"Lance!"

The soldiers were loudly venting their agitation.

"You're a hero! Lance Ilcutlin! you're a hero!"

The Count of Carolus gave him a bear hug and lifted him aloft.

Martin and Jacob were looking over with adoring eyes, like everyone else around them.

They're shouting!

The joy of the rest of their lives, the longing and yearning for the Templars, filled their hearts.

Lance, who had regained consciousness with the departure of the god Nidaya, opened his eyes, inhaled the smell of blood like rust into his nose, and his sore muscles and strong exhaustion made him only have time to smile at everyone before decisively passing out.

"Your Excellency!"

Before his consciousness fell into chaos, he vaguely heard the cries of Martin and Jacob.

"It should be exhausted, it's just a transition of physical exertion, it's not a big deal. Count Carolus said with relief in a relaxed tone.

He examined Lance's body, and there was no sign of injury on his body, except for the shocking scratches on his armor.

This surprised him a little.

"Is it because of the light...?" the Count looked at Martin and Jacob, who, though covered in blood and looking embarrassed, did not look like they had been wounded, except for a little weakness.

"Divine power?" thought to the Earl, "really... What a wonderful power!"

Unconsciously, the rock-like warrior's heart throbbed a little, as if envy was mixed with longing.

Perhaps it was his direct gaze that caused the two to misunderstand something, and Martin and Jacob hurriedly stepped forward and took over the Count's support for their own lord's body.

"Hmm..."

The heavy armor and stomach weighed down the two of them, and the energy that supported them to kill in all directions and recover from their injuries and physical strength was exhausted.

Martin stumbled a few steps weakly, and the tiredness coming from his body made him feel a little dizzy: "Soldier, come and help me hold Lord Lance!"

"Yes, Lord Templar!" the warriors on the side replied in a loud and excited tone, puffing out their chests as if they had had had been given a great job.

One soldier tried to get a head start, but was unceremoniously pulled back by the others.

"Hey, brother!" someone said dissatisfiedly, "What do you want to do?

"Would you like to taste my fist?" the soldier replied, not to be outdone.

"Stop!" another soldier hurriedly stepped forward to stop the two: "What's there to fight, just let me help." ”

"Don't...!don't slap your face!"

Obviously, he didn't end too well...

In the presence of the Earl, after a cordial and friendly exchange, the two men who won the final victory were finally able to receive this honor.

"Ha, don't be sad!"

The dejected appearance of the losers made Martin feel a little funny, he had just watched this farce happen in some surprise before, but he had no intention of stopping it, he was already from the bottom, he could naturally understand the worship of these soldiers for Lance, Nidaye, and the Templars.

There is yearning hidden in this worship.

Maybe everyone has longed for it, whether it is for people or things, the heart is always unconfident. We aspire to be who we want to be, we aspire to do what we want to do. But there is always a voice hidden in the heart that denies itself, which is why the world needs heroes.

He can give people hope.

It's like what Master Lance did.

After all, no one would have thought that they could really defeat the army of Misty Mountain, which was several times their size, under the disadvantage of being surrounded by many people, and it could be seen from the cheers around him that this was a great victory!

In an age where one man is worthy of boasting about defeating two, and ten men worthy of a troubadour composing a song for you, the course of this battle is enough to turn decay into magic.

No, there are already soldiers who are naturally and a little talented and sing their own hymns:

Victory, great victory!

We won't forget those familiar figures.

We will remember the heroic spirit of the deceased.

The winds of the north will carry your deeds.

A baptism of blood and fire.

The mournful screams of warriors and fiery horses.

No one will forget!

The Presence that brings the dawn.

We point to the full moon.

Tell it that the knights of the gods are not afraid of the arrows of the wind.

Tell it that the people of the Misty Mountains under God's punishment are calling his name.

Lance Ilketelin.

Our hero, Lance....

"Ilcutrin—" Martin whispered in tune, raising his head proudly.

Although the performance is not as good as that of Lord Lance, who uses extraordinary powers, on this battlefield, it can be regarded as blooming with his own unique light.

"Templar!" he said silently in his mind.

The joy of winning the honor overcame the weakness of the body, and after handing Lance to the soldiers' support, Martin and Jacob refused the support of the other soldiers, and turned over and jumped on the horse.

"Go back to Ilkerten!"

The Count's voice, which had become somewhat hoarse from the constant giving orders, sounded.

He looked in the direction of Silverblade Castle with some concern, and although he couldn't bear it, he had to interrupt the soldiers' celebration: "Quick! clean up the battlefield! Get everything you need, maybe we'll have to get through a long and bitter winter!"

"Yes, sir!" the soldiers didn't care, their morale was still high.

They were divided into small groups and skillfully explored and cruised around the battlefield.

The tents, the food sacs containing dry food, the less badly damaged leather armor, and the weapons were all bundled with animal skins stripped from the Misty Mountain people, tied with ropes one by one, and carried to the direction of the soldiers who were responsible for making the planks out of the branches.

Every now and then a desperate shout or two was heard, and it was the unlucky Misty Mountain people who had been found slit or pierced in the heart to the excited chatter and laughter of the soldiers.

Only when they passed by the Ravenston warriors who had died in battle, they would observe a solemn moment of silence, turn out the badge with their names and hometown, throw them into the money bags they had untied with their hands, and then peel off the armor from the corpses, and even take helmets, gloves, and boots, all of which were packed and taken away, leaving only snowflakes gradually covering the pale faces.

Snow burial!

This is the tradition of the people of Ravenston, where the barren permafrost is as hard as iron, the snow that keeps the snow out of the plague, and the people of the North believe that the incorruptible bodies will turn into heroic spirits to defend the land from others for the living.

Of course, most people think that it is just a story made up by grandmothers to keep their children warm by the fire, but it has been passed down from generation to generation, and it has gradually evolved into a legend over time.

Maybe the truth is just to save you some trouble, who knows?

Martin stood on horseback, and Jacob leaned over and stabbed him on the waist, and pointed to the Earl, "Look, what is he doing standing motionless?"

Martin looked up to see that the Count's armor was covered with a thin layer of snow, and he was holding a greatsword full of blood and condensed into ice, and he muttered something as if he were muttering.

"How do I know, maybe it's praying. He responded.

"Martin... Your Excellency!" a ranger rode over, saluting with some restraint.

The two had long noticed that these fellow rangers were gathering around and whispering, and when they heard this, they turned their heads unsurprisingly and looked at the representative in front of them, who should have been newly elected.

It turned out that the captain who led this team had been killed, and when he charged, his horse's hooves slipped so that he couldn't dodge, and unfortunately he was stabbed by several spears, and fell off his horse and was beheaded by the barbarians of the Misty Mountain.

Martin was noncommittal about his luck, and despite his hostility towards himself and Lord Reims, and his public skepticism, Martin could not but admire his extraordinary courage and archery.

It was a respectable warrior, perhaps one of the few commoners who could be promoted to the knightly class by their own efforts.

"It's a pity..."

Martin looked the Ranger in the eye, not expecting that he would also be honored as an adult.

"What's the matter?" he replied, reminiscing about the way he remembered Lance, his tone unable to hide his pride in his title as Templar Knight.

"I'm sorry, my lord!" the Ranger looked a little nervous at him, and lowered his head and whispered, "To you and your companions, as well as Lord Lance, we sincerely apologize for the behavior that we have questioned, and we hope to get you and..."

"Oh, what am I supposed to be, rest assured, I forgive you on behalf of Lord Lance for this!" Martin interrupted rather confidently, "I believe that Lord Lance, including us, has never resented you, you are all heroic warriors!

"Thank you, thank you, sir!" the Ranger looked relieved, and then hesitantly spoke of his companions' request, "Also... My lord... You..."

"Nidaya, we believe in the god of Nidaya!" Jacob on the side seemed to be a little tired of his spitting appearance, so he simply rode over and interjected: "If you want to be one of us, I recommend you go to Lord Lance's maid Angel, after all, we are only knights responsible for preaching the majesty of God, and she is the priest responsible for preaching the doctrine of God!"

The words were impassioned, and he raised his eyebrows triumphantly.

Martin patted him on the head dissatisfied, apologetically, "Forgive this guy for his arrogance, he's a little too excited, but if you want to join the Temple of Order, it's right to ask Pastor Angel." ”

"Yes, thank you, sir!" the Ranger looked excited, and galloped toward his companions who were not far away, not even caring if the horses would slip on the snow.

"Hey, Martin. Seeing his impatient appearance, Jacob poked Martin in the waist and said in a rare serious tone: "Maybe it won't be long before we have a lot of new companions." ”

"Of course, but divine grace is not equivalent..."Thinking of the magic performed by Lord Lance, Martin realized something, and had a longing expression on his face, but in an instant, he glared at Jacob viciously and said, "Besides, can you stop stabbing me in the waist!"