Old Pugh’s daughter was still carefully wiping the wine glasses. She seemed genuinely interested in her father’s work—perhaps, one day, she would become a bartender herself.

Pugh had never told Felix his surname. Felix understood. Revealing his first name was already as much as Pugh could offer. After all, there were thousands of people named “Pugh” in all of Dossoles. Without disclosing his full name, there was little risk of being identified or exposed.

“You’re… a general among the true Bolivarians?”

“I’m not even close to a general,” Pugh replied calmly, shaking his head. “Just a soldier with a bit of a reputation.”

“Dossoles is a city teeming with all sorts of forces. Leithanien and Colombian spies are everywhere. As a true Bolivarian, I just wanted to see for myself what kind of magic this city holds to attract so many tourists.”

Felix took another sip of the golden beer.

“And? Have you figured it out? The reason this place exists?”

Pugh gently rubbed his daughter’s head and let out a quiet sigh.

“It was still July when I arrived in Dossoles. I watched the Dossoles Warrior Championship grow from nothing to something, little by little. I have mixed feelings about what Mayor Candela Sánchez has done.”

“Dossoles is full of evil, violence, and crime. Tourists can’t see it, because most of it happens downtown.”

As Pugh poured another drink for Felix, his movements were smooth and practiced. He looked more like a professional bartender than a soldier.

“In just one month, people from all three major factions have died in the downtown area. We, the true Bolivarians, have suffered heavy losses here.”

“And yet, it’s strange. This is a city steeped in sin… but Bolivarians love living here.”

Pugh’s outlook wasn’t extreme. He didn’t view things with blind hatred or rigid ideology. His perspective was measured and rational. That was exactly why Felix had chosen to continue this conversation. They could talk as equals—calmly, without accusations or bitterness.

What did this city truly represent? Pure desire? Or the desire to make a difference?

Felix didn’t know. Neither did Pugh.

“If you want to live in Dossoles, the cost can’t be cheap,” Felix said, glancing at the girl’s face. She noticed his gaze and offered him a soft smile.

“You’re right,” Pugh replied, folding his arms. “Not just anyone can enter Dossoles. Traveling here is expensive. Living here is even costlier. But in all of Bolivar, the most profitable jobs are here—whether you’re a worker, hotel staff, or a postman.”

“And being a soldier? Is that profitable too?”

Pugh was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“The military is actually the most lucrative job.”

“Hmph… so not all true Bolivarians are out to liberate Bolivar, after all.”

Felix shrugged.

The most profitable job was to become a soldier.

But why? Why would being a soldier be the most profitable?

Of course, it meant they were doing a lot of dirty work behind the scenes—competing with Leithanien and Columbia for dominance over Bolivar, while hiding more than a few bloodstains under their banners.

The Real Bolivarians were never a monolithic organization solely dedicated to the Bolivarian Movement. Nor did they recognize everyone born and raised on the Bolivarian Plains as “Real Bolivarians.” In truth, they resembled local warlords—stronger than outsiders, yes, but only within limits. Sometimes, they were even weaker.

Some might argue that these individuals or isolated incidents don’t speak for everyone—that there must be those truly loyal to the cause of Bolivar.

That’s true, of course. But when viewed as a whole, it becomes clear that very few organizations truly progress toward their original goals. Along the way, step by step, people forget what those goals were. They drift away, little by little, from the path they once followed.

Returning to the original point: in truth, all Bolivarians love living here.

“Bolivar is like most of us. We live under the constant threat of losing everything, and our lives are filled with uncertainty,” Pugh said quietly. “Compared to other places in Bolivar, Dossoles is already a paradise.”

“Back when I was a young soldier, I was stationed in a village outside Bolivar. One night, the Singas Dynasty army launched a surprise attack. I was lucky. I was on night patrol, and managed to escape. I remember hiding in a crevice among the mountain rocks, watching the fires in the distance and hearing the screams of my comrades. I couldn’t do anything. I was too weak… too powerless.”

His daughter looked up at him, worried. She walked over and wrapped him in a gentle hug. Pugh knelt to embrace her, comforting her before continuing.

“Call me a coward if you like. Call me a deserter. I’ll admit it. But someone had to survive—to bring word to the real Bolivarian army. I used that reason to convince myself… and lived.”

“By dawn, when I returned to the village… the soldiers, the villagers—everyone—had been slaughtered. The village was in flames, the corpses burning with it.”

Old Pugh coughed a few times, then finally poured himself a cup of golden beer and took a sip.

“As a soldier of the Real Bolivarians, I can only feel despair and sorrow when I look at this city. Dossoles is a vat of sin that dyes everything it touches. And yet… as an ordinary Bolivarian, I think… it’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad?”

“Close enough. Because Bolivarians need hope—even if it’s sin wrapped in honey.”

Pugh’s hands trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette and gently guided his daughter back into the kitchen. Then he turned to Felix.

“Curious traveler… is there anything else you want to know?”

“If you die one day… what will happen to your family?” Felix asked.

Pugh gave a faint smile.

“As a soldier, I don’t concern myself much with life and death. If that day ever comes, I’ll probably entrust my daughter to my comrades.”

“Would you want your daughter to inherit Bolivar’s hatred?”

Pugh fell silent.

A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, unmoving. He looked frozen in place, as if someone had pressed pause on his life. Only when the cigarette burned down to the mouthpiece did he jolt slightly, hissing from the pain.

“If I had a son,” he said at last, “I’d tell him about my ideals—about the wishes of all Bolivarians.” He sighed. “But I don’t have a son. And maybe that’s for the best.”

“On the land of Terra, all I wish for is that my daughter stays safe… and lives a happy life.”

Lighting a new cigarette, he winced. These things weren’t cheap. He had planned to smoke just one a day… but today was an exception.

Still, he reasoned, the curious Sankta had paid generously for the drinks. He could indulge—just this once.

“You see things clearly.”

Felix sighed. Old Pugh chuckled and shook his head.

“Your daughter is a little younger than my adopted sisters.”

“Adopted…?”

Old Pugh gave Felix a long, searching look before asking, “Aren’t you a messenger? Since when did you take on a side job running a kindergarten?”

“It’s not a kindergarten,” Felix replied with a laugh, shaking his head. “They’re all kids who’ve had hard lives. I just asked them to call me ‘brother’ and looked after them.”

After Old Pugh had finished sharing his story, Felix didn’t mind sharing a bit of his own. The simplest was the tale of Senomi—how he had bought her from a slave market. But to a father like Old Pugh, the meaning behind Felix’s action was clear: for a child like Senomi, it was nothing short of salvation.

When he heard the story of the Mandragora Tara people, Old Pugh sighed repeatedly. To him, they seemed like the true Bolivarians. And yet, he realized they were even more unfortunate. The Tara people were a defeated nation, and even their own nobles exploited the common folk. The Real Bolivarians might lack unity, but at least they still had their own army. In that sense, they were far luckier than the Tara.

Then there was Susie’s story. It struck a chord in Old Pugh, who had known poverty himself. Her family had struggled to survive in a mobile city. Her father, Mr. Glitter, had burned himself out trying to earn enough to support them all—only to die from overwork and exposure. Susie, however, had been lucky. Through Mandragora, she had met Felix, which gave her the chance to continue her studies. Even if she were to work for Felix in the future, her fate had already been changed by him.

Old Pugh raised his glass and clinked it against Felix’s. “Looks like you’ve done far more than just delivering messages.”

“That’s because my codename is Pioneer.”

“Pioneer?”

“Yes. I mentioned it when we first met. You can think of it as the innocence and idealism our Sankta race is born with,” Felix said gently. “To travel the world and help others solve their problems—it’s a simple statement, but incredibly difficult to truly live by.”

“מִי שֶׁמַּצִּיל נֶפֶשׁ אַחַת מִיִּשְׂרָאֵל – כְּאִלּוּ הִצִּיל עוֹלָם מָלֵא”

This is Hebrew. It means: To save one life is to save the whole world.

The saying comes from an ancient rabbinic interpretation of Genesis 4:10 in the Bible. That verse recounts the first murder in human history. After Cain kills Abel, God confronts him and says, “What have you done? Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground!”

In Hebrew, the word “blood” is written in the plural, not the singular. The rabbis interpreted this to mean not only Abel’s blood, but the blood of all his unborn descendants—lives that would never be.

Thus, “Whoever destroys a life is considered to have destroyed an entire world; and whoever saves a life is considered to have saved an entire world.”

The Laterans have their own doctrines—similar in many ways to religions elsewhere. They even have their own code of ethics, and church schools include a course called Doctrinal Analysis, which most Laterans find dull and tedious.

Felix, not being a liberal arts student, also found it headache-inducing. He didn’t have any special aptitude for it, but he did possess an excellent memory. That allowed him to memorize entire sections of the doctrine with ease—making it possible to pull out a quote at any time and instantly sound like a riddle-spewing oracle or certain Fake Priest that like mapo tofu.

How much is a life worth? How can it be measured?

According to doctrine, the value of a single life is equal to that of the entire world. On this land, every life deserves respect—especially the fragile and the weak.

Do not look down on anyone. Do not treat those we encounter in life as mere mortals. Nations, cultures, art, and civilizations—these are all fleeting. Their lives are like gnats when compared to a single human life. But those we laugh with, work alongside, live with, ignore, or exploit every day—these people are eternal. To us, they can become either an eternal nightmare… or everlasting brilliance.

He wasn’t burdened with the same worries as his righteous companions. He wasn’t a paranoid idealist, nor was he a noble hero who constantly weighed people on a scale, sacrificing the few to save the many. For him, he would help those he could—and leave the rest to fate if he couldn’t.

“Do all Sankta walk in this land like this?” Old Pugh asked with a smile.

“I’d rather consider myself a ‘Terran’ than a Sankta,” Felix replied. “It was only after we developed emotion and reason—after we became terran—that our races even began to diverge.”

Leaning back in his chair, Felix added calmly, “So, Old Pugh, in my eyes there’s no difference between you and me. It’s just that the spotlight shines a little brighter on me—and a little dimmer on you.”

Old Pugh chuckled softly and muttered to himself, “Crazy. Far too crazy.”

“There are even crazier ones. I’ve been to Kazdel, too.”

“…”

Old Pugh grinned faintly, as if muttering something under his breath—or maybe just sighing.

“The appearance of someone like you in Laterano… I wonder if that’s a blessing or a curse for this land.”

“I prefer being called ‘Pioneer’ over being called ‘Lateran,'” Felix said simply.

He finished the last of his beer and stood up. His gaze drifted to the television, where the Dossoles Warrior Championship auditions were still airing—no one could tell how many rounds they’d already gone through. He yawned.

“How long will you be here, Old Pugh?”

“Who knows? Could be a month… could be half a year. The real Bolivarians are planning something. I’ll follow whatever the higher-ups decide.”

“That so? Then, see you around. I’ll come back for a drink when I get the chance.”

Old Pugh watched Felix walk away. He opened his mouth to say something, but in the end, simply sighed.

“Daddy, can I learn to make cocktails from you?” a small, childlike voice called out from behind.

Old Pugh crouched down and picked up his daughter, a smile blooming on his face.

“Of course, my little darling Rafaela.”

“ugh! Daddy smells like alcohol.”

“Hahaha!”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep