The turbid water of the Iron River, laden with the overwhelming smell of grass, mixed with the sporadic raindrops from the sky, was enough to make one nauseous.
Wielding a pickaxe, digging out a small pit, Old Laver voluntarily pushed the wagon wheel into the soil.
Unfortunately, beneath the spot they chose was a layer of rock, and not much digging had produced sparks and stones.
But at this moment, it's too late to change even if they wanted to.
"Hurry up! Move those goods down!" Old Laver straightened up and roared at the laborers, who were pale with fear.
Seeing Old Laver's cane swish through the air, the shepherds, who couldn't even stand steadily, began to sob and move the goods.
The supplies from the wagon were thrown down, leaving enough space for the Holy Gunmen wielding flails.
Amid Bether's hoarse and urgent shouting, the three-pound falcon cannons pressed out two muddy tracks on the ground.
