Before they knew it, summer had arrived, and the fierce, scorching sun hung high in the sky, baking the three thousand soldiers standing on the training field. They were drenched in sweat, which poured down their foreheads and seeped into their collars, making them miserably wet, yet none dared to move an inch.
Old York had been standing in the training field for a full two hours, every part of his body aching, but he still clenched his teeth and persevered until the whistle for rest sounded at noon, and he finally let out a sigh of relief.
However, he barely had time to rest and hurriedly sprinted to join the long queue, ready to receive today's lunch—two pieces of white bread, a small pot of vegetable soup, and a hand-sized grilled fish or an equivalent amount of camel beast meat.
To Old York, this was indeed a luxurious indulgence. Although joining the musketeer squad came with a salary of twenty silver coins a month, they would usually not allow themselves such luxuries.
