The wind gently swept across the fields, stirring golden waves of wheat as they swayed with the breeze. A farmer, wearing a bamboo hat, straightened his back from tending the rice fields. He glanced at a winged figure approaching from afar, muttered in astonishment, and then bent back down to his work.
Ever since their monarch had married, more and more winged people had arrived from distant lands. Yet for the common folk, this had little bearing on their lives.
Life carried on as before: if one wanted food on the table and clothes to wear, it still had to be earned through hard work. However, some changes could not be ignored.
In the far-off sky, a winged figure clad in a dark blue uniform approached. Unlike the others who typically passed quickly overhead, this one hovered above the field for a moment, as if trying to confirm a location.
After a brief sweep of the area, the winged messenger identified his destination. He quickly descended and called out, "Who here is family to John Dill? I have a letter from him."
"Huh?" Upon hearing this, an older farmer straightened up from the wheat field, his ears perking at the familiar name. He looked up at the hovering messenger.
"I'm his father."
"Can anyone confirm that you're John Dill's father?" The winged man swooped closer, landing lightly in front of the farmer. His expression was serious.
"What? You want me to prove my son is my son?" The farmer laughed at the request, finding it ridiculous.
"Yes, you must prove John Dill is your son. Otherwise, I cannot deliver his letter to you," the young messenger replied, his tone unyielding and formal.
"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" The farmer frowned, visibly perplexed. It was the first time he'd encountered such a peculiar demand.
"You could provide documents related to his identity, such as a birth certificate," the messenger suggested.
"A birth certificate? What's that supposed to be? Births now require proof?" The old man was thoroughly confused.
"This is part of a new policy issued by the Emperor as part of the nationwide population census. Every newborn must now have a birth certificate issued by local authorities. Those without one must have it retroactively completed."
"But this is the countryside! There are barely one or two village officials around here. Where are we supposed to get a birth certificate?" The farmer was at a loss, his eyes now fixed on the parcel clutched in the messenger's arms with undisguised longing.
"If that's not possible, you can have others vouch for you," the winged messenger offered after a moment of hesitation.
"That's easy. Just ask anyone around here—they all know John Dill is my son." The farmer's face lit up with pride. His son's service in the army was his greatest source of pride, especially since the land he now farmed was earned through his son's military merits.
"I'll need some time to confirm this. Please wait a moment; I hope you don't mind?"
"Go ahead, ask away." The old man waved his hand casually, smiling as he gave his consent.
The messenger flew off to nearby fields, where he quickly questioned a dozen farmers before returning. Satisfied with the confirmation, he carefully unfastened the parcel from his chest and handed it to the farmer, who had long since abandoned any pretense of working.
"Let me see what's in here." The old man eagerly unwrapped the parcel and found a letter alongside a heavy wooden box.
He opened the box briefly, caught a glimpse of its contents, and shut it with a thud. Inside were stacks of large-denomination gold notes—undoubtedly his son's earnings from military achievements.
But the farmer, who no longer worried about food or shelter, paid little attention to the money. His focus was entirely on the letter in his hands.
"Hey, young man with wings, can you read this for me? I don't know what it says." The farmer scratched his head sheepishly, feeling embarrassed. He handed the letter to the messenger.
"Of course, that's part of my job." The winged courier nodded, remaining nearby for this very reason. Reading letters for recipients was among his duties.
"Great." The old man passed the letter to the messenger.
"'Father: You don't need to worry about me at home. I'm doing well in the army…'" The winged messenger read the letter aloud, carefully enunciating each word.
The letter was straightforward, much like any other correspondence from a young soldier away from home. It described his experiences in the army, but, as was typical of such letters, focused only on the positive and omitted any mention of hardship or danger.
As the messenger continued to read, the old farmer's eyes crinkled with joy. Hearing about his son's exploits brought a deep sense of pride and relief.
"'…In this most recent conflict, I took down two enemy commanders…'" The letter maintained its tone of optimism, detailing John Dill's accomplishments on the battlefield. But as the messenger read this part, beads of sweat appeared on the old farmer's brow.
"'Father, please take care of your health. Remember to eat, drink, and sleep well—and drink plenty of warm water.'"
The messenger finished reading the last line and looked up at the farmer, who stood there, dazed. The old man's heart was still heavy with worry over his son's dangerous military exploits, despite the letter's cheerful tone.
"I've finished reading the letter. If there's nothing else, I'll be on my way…" The messenger, having completed his tasks, prepared to leave.
"Wait, young man," the farmer called out. "Why are there so many wars? My son joined the army years ago, and I've received seventeen letters from him. Every single one says he's at war. When will this fighting ever end?"
"…" The winged messenger fell silent. For a moment, his eyes reflected a mix of emotions, including envy. After some thought, he finally replied, "Your son is a capable man."
"Capable? Bah! He's just a hot-headed fool. Back when he was home, all he ever did was pick fights—if not with one person, then with another." The old man chuckled at his own words, though his face betrayed his pride.
"Only officers of a certain rank and above get letters delivered by winged messengers like me. This is probably the first time you've seen someone like me, right? That alone says your son is climbing the ranks. The higher his rank, the safer he'll be in the army."
"Is that so? But safety isn't guaranteed, is it? Even out here in the middle of nowhere, I know that generals can die on the battlefield too."
"The battlefield has never been a safe place," the messenger admitted, though his eyes showed neither fear nor hesitation—instead, there was a faint eagerness.
"Young man, if you know the battlefield isn't safe, why do you still want to go?"
"I do," the messenger replied firmly.
"Why?"
"Because it's the only place where I can change my fate. My father gave me wings, but I want to give my descendants more."
"I see. Well, I can't blame you for that." The old man scratched his head thoughtfully. "If you're not afraid of dying, then the battlefield is indeed a place where fortunes can be made."
"True. But I don't meet the current recruitment standards." A hint of disappointment flashed in the messenger's eyes.
"With wings like yours, you don't qualify?" The farmer eyed the messenger's white wings in amazement.
"To join the army now, you have to have undergone initial awakening. Otherwise, they won't accept you."
"You haven't awakened yet?"
"No."
"Then where'd those wings come from? Normal folks don't have those."
"These are natural. I'm a winged person." The messenger gave an awkward smile. This wasn't the first time he'd had to explain this, especially to the people of the former Gayle Kingdom.
"Oh, I see." The farmer nodded in understanding, only to be struck by a new thought. "The army's recruitment standards have gotten so strict. I remember twenty years ago, as long as you had all your limbs and weren't blind or deaf, you could enlist."
"That's not the case anymore. The Emperor has decreed that the army must be elite. Those without sufficient strength are sent home."
"So why wasn't my son sent home?" The farmer frowned, feeling conflicted.
"Because your son is strong. If someone of his status were sent back, then few would be left to serve."
"This country has grown stronger with every war. I remember twenty years ago, when the officials would come door-to-door collecting grain for the army and leaving us with nothing but IOUs.
But now, if not for my son's letters, I wouldn't even know there's a war happening on the frontlines."
"Since the Emperor and Empress married, our nation has become the world's strongest," the messenger said, his voice brimming with pride.
"If we're the strongest, why are we still fighting? Shouldn't others be too scared to provoke us?"
"…" The winged messenger hesitated, unsure how to respond.
"We've got land, houses, and more money than I'll ever spend in my lifetime. I feel like I have everything. But when will these wars end? When can my son come home?" The old man's voice softened as he gazed at the sky.
"... Only the Emperor and Empress would know," the messenger replied with an awkward laugh.
"Maybe our nation isn't strong enough yet," the farmer murmured, as if talking to himself.
"Well, I
should be going. Take care of yourself," the messenger said, flapping his wings and quickly taking off, eager to escape a conversation he couldn't answer.
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