Did those tenant farmer slaves holding hoes not know what they were facing?
When they reached the foot of the city wall and saw the soldiers emerging from the main gate, clad in armor, riding tall horses, and wielding weapons, their hearts filled with despair, confusion, hesitation, and helplessness.
The moment they picked up their hoes and mustered the courage to resist, they had exhausted all their bravery.
Seeing these soldiers, they seemed to lose all remaining courage.
"Can we really defeat them?"
"How could we possibly win!"
A gaunt old man knelt on the ground, his hoe falling from his hands as he lost all strength.
His son, driven by hunger, had gone to plead with the overseers, only to be beaten to death. Filled with rage, the old man sought revenge.
But the moment he saw this army, his vengeful flame was extinguished. How could they win? How could he possibly get revenge?
He was not alone. For many, the sight of the army left only despair in their hearts. They couldn't win. It was impossible.
"Hehehe!!!"
Watching more and more people kneel, the mounted soldiers, holding sharp weapons, saw these rebels as no match for them. What awaited was a satisfying slaughter.
"Hey, Lieutenant, how about a contest?" a young man in silver armor said.
"A contest? What kind?" replied a burly man beside him.
"Let's see who can kill more," the young man proposed.
The burly man laughed. "A fine game. The loser buys the drinks."
"Deal," the young man grinned.
One side was utterly relaxed; the other was heavily burdened. The difference in morale, coupled with the disparity in equipment, was stark.
Anyone could see it was an unwinnable fight, a completely one-sided massacre.
What did it matter if they outnumbered the enemy? They couldn't win. How could they possibly achieve victory?
Hearing the soldiers' conversation only deepened their despair. Death seemed their only fate.
Flap! Flap! Flap!
Just as despair was spreading, a large flag was raised high.
"Trash! Slaves! Scum! These are the names you've been given! But are you truly scum? Are you truly trash? Were you born slaves?"
"Open your eyes! Look at your food! A single loaf of bread costs 5,000 Berries! Can you afford it?"
"You are starving! You have no tomorrow! What meaning is there in your lives?"
"Pick up the farm tools you dropped! Think of the changes over the years! What have you lost? Your families!"
"What have you gained? Hunger!"
"You have nothing left but your lives! Do you still lack the courage to face your enemies? To throw a single punch at them?"
"Will you just stand by and let yourselves be slaughtered? Let them kill you?"
"Pick up your weapons! These people are the ones who made you like this! Trade your unfortunate lives for theirs! Drag them down...
"Charge!"
The Frauce Kingdom army commander gave the order. The cavalry charged. The two young soldiers who had made the bet led the way.
"Pick up your weapons! Look at these people! If you don't fight back now, you'll never have another chance! Your lives will be taken by the enemy! And then your wives, your children, your parents! They will become slaves again, living in humiliation just like you!"
Belo Betty waved the flag in her hand. It fluttered proudly in the wind.
The people behind her felt their hearts surge. At this moment, boundless strength welled up from within. Their starved bodies were suddenly filled with power.
Before coming, each of them had eaten their fill. That long-awaited food had filled their stomachs and flowed into their bloodstream.
Strength nourished their bodies now. Blood pulsed. When they looked at that flag, their former fear transformed into hatred.
Yes. If they couldn't fight, their wives and children would share their fate, or even face retaliation and starve to death.
This thought, this hatred, forced them to their feet. If they didn't stand up, everyone behind them would die.
Hatred became strength. Fear, for some reason, vanished without a trace.
"I can't let my wife and child starve to death!" a man roared, brandishing his shovel at the charging warhorse.
The man who had dropped his hoe earlier wiped away his tears and stood up. Remembering his dead child, his heart aching with pain, he grabbed the hoe from the ground.
This tool he knew so well, used for over thirty years, it was just a farming implement. But now, he had to wield it as a weapon.
Was this his choice?
No. He never wanted to use it as a weapon. He wanted to use it to farm. He wanted to grow good food so his family could eat their fill, no longer plagued by hunger.
"It's all because of you! All of you! If not for you, my son wouldn't have died! You killed him! Aaaah!!!"
Enraged, he raised the familiar hoe high. Under the sun, he recalled its use for digging earth, the familiar motion, but for a completely different purpose.
The two soldiers at the forefront saw these pathetic slaves raising their laughable weapons. For them, this was just fun, a game.
These people would soon bleed under their blades, becoming notches on their belts.
Thwack!
Crunch!
Two sounds. Warhorses whinnied in agony. The two soldiers, ready to swing their swords for the kill, were thrown from their mounts.
One horse had its skull smashed by a hoe; the other had its leg severed.
Thrown to the ground by their falling horses, the soldiers groaned in pain. Before they could react, darkness fell over them, blocking the sun. Two pairs of furious eyes stared down, pupils bloodshot.
They had never seen eyes filled with such hatred, such ferocity.
"N-no! Don't!" the young soldier pleaded in terror.
"Die!" the emaciated middle-aged man roared, bringing the hoe down with all his might.
The gleaming helmet, meant to be indestructible, designed to protect its wearer's head, was split open by the ordinary hoe.
"Your armor... is it harder than the earth?" the man said through tears, his voice full of rage and resentment.
Blood streamed down the young soldier's pale face. His eyes wide, he had never imagined dying like this, at the hands of one of their slaves.
Nearby, a shovel shattered a sharp sword and struck an unprotected face.
Pulled free, the shovel dripped with fresh blood, staining the silver armor crimson.
Revolution... is never bloodless.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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