Chapter 6: The Camp Kitchen

“In that case, our current plan needs a slight adjustment.” Uncle Ulyan, playing with the poorly made javelin head in his hand, wore an expression of excitement. “First, we must reinforce the camp so everyone has a safe place to stay. Next, we need to find the kobolds’ lair, figure out how to break through, and locate the iron mine! Everything else can wait.”

When everyone had left and only Ulyan and Leo remained, Leo furrowed his brows and asked, “What’s the point of finding the iron mine first? We can’t eat iron ore, we have no blacksmith, and there’s over thirty miles of wilderness with no road to the western watchtower. We can’t transport the ore out at all. Shouldn’t we focus on finding food first?”

He couldn’t voice these doubts in front of everyone else—for morale, just lifted by the prospect of iron, would be crushed again.

“What do you know? You just mind your own business. Once you’ve healed up, go scout out the kobold lair and see if we can take it.” Ulyan, as always, offered no explanation, simply waved him away.

Leo could only shake his head and slip out of the tent.

Only after everyone had gone did Ulyan sit down with effort, the excitement and confidence on his face slowly fading, leaving only exhaustion.

A tall, golden-haired girl with a proud bearing entered—Olivia. Seeing her father’s weary, pained expression, she went over anxiously, crouched beside him, and laid her head gently on his knee. “Father…” she whispered, her voice filled with concern.

She lifted his trouser leg, revealing skin as pale as death, black veins snaking up from his calf and disappearing into his boot, carrying with them a faint odor of decay.

“It’s nothing, just a minor ailment. I can bear it.”

…

Returning to his own small tent, Leo saw the little Mouse had already come back from her bath. She was struggling to stretch the clean snow bear pelt onto some propped-up sticks to dry.

The ragged furs Leo had tossed out were also tidied up; she’d piled them neatly in a corner of the tent, not discarding a single scrap, even gathering the shed animal hair into a ball for safekeeping.

She was wearing a thick, patched woolen sweater with a coarse, cylindrical hemp tunic over it—no longer looking so thinly clad. But the clothes Olivia had loaned her were clearly too large, hanging from her tiny frame like some kind of religious robe, the hem trailing on the ground.

She walked with an awkward, stumbling gait, which was both comical and endearing.

This was the first time Leo had seen her clean. After her hot bath, some color had returned to her face; her black hair and dark eyes made her delicate features stand out, and her skin was strikingly fair—unusual for someone of her social standing.

But she was painfully thin; long years of hunger had hollowed her cheeks and eyes, giving her an almost eerie appearance.

Even when she’d been caked in mud, it was obvious Mouse was a little girl, but the original Leo had been so oblivious he’d never even considered her gender.

In fact, Leo thought, given the personality of his former self, he probably wouldn’t have cared about her species, either.

Today, his sudden burst of compassion meant that if it was a mouse, he’d take it home; tomorrow, if his charity ran out, he might toss it into the stew.

He still held Mouse’s little silk nightgown, small enough to fit in his palm, like a wisp of cloud. After washing, it had dried on its own before he could hang it up.

Even without unfolding it, he could see the iridescent sheen the sunlight cast across its surface. The silk was not only smooth to the touch, but radiated a constant warmth.

Such a fabric, even in his modern life, Li Ao had never seen. Perhaps this was what they called magical cloth—the thing that let Mouse survive the northern winter.

This surely meant Mouse’s identity was not simple, but Leo had no intention of digging further. The main quest now was survival; side quests that cost time and energy could wait.

“Hey!” Leo stuffed the silk gown into Mouse’s hands. “Wear this in secret—don’t let anyone see, or it’ll get stolen sooner or later.”

Mouse clutched the nightgown silently, eyes downcast.

“By the way, where have you been sleeping while I was injured? And what did you eat?” Leo voiced his earlier doubts.

Mouse opened her mouth and stammered, “Olivia…sister…set up a tent…for me.”

She spoke the Imperial tongue in a soft, pleasant voice, but her accent wasn’t from the northern provinces. Leo, who’d never left his village, couldn’t tell where she was from.

Was Olivia really so kind? She’d never seemed warm toward Mouse… But it fit with Leo’s memories: whenever he caught snow rabbits, it was always Olivia who cooked them, though she often couldn’t bear to kill them, especially while food was plentiful.

There was a time when Leo’s luck was good enough that Olivia’s family had seven rabbits and a fawn.

Although the poor, conservative villagers were hostile to orphans, Olivia couldn’t bear to see Mouse freeze to death.

Glancing at the sun, Mouse hid the nightgown away, then took Leo’s hand and led him toward the center of camp.

All around, the camp resounded with the clatter of activity: tents being pitched, wagon boards dismantled, fences erected, deadwood, weeds, and stones being cleared away.

The villagers looked relaxed, the mood far livelier than on the road. Rows of wooden palisades now ringed the camp, with tents leaning against them for shelter from wind and snow. If attacked, these fences would serve as makeshift defenses, at least stopping arrows and javelins.

The center of the camp was open, save for a half-open tent pitched between two wagons: the kitchen of the expedition.

Beneath the wagons, several cages held chickens, ducks, and rabbits—a total of fourteen animals with thirty-eight legs among them.

Seven or eight old women and younger wives were bustling about, preparing food for the caravan. A group of girls, led by a sturdy matron, returned from outside the camp with baskets of edible plants—many of which Leo recognized but couldn’t name.

It wasn’t yet mealtime, but several large kettles were already boiling, filled with unknown wild greens, beans, minced radish, and dried meat. From a nearby tent wafted the aroma of baking bread.

Of course, the bread wasn’t fresh, but hardtack reheated for the meal. These long, club-shaped loaves were so tough that, if not softened, even a knife couldn’t cut them.

The so-called “meat soup” in the kettles was meant as a soak for the bread; without a dunk in hot broth, the bread was as tough as hardwood.

At a glance, one might almost believe food was abundant. This was exactly the illusion Ulyan intended by placing the kitchen at the camp’s center and fostering such an atmosphere.

But as a core member, Leo knew the truth: the entire party’s supplies were down to just what fit in those two wagons.

Mouse led Leo to one side of the kitchen wagon, where over a dozen ragged, gaunt children had already gathered, their faces full of hope.

None greeted Mouse, but as soon as they saw Leo, they began calling out, “Big Brother Leo!” “Captain!”

All these children were villagers’ offspring, nearly all of whom had felt Leo’s fist at some point. Yet the more he’d roughed them up, the more they admired his strength.

Still, unlike Mouse, they didn’t dare get too close; no one wanted to risk a kick from Leo.

Because the hardtack was so dense with bran, beans, acorns, and cassava—almost impossible for children to digest and potentially fatal—the caravan’s youngest were given different food.