Chapter 97: Chapter 97: The Camp

The door was pushed open, and a boot stepped into the room.

“Ahhhhh!!”

Ian rushed forward and raised the firewood knife to chop!

But before he could strike, the newcomer easily caught it with a hand.

With a click, the firewood knife was snatched away with one hand.

Ian was stunned.

The visitor was not the bandit he imagined.

He was dressed in metal armor, with an emblem of a crimson sun on his chest.

“You are…”

Before Ian could react, the knight had already tossed the firewood knife aside and quickly walked towards the bed, looking at the huddled little girl.

He frowned, took off his gloves, and tentatively touched Mia’s forehead.

“High fever.”

His tone was steady, yet it felt like a decree. Without another word, he bent down to pick up the girl.

“What are you doing? Put her down!” Ian instinctively tried to snatch her back but was stopped by the other’s hand.

The man said firmly, “I am a knight from the Red Tide Territory, here to save lives. There’s a healer nearby; your child is still in time.”

As he spoke, he had already turned and was heading out the door.

Ian was stunned.

Red Tide Territory? Rescue? Healer?

He couldn’t quite grasp what the knight was saying, his mind still in chaos.

But he clearly heard those four words: “Still in time.”

Those were the most beautiful words he had heard in months.

So Ian let go of the knight’s arm.

The knight said nothing more, just carried the little girl in his arms, hurried out the door, mounted his horse, and galloped away to the west.

Ian was stunned for a moment, then suddenly reacted and dashed out the door barefoot.

He ran desperately in the direction the knight left, with the earth scraping his soles, rough soil leaving streaks of blood.

But the knight rode too fast; within moments, he disappeared into the forest, not even a shadow to be seen.

“Mia!” he shouted, stumbling as he chased.

There was no response, only the howling of the wind.

Ian didn’t know what else he could do, only that he had to pursue, just to confirm that the knight wasn’t a mirage.

Even if it’s just…

To give himself a reason to go on living.

He could only keep running in that direction.

His breathing was like rust scraping inside his chest, every step as if on burning iron.

Yet he dared not stop.

After almost two hours of running, something finally appeared in front of him.

It was a campsite.

Ian was stunned.

This place… he’d been here before.

Before the war, it was this small village where he, as a carpenter, had come to repair houses.

But now, the village was no more, the place was filled with collapsed houses, charred wooden beams, with ax marks and arrows on the scorched walls.

It seemed like this place had also been attacked by the Snow Swearers.

But unlike his own village, amidst the ruins sprouted a cluster of tents, campfires illuminating the night, with smoke rising and figures bustling about.

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

The air was filled with the warm aroma of porridge, people holding bowls, sitting by the fire blowing gently, faces full of contentment.

Soldiers patrolled, children peeked out from tents, wounded lay wrapped in bandages in corners.

And healers in clean robes bent over the wounded, carefully bandaging them.

The tents weren’t new, but they were sturdy, dry, and free of mustiness.

The porridge was plain grain gruel but warm, fragrant, enough to fill the stomach.

Compared to past days, this was paradise.

The most striking sight was a high flag in the center of the camp.

A crimson flag fluttered in the wind, with a golden sun emblazoned in the center.

Ian soon found where his daughter was.

Not because of any great sense of direction, but because the place was surrounded by so many people, the noise was so great, he almost instinctively rushed over.

There was the largest tent, the curtain half-lifted, surrounded by a circle of equally ragged refugees, anxious expressions, some weeping softly, others just biting their lips in silence.

Several healers in white robes moved busily inside, their hands smelling of blood and herbs.

The injured, most like him, were ragged refugees, tormented survivors.

He even recognized a few familiar faces, some with bandages on their legs, others with wounds on their faces.

Then he saw his daughter.

Amongst a heap of herbs and draperies, a small figure lay on a makeshift wooden bed, her face pale, breathing faintly.

Beside her, a healer carefully applied herbal paste to her forehead, the green ointment exuding a pungent bitterness, but also a bit of reassuring fragrance.

Ian almost collapsed beside the healer, his voice trembling like a broken bellows, “Can she… be saved?”

The healer didn’t even look up, continuing to work, “Yes, she can be saved; the fever isn’t too deep, it’s already lowered a bit. It’s mostly up to her to hold on, but her chances are good.”

Those few words pulled Ian back from the edge of a cliff.

His eyes burned, his body went limp, and he knelt down, head to the ground ready to bow.

But before he could, a hand grabbed his arm, roughly dragging him to the side.

“Don’t block the way, there’s a line behind you!” The voice was not loud but laced with impatience.

Ian could only be pulled aside, but he kept muttering “thank you”

Tears streamed down.

He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he last cried.

But at this moment, he finally dared to weep.

The hope of his daughter surviving… it truly came.

So Ian stayed by Mia’s side an entire night.

He never left the tent, just squatting by her bed, eyes fixed unwaveringly on her face.

Her complexion no longer seemed so pale, and the heat on her forehead had decreased somewhat. Although still in a deep sleep, her breathing stabilized.

His heart was like being slowly lifted from hell.

“Much better…” Ian muttered, saying it for himself.

Outside the tent, the sky was already turning pale; dawn was near.

Someone came in from outside—a young boy holding a wooden bowl, bearing the Red Tide Territory’s red armband.

He saw Ian hadn’t left all night and said nothing, just placed the bowl of hot porridge by his side.

“Just cooked, while it’s still hot.” The boy left those words and went busy elsewhere.

Ian blankly looked at the bowl of porridge.

The bowl was wooden, the porridge without meat, just a few grains, some unknown wild vegetables, and a few yellowing beans, with a light oily sheen floating on the surface.

But after taking a sip, the faint aroma rushed straight to his nose.

The warm porridge slid down his throat, his stomach tingling with a long-lost warmth, almost causing him to choked with emotion.

He lowered his head, drinking the not particularly tasty porridge, while tears trickled down, dropping into the bowl.

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