Chapter 12: I Will Aid the Weak
He informed the families that the militiamen had died, but these family members were not particularly saddened; in fact, two of the militiamen's wives even expressed willingness to marry him and rebuild their families.
Although such occurrences were common, George had already decided to dedicate the rest of his life to the Lord, so he firmly rejected them.
After conveying the news and seeing that the families did not appear so grief-stricken as to need his assistance, George prepared to return to the church.
If he walked briskly, he might catch Priest Corleon's evening prayers.
He yearned to hear the Lord's teachings through Corleon's prayers.
However, before he could leave the village, Yara, with her long hair tied up, approached him accompanied by two guards clad in leather armor.
"George, right?" Yara scrutinized George from head to toe and said.
"Since you're from our Lori Village, I now inform you, as the acting captain of the guards, that you have been conscripted."
"Until the alert is lifted, you will serve as a guard to defend Lori."
"Has the village encountered danger?" George asked.
"Yes, two villages were destroyed yesterday, resulting in over three hundred deaths. The lord's messenger has issued an order requiring all villages to enforce martial law and implement wartime strategies."
Because George appeared relatively clean and his overall demeanor was far superior to the rough men in the village, coupled with his strong physique, he was deemed a good warrior.
Moreover, if George had not lied and truly returned from the battlefield, he would be considered an elite veteran.
Therefore, Yara patiently explained the situation.
"Rafama, George is assigned under your command; take him to collect his equipment," Yara instructed one of the guards accompanying her.
"From now on, follow Rafama's orders; he is my deputy." With that, she turned and left.
Her patience was limited.
"Wow, you're quite robust. How come I haven't heard of you in the village before?" After Yara left, Rafama became lively, giving George a hearty slap on the shoulder and said.
"Perhaps because I've experienced war," George replied without elaborating.
Although Yara's tone was commanding, George had no intention of refusing.
'When encountering the weak, one must help them' was his commandment, and it was evident that the people of Lori needed assistance now.
"Then you should be considered elite," Rafama remarked.
Most of Lori's guards had never experienced war; taking down three bandits with over ten men was already a rare occurrence in three years.
"Follow me; I'll get you some excellent equipment."
Elites naturally deserved elite treatment.
A half-body leather armor with an iron heart-guard on the chest, a shield wrapped in iron, a somewhat rusty longsword, three short spears, and an oak spear.
Compared to being conscripted as a militiaman, where only a regular wooden spear was issued, this was considered fully armed.
"Wow, your body is truly strong," Rafama couldn't help but praise.
Even after donning the full set of equipment, George's movements were unaffected.
Weighing the spear in his hand, he noted it was made of oak, though it had aged somewhat.
"If danger truly arises, please assign me to the most perilous position," George said.
"Brother, you are a true warrior," Rafama praised. "If it weren't for your slight limp, I would definitely recommend you to Lady Yara as her personal guard."
"Of course, while I admire your courage, I must tell you in advance, I've been pursuing Lady Yara for a long time and am determined to win her over."
"I wish you success in becoming Lady Yara's husband," George offered his blessing.
"Oh, damn, you're now my good brother," Rafama immediately draped his arm over George's shoulder.
"Come on, as good brothers, before the battle, I must take you to relax properly."
Rafama led George to a secluded place where several women had gathered.
Rafama laughed heartily, embracing a woman who swayed her hips as she approached.
It was evident that this place was for adult transactions.
George declined the women who tried to approach him.
Rafama, intent on relaxing, paid no mind to George and carried a woman into a small room.
Soon, Rafama emerged, his leather armor loosely hanging on him.
"Brother George, didn't you go to relax?" he glanced at George, who was still fully equipped.
"I'm not interested in such matters," George replied.
"Wow, you're really no fun."
"Aren't we supposed to be building defenses?"
"Of course, Brother George, we are guards, meant to fight. Building defenses is naturally for the civilians," Rafama said, clearly not considering himself a civilian.
"Is that so?" George looked at Rafama. "If possible, I'd like to join them in constructing the fortifications."
"Oh, such menial tasks..." Rafama looked into George's serious eyes and said no more.
"If you're determined to do it, then let's head to the south gate; that's where my men are stationed."
At Lori's south gate, villagers were digging trenches, erecting watchtowers with wood, and making chevaux-de-frise.
Most wore coarse linen that hadn't been washed in a long time, emitting a noticeable odor up close.
George felt as if he were looking at his past self.
"If you wish to help, suit yourself. If you get tired, come to the guard post; my brothers and I will be there," Rafama said, less enthusiastic than before.
"Perhaps you could act as a supervisor; your longsword could serve as a whip," he added with a hint of mockery before leaving.
Ignoring Rafama's words, George removed his weapons and shield, hoisted a wooden stake, and walked over to the wood processing area.
His strength commanded respect from the civilians, but upon seeing his leather armor, their respect turned to fear.
Did he, during his time living in the village, ever fear this leather armor as they did?
George questioned himself.
He felt his memories of life as a civilian in Lori had become somewhat blurred.
"I am George from the Flower Church, following the Lord's teachings and Priest Corleon's instructions, here to assist you," he said.
"Is there anything I can help with?" he asked, looking at an elderly man holding an axe.
The man, the oldest there, wore the newest-looking linen, and others occasionally glanced at him when they feared George.
It was clear the elder was the leader.
"Sir guard, you can rest; we can handle this labor," the elder bowed his head and said.
"I'm not a guard here, just temporarily conscripted."
George raised his hand to grasp the cross hanging from his neck, indicating the elder to look at it.
"I come from the Flower Church, a monk serving the Lord. 'When encountering the weak, one must help them' is the commandment I strictly follow, so I will help you because you are the weak," George said.
The elder and others looked at each other.
They understood every word George said but couldn't grasp the meaning.
But they knew George was determined to help.
So the elder helplessly said, "If you insist on helping, sir guard, please move the timber over there for me."
"Alright," George replied.
He walked over and hoisted the timber, and despite his slight limp, the wood on his shoulder remained steady.