The Master of Death

Thirty miles Southwest of Laine, by a stream at the foot of Lamel Mountain, an old man, ragged, sallow, and emaciated like dry wood, was stumbling north along the creek.

Before reaching this stream, the old man had been walking along the Lamel Mountains for over a month, and the pursuers were long gone.

For a month, he had traversed dense forests and deep mountains, stumbled along deserted paths, bypassed castles and villages, enduring wind and dew, drinking frost and eating snow, avoiding all human traces, and surviving on a small bag of black beans, grass roots, and mountain rats until he reached this point.

One more day's walk, crossing the desolate plain ahead, would bring him to the southern border of Burgundy County.

“Damn weather,” the old man cursed softly as he shuffled step by step towards the Giant Stone Pile in the snowfield; his exposed toes were cracked and festering, and dark blood seeped from the wounds on his back.

About twenty miles South of Laine, Art, riding a mule, took down the water skin hanging from the front saddle and took a gulp of water mixed with ale.

He was in a good mood; last night he had a wonderful sleep in a haystack by the farmland, and his mule also enjoyed a free, hearty dinner.

On his way back, Art detoured past Laine Manor; he remembered his grudge against the Manor's steward, but he didn't want to cause trouble now.

The mule's stamina did not disappoint Art; by the evening of the day after leaving Tinietz, the Giant Stone Pile they had passed on the way there had appeared in the vast snowy expanse, and he planned to stay there for the night.

The snow-falling sky grew increasingly dim.

Art dismounted the mule, took off the saddle blanket and a bundle of firewood tied to the saddle, unharnessed the saddle, removed the bridle, and pulled out a bundle of hay to place under a Giant Stone Pile.

While the mule ate hay under the giant stone, Art picked up dry wood, preparing to go around the giant stone to find a place sheltered from the wind and snow to make a fire for warmth.

Just as he rounded the giant stone, Art caught a glimpse, startled, he quickly stepped back, dropped the firewood, and instinctively drew the hunting knife from his waist.

Just around the corner, a dark figure was curled up there.

“A wolf!” Art thought, “This is bad.” He pressed his back against the giant stone, held his hunting knife level with his chest, and slowly shifted his body to peek around… After a long while, he slowly lowered his hunting knife.

“Bastard!” Art cursed heavily.

Art slowly approached the fellow lying in the Giant Stone Pile, half-crouching forward to tap his shoulder with his short sword.

Seeing no reaction, he opened the man's clothes and reached in to take the half-scythe with a worn linen handle from his waist.

The snow had stopped, and the brightly burning fire cast a reddish glow on the Giant Stone Pile.

Art sat facing the fire, his back against the giant stone, holding a piece of rye bread, toasted to a golden crisp.

Beside the fire lay the unconscious old man.

Art had examined him; there was no hope—his breath was faint, his back covered in seeping wounds, his ankles swollen, his feet purple, and his toes festering.

In the grain bag at his waist, there was only a small mountain rat, head bitten off and frozen solid, and a few pine nuts.

Art dragged him to the fire, poured a few sips of hot water into him, and then paid him no further attention; he was not God, unable to pull back a person about to step into heaven.

Even when he began packing his belongings early the next morning, Art did not check the old man's breath or heartbeat again.

Once packed, Art placed a small piece of rye bread and the broken scythe beside the old man, and then gathered the remaining embers of the fire.

After doing all this, Art mounted his mule and strode away.

“I’ve done all I could; I can’t take a dying old man back to the Valley to waste food…”

“I didn’t abandon him to die, because the old man had already breathed his last…”

“God is merciful; he might have woken up, eaten the bread, and left…”

Throughout the morning, the old man's image lingered in Art's mind; he had to admit that his past life's memories made him somewhat soft-hearted.

“Oh, damn it!!”

“Whoa~~” Art pulled the reins and turned the mule around.

…

A month later.

At the fence of the log cabin in Unnamed Valley, Art was leading his mule back from a canyon five miles away, with a wild goat, its four hooves tightly bound and bleating, slung over the mule’s back.

“Master, you’re back~” An old man, wearing a short shirt, long trousers, and a sheepskin coat, with a ruddy complexion, came forward, took the reins from Art’s hand, and lifted the wild goat down.

“Cooper, please don’t call me Master anymore; I’ve told you I’m not a Master, just call me Art.” Art once again corrected the stubborn old man, Cooper Alfred, on how he addressed him.

“Yes, Master~” Cooper bowed slightly.

A month ago, Art’s kindness saved the old man’s life.

After carrying the old man back to the Valley cabin, Art, using common sense accumulated over three years, crushed some useful and useless leaves and roots and applied them all over the old man's body.

The old man's life was also tenacious; thick soup, diluted water, a grass bed by the door, and a hearth in the house dragged him back from heaven to the human world.

In less than ten days, the old man could crawl out of the grass bed to make fires and cook for Art; half a month later, the old man repaired the log cabin inside and out, and reinforced the fence outside the yard with hemp vines.

Old Cooper didn't talk much, nor did he mention his past, and Art didn't pry; everyone has a past they don't want to broadcast.

However, Art could tell that for a long time in the past, this old man had a very difficult life.

After his injuries and ailments had mostly healed, Art had, intentionally or unintentionally, asked Old Cooper if he wanted to leave.

“Outside is a man-eating hell; this is the true human world.” Cooper shook his head, refusing.

“As long as you let me stay here, I am willing to be your servant.” Cooper spoke very sincerely.

Art was noncommittal; he couldn't afford to keep idlers, but he also didn't want to drive the poor old man away.

Throughout the following winter, Art witnessed the old man's capabilities and was thankful he hadn't left him in the wilderness to be eaten by wolves.

Three years ago, Art had built this small log cabin, only seventeen feet long and fifteen feet wide, with a thatched roof, in just one summer and autumn.

In the following years, Art had only sparingly surrounded the cabin with a man-high fence to prevent wild animal attacks; in short, it was very rudimentary.

After recovering from his injuries, Old Cooper was constantly hammering, chiseling, and cutting.

He applied a thick layer of clay mixed with thatch to the exterior walls of the log cabin and opened a small window with wooden grilles beside the sun-facing wooden door.

In winter, a fire needed to be kept burning all night for warmth, and the cabin was always filled with thick smoke.

So, Old Cooper built a fireplace with a flue using stones and clay at the base of the wooden wall to the left of the entrance.

Art began to like this capable, stubborn old man…

As deep winter arrived, fewer and fewer animals roamed the forest; aside from occasionally riding his mule to check a few traps every few days, Art rarely went out hunting.

On clear days, Art would lead his mule into the forest to hunt wild pheasants and rabbits, while Cooper would carry a linen bag and gather pine cones, beechnuts, acorns, hazelnuts, and other dried fruits, or pick edible roots and wild vegetables in the nearby woods.

Some simple tools bought from Tinietz became the hands of God in the old man's possession.

During the day, he would either follow Art up the mountain to gather dried fruits and cut pasture, or he would be hammering and chiseling around the small log cabin.

At night, he would make square tables, round stools, or wooden bowls and spoons from scraps of wood by the fireplace.

“Master, can we dismantle the eastern fence and expand a bit?” Cooper stopped his work and looked up at Art, who was skinning a rabbit.

“Why?” Art thought the current fence was already very sturdy and durable.

“I've cleared and leveled the patch of mixed woods to the east recently.

I think we can dismantle and expand the eastern fence, then move the stable and small sheepfold from outside the fence inside.

I'm very worried about the mule and that goat; I've seen wolf tracks nearby these past few days.” Cooper said with concern.

Art was convinced.

So, in the days that followed, Art became Old Cooper's capable assistant.

… … … …

The ice on the stream began to melt and thin little by little under the gentle breeze, and the bustling hammering sounds from the cabin, which had lasted all winter, had just quieted down.

To the north of the stream, the area had now transformed: a flat, open space, about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, was tightly enclosed by a circle of pointed birch fences, over a man's height, with the main gate facing the stream.

Upon entering the gate, to the right against the wall was a stable with pillars, a thatched roof, and wooden railings all around; next to the stable was a sheepfold, where a mule and a goat were eating hay.

To the left of the gate, the original fence wall had been completely removed, and a pebble-paved path led from the main gate to the original log cabin.

Opposite the log cabin, a new thatched-roof cabin, about ten feet long and eight feet wide, had been built.

Between the large and small cabins was a passage about ten feet wide.

On the wooden table in front of the fireplace in the large log cabin, a large plate of tender, stewed lamb was steaming fragrantly, two large wooden cups were filled with watered-down ale, and on the wooden roasting rack in front of the fireplace, a honey-glazed roasted rabbit was sizzling with oil.

Despite being diluted with water, after a large cup of ale, Art was already slightly tipsy, and Old Cooper appeared even more intoxicated.

“Master, today is the happiest day I’ve had in years.” Cooper said, burping.

“Yes, you are a capable and stubborn old man; you transformed this place in just three or four months.

Now, you also have your own house, and you have become the second resident of this uninhabited Valley.” Art said joyfully.

Old Cooper tilted his head back and drank the remaining ale in his cup.

“Master, is that line of text on the wall your family motto?” Cooper squinted at the wall behind Art.

“Until the lamb becomes a lion,” Cooper murmured softly.

Art suspected he was hearing things; he stared at the old man in front of him in surprise.

"Yes, My Lord, I am literate and can write," Cooper's eyes subtly shifted towards Art.

"Please forgive me for always concealing my past; I should have been honest with you…" The old man, emboldened by the wine, slowly recounted his past.

… … … …

Forty-five years ago, Cooper Alfred was born in the Alfero Monastery, south of Provence. That's right, he was the Bastard son of a monk.

As a child, Cooper grew up in the Monastery and received a systematic theological education.

When he was thirteen, the monk died, and Cooper, not yet an adult, was expelled from the Monastery. For the next seven years, Cooper was a beggar, a thief, a bartender who worked for food but no pay in a tavern, a porter at the docks, and a shop assistant in a merchant house.

At the age of twenty, Cooper's life took a turn.

That year, Cooper followed a caravan to Genoa and met an old Master Craftsman who was renovating the cathedral in Genoa. The old Master Craftsman discovered Cooper, a talented man who could read and write, and took him on as an apprentice to teach him architectural skills.

With his keen intelligence, Cooper became an excellent architectural craftsman after only three years as an apprentice. Soon after, the old Master Craftsman married his daughter to Cooper.

Having experienced a difficult life, Cooper understood the importance of hard work and struggle. In the following ten years, Cooper built stone houses in towns for merchants, designed manor castles for Knight Lords, and participated in the construction of churches and monasteries.

At thirty-two, Cooper was already a young Master Craftsman in Genoa.

At thirty-seven, Cooper independently designed and supervised the construction of the Bussala Monastery. With this feat, Cooper was recognized as an architectural Master Craftsman by the Genoa Architectural Guild, which brought him temporary fame.

However, Cooper's life then took a sharp downturn.

The year after he became an architectural Master Craftsman, a Monastery in Rapallo collapsed. The chief designer committed suicide out of guilt, and Cooper, who had participated in the Monastery's design, naturally became the scapegoat. The ecclesiastical court found Cooper guilty, confiscated all his property, and the Architectural Guild revoked his qualification as an architectural Master Craftsman, prohibiting him from engaging in the construction industry for life.

Full of resentment, Cooper left Genoa with his wife and children and returned to Alfero, where he reclaimed and cultivated land on an ownerless wilderness.

Hard work pays off; five years of sweat transformed the ownerless wasteland into fertile farmland.

Just as life was looking up, the neighboring Lord and the Earl's tax collector began to visit frequently. The Lord demanded to "reclaim" this "fertile land" that supposedly belonged to him, while the tax collector forced Cooper to pay a huge amount of "unpaid" grain taxes for five years.

Cooper, unable to bear the oppression, argued reasonably. This finally angered the Lord and the tax collector, who colluded with a group of bandits to attack Cooper's small farm, raped and murdered Cooper's wife and daughter, and cut off his son's head.

Cooper, who narrowly escaped with his life, hid everywhere, barely surviving, biding his time for revenge.

Last summer, the Grand Duchy of Lombardy in the south extensively invaded the southern border of Provence, causing widespread panic throughout the south.

Cooper seized the opportunity to sneak back to Alfero, assassinated the tax collector, and, on the Lord's mistress's bed, used a broken sickle to cut off the head of the Lord's only son.

Consequently, the Lord launched a thousand-mile pursuit of Cooper.

It was during this escape that Art saved him.

"Also on the run! It seems the world is a dangerous place, doesn't it?" Art couldn't help but sigh.

"My Lord? I don't understand," Cooper didn't understand what Art's "also" meant.

"It's nothing, Cooper. Just stay here with peace of mind; your enemies won't find this place," Art comforted him.

… … … …

Spring returned to the land, and all things revived.

A short distance downstream from the small stream in front of the door, in an open area of about half an acre, the waist-high weeds had turned into a thin layer of ash. Art held a light plow with his left hand and wielded a long whip with his right, expertly driving the green mule…

"My Lord, you should stop. You are truly not destined to be a farmer," Old Cooper quickly stepped forward and took the plow from Art's hand.

"Your plowing method, deep one moment, shallow the next, fast one moment, slow the next, would exhaust even the strongest draft horse, and the wheat seedlings won't grow evenly in the future~" Old Cooper said with a smile as he took the plow from Art's hand.

"How is it that a plow that works like an arm for you is not as good as a broken iron hoe for me?" Art turned his head to look at the crooked and uneven furrow behind him, scratched his head, and said glumly.

A month ago, right after the severe winter, Art took silver coins and rode the green mule to Tinietz. When he returned, in addition to two large bags of husked wheat and rye bread, the green mule also carried a single-share light plow and several farm tools such as iron hoes, iron rakes, and short sickles. The cloth bag on the front saddle contained barley seeds. The wheat and bread were what Art wanted to buy; they couldn't eat meat every day. The seeds and farm tools were bought at Old Cooper's strong insistence.

Art had seen farmers cultivate land in both his past and present lives, but he had never tilled the land himself. He didn't think he had to rely on farming for survival; the game in the Valley and forest was enough to satisfy him, and even with Cooper, they could always survive with a bit of hardship. However, after the stubborn old man accidentally discovered an open wasteland in the Valley South, he kept pleading with Art to let him try to reclaim it~

Unable to resist the stubborn old man, Art had no choice but to agree.

Art also knew that half a day's journey south of the Unnamed Valley, through a low valley, lay a vast and flat valley plain nestled between two north-south extended mountain ranges. The small stream on the Unnamed Valley side extended into that valley, forming a trickling river. When he first arrived at the Unnamed Valley, Art and his father had explored that valley plain. It was an even vaster and uninhabited wilderness… However, Art didn't plan to tell Cooper about this for now, otherwise, the stubborn old man would immediately clamor to reclaim the entire inter-valley wasteland into fertile farmland.

As the weather gradually warmed, the barley in the wasteland also sprouted and headed little by little. Looking at the vast expanse of lush wheat seedlings, the wrinkles on Old Cooper's face smoothed out day by day.

Having just finished the work of fencing the wheat field with thorny branches and dead wood, the old man began to busy himself with feeding the livestock.

Three days ago, Art went into the Lamel Mountain with his hunting bow, intending to shoot a few pheasants and wild rabbits for a change of taste. In spring and summer, when all things grow and reproduce, Art rarely went hunting in the Lamel Mountain, but several months of cured meat and thick soup had made Art a bit tired of it.

In a tree hollow, Art found seven or eight newly weaned wild boar piglets. After confirming that the mother wild boar was not nearby and there was no danger, he quietly carried away three small piglets.

Returning to the wooden house, he excitedly handed the piglets to Cooper, telling him to rub them with wild honey and make a few roasted suckling pigs to reward their internal organs.

But the old man's eyes lit up again as he stared at the little piglets…

"Cooper, it's useless. I've tried, and they won't survive," Art said, quickly drawing his hunting knife, intending to do it himself.

"My Lord, My Lord, wait, let me try, I'm sure they'll survive~" Cooper stepped forward and stopped Art.

The old man was being stubborn again. So, next to the sheepfold where two wild goats were kept, there was now a pigsty where three small piglets slept.

… … …

"My Lord, don't you think our sheepfold is too empty? Can we still catch a few more wild goats?" The stubborn old man patted the bits of hay clinging to his chest and walked towards Art.

"Do you think those are your family's sheep? Now those guys have gotten smart; they won't fall into my traps at all~" Art, who hadn't gotten to eat honey-roasted suckling pig, was in a truly bad mood. Moreover, Art didn't plan to hide in the Valley and deal with livestock and wheat fields for the rest of his life. He needed to farm, but not in this way.

"How about I try my luck tomorrow…"

"Suit yourself!"

… … …

The summer heat slowly dissipated, and early autumn approached.

Throughout the summer, Art seemed to have nothing to do. In previous years, during the spring and summer when hunting was less frequent, Art would maintain and repair hunting bows and arrows in the small wooden house, and make trap tools such as snares and cages. More often, he would be repairing the wooden house, clearing drainage ditches, and reinforcing the wooden fence. But this summer, Art was clearly superfluous. Except for helping Old Cooper harvest barley in late summer, most of the time he was either maintaining and making tools for autumn hunting in the wooden house, or riding the green mule with his hunting bow, exploring the depths of the Valley~

The Unnamed Valley in early autumn was filled with the joy of harvest.

The reclaimed land, meticulously cared for by Old Cooper, contributed all the fertility accumulated over hundreds of years. Fifty pounds of barley seeds grew over a spring and summer into nearly five hundred pounds of grain; the wild sheep in the sheepfold continuously produced fresh milk, and the one small piglet that eventually survived in the pigsty grew into a creature even fatter than two goats. Even the area around the wooden house was planted with wild parsley, cabbage…

For a long time to come, they would be self-sufficient.

"Perhaps hiding in the Valley like this isn't so bad."

"Don't forget the oath you made." The thought was extinguished as soon as it appeared.