When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

On an autumn afternoon, a crowd of twelve hundred people busily dismantled tents on a vacant meadow.

Sunlight filtered through the sparse leaves, mingling with the mist and spores in the air, creating a muggy sensation.

Children continued to laugh and play, helping adults roll up tents, while some elderly villagers struggled to carry luggage or load it onto wagons.

The swampy, grassy smell hung heavily in the air, making it difficult to breathe, as sweat trickled from people's armpits to their waists, soaking their pants.

The sick villagers were carefully helped towards the wagons, some still asleep, others coughing with hoarse, weak voices.

Child soldiers and elders moved among the crowd, the sounds of coughing and stumbling echoing across the meadow.

Busak stood on a wagon, directing people to move luggage and tents.

At the very front of the column, Horn frowned, pondering their next move.

After another count, Horn's camp had a staggering four hundred or more sick.

Although most of them could still walk, their pace was considerably slower than normal.

"Abandon any baggage that can be abandoned, even food can be thrown away; as long as we live, there's always a way," Horn said, grabbing a child soldier to relay the order.

His gaze lingered on a wagon where an old man struggled to climb aboard, his face pale and his breathing labored.

Horn immediately went over, offering a hand, supporting the old man's back and pushing him onto the wagon.

Turning from the wagon, Horn spotted Carrie and the child soldier he had sent out to scout.

They hurriedly dismounted, searching for Horn.

"What's the situation?" Horn strode forward to Carrie and the child soldier.

The child soldier handed Horn a crude hand-drawn map: "There is indeed a small path, about 12 miles from here, but there's a small river there, and the original wooden bridge has been washed away. We'll have to build a sheepskin raft bridge first."

Horn nodded and called Das over.

"Das, take a legion of guards, carrying sheepskin rafts, and go to the river to build a pontoon bridge. Make sure it's completed before we arrive."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Having received the order, Das led the only legion of guards entirely free of illness, carrying the sheepskin rafts and running towards the designated location.

Horn was about to leave when Carrie opened her arms, pouted, and closed her eyes.

"Hmm."

Horn touched her head: "What's wrong?"

"Where's my reward?"

"I didn't say I'd give it to you right away, maybe when I have time," Horn said, putting his arm around her waist and pushing her towards the sick camp. "Go help the people who can't move easily onto the wagons."

"You, you goat-loving scoundrel!"

"Hey, you, where the hell did you learn to say goat-loving?!"

Despite her complaints, Carrie obediently ran to the sick camp and carried the seriously ill onto the wagons.

Once a wagon was full, urging the accompanying people to set off, Horn turned around to see Kosey crashing through the scurrying crowd again.

"What's wrong?" Horn asked anxiously, looking at Kosey, who was running out of breath.

Kosey gasped for air: "We have too many patients, the wagons can't hold them all."

"Then tell the guards or Black Hats to carry them. Their own luggage can be carried by the horses. No one except the sick or wounded is allowed to ride!"

After tense preparations, Horn finally managed to get the entire group moving forward within half an hour.

Along the long road, the wheels creaked, and the villagers struggled to carry luggage and the wounded.

On both sides of the road, the previously endless puddles and ditches gradually disappeared, replaced by dense dawn redwood trees.

Water striders glided across the water's surface, passing a large water snake dragging the rotting corpse of a water vole.

The dawn redwoods stood like roadside trees or sentries, silently watching the moving crowd.

The villagers looked exhausted, sweat soaking through their clothes.

The children no longer laughed and played, but silently followed their parents and relatives, their small hands tightly gripping their elders' clothing.

The sick villagers seemed increasingly weak, their coughs rising and falling.

Their feet mechanically lifted and fell, and as they walked, villagers would fall to the ground or faint, and had to be carried onto the wagons.

Horn also walked forward with these villagers.

The horse he usually rode carried three wounded people.

"The pursuers are 40 miles away, Your Majesty," a child soldier ran down from the hillside and reported in a low voice.

"And us?" Horn barely managed to open his eyelids, weighed down by sweat.

"8 miles to the crossing point."

Horn had previously contacted the nearby beastmen, telling them that if the pursuers passed through their village, they should tie a red linen strip to the tallest tree on the mountain.

The last time they reported, the Edict Knights were 50 miles away from them, and they were 10 miles away from the planned crossing point.

That report had only been an hour ago.

If they continued at this rate, they would be caught by the Edict Knights just as Horn reached the crossing point.

Too slow, this speed was only half of what it should be.

Even though the pontoon bridge had been set up in advance, crossing the bridge would still take time, at least half an hour to walk across.

"The last eight miles to the designated location, everyone, step it up," Horn shouted to the people around him. "Faster, faster."

Despite Horn's urging, the marching speed remained slow, after all, there were so many sick people.

While Horn was worried about the march ahead, the rear of the column became noisy again, even halting their progress.

Helplessly, Horn went against the flow of people, pushing through the crowded mass to the back: "What's going on?"

"Flick, and some of the older ones, are saying they don't want to go anymore."

"What kind of nonsense is this, at a time like this?" Horn angrily pushed past the child soldier and jogged towards the back.

Sure enough, at the end of the line, Chilvis was still trying to persuade the old men to hurry up and catch up with the convoy.

Taking large strides forward, Horn shouted at them, "What are you doing? Get up, we have to go."

"Your Majesty, Holy Grandson, we really can't walk anymore," a red-nosed old man leaned against a tree, drinking wine, his eyes bleary.

"The pursuers of the Edict Knights are still 40 miles away, there's still time."

"You go on ahead," Flick, who was leading the troublemakers, straddled a large rock, "We really don't want to go."

Horn stepped forward and grabbed his arm: "What nonsense are you talking about, get up, those Edict Knights will catch up."

Flick shook off Horn's hand: "Tired, not going! Didn't you hear me? You guys go!"