imposing, with hands clasped behind his back, his face tense with seriousness.

Unlike the militia, Markalov had personally dealt with many pirates, emanating a strong aura of menace.

He glanced at the unfortunate ones still groaning on the ground.

"Restore formation within 10 minutes!"

"All those who were near the roadblock, move to the end of the line!"

The corporal's terrifying voice resonated harshly in everyone's ears.

(End of the Chapter)