The Lord Demon King is Unfathomable!

Chapter 1493 - 430: Household Registration! Land Allocation!

In the chaotic yet solemn atmosphere, the work of registering the identities of the famine victims began.

Early the next morning, outside Sparrow Wood Castle at the food distribution site, a strange checkpoint appeared before the large pot of porridge.

It was a table made of two wooden boxes, with a soldier of the Salvation Army sitting behind it, holding a feather pen instead of a long gun.

Before him lay an open ledger, his face tense as if facing a formidable enemy, looking even more nervous than the soldiers on the castle.

Old Hank standing in front of the table was equally tense.

He held a broken wooden bowl in his hand, wobbling to the table, unsure of what this group of soldiers was up to this time.

He just wanted to eat.

Seeing Hank approaching, the soldier straightened his expression and spoke in a businesslike tone.

"Name?"

"Han, Hank!" Old Hank straightened his body and answered as if reporting.

"Village?"

"Village?"

"Where you originally lived!"

"Wheat Field Village..."

The soldier remained silent for a while, tapping the feather pen on the table and looking up at Old Hank.

"... How is that spelled?"

Old Hank was stunned.

He had lived for most of his life only knowing his name was Hank, and that this name was passed down from his late grandfather.

No one had ever told him how to write this word!

"How should I know... Anyway, that's my name!" He was sweating, afraid that if he couldn't write his name, he wouldn't get the porridge.

The soldier responsible for registration also looked troubled, unsure how to handle the anxious Hank and the restless crowd.

He himself had only recently learned how to spell his own name, so how could he know how to spell others?

They locked eyes, one eager to eat, the other eager to complete his task, and the scene fell into a stalemate.

At this moment, a small, scholarly-looking man squeezed forward, softly speaking to them.

"Sir... Um, I know how to write it."

He was probably starving and couldn't wait any longer, so he volunteered.

Upon hearing this, the soldier felt like he had been granted amnesty, delightedly turning the ledger to him.

"You do it!"

The scholarly man quickly took the ledger and feather pen, and swiftly completed the registration before returning them to the soldier.

"Done..."

The soldier glanced at the ledger, seeing the beautiful and neat handwriting, fluid lines, which didn't resemble a farmer's name at all. He suspiciously looked at the man.

"Is this really his name?"

The scholarly man was taken aback, not knowing how to respond to the question, and replied with a wry smile.

"Well... How should I know his real name, anyway 'Hank' is written like this."

"I'm just Hank!" Old Hank stated again, his face flushed.

"..." The scholarly man remained silent, feeling caught between a rock and a hard place.

The soldier had an idea.

"Write 'Slor' for me next."

The scholarly man immediately complied, writing another name in the ledger the soldier handed to him.

The soldier recognized the name, as it was his own. He had recently learned how to spell this word from a caravan member, but those scribbles looked like ghost talismans and couldn't compare to the "artwork" before him.

Never thought his name could look so nice when written, the soldier was fond of it, eager to copy it several times, imprinting it in his mind.

Of course, this could be done after finishing his work.

Seeing the man starting to back away into the queue, he quickly grabbed his shoulder and said with a smile.

"Help me with the registration! I'll teach you what to do! Don't worry about the porridge, you'll eat with us!"

The scholarly man paused, surprised by the sudden job offer, and nervously accepted.

"Yes, yes!"

How could he dare refuse?

However, considering he had nothing else to do and this reflagged army didn't seem bad, he took the seat the soldier vacated and cooperatively started with the registration work.

With this seemingly cultured man's help, the line finally moved faster.

Impatient Old Hank finally got his oatmeal, along with a wooden plaque inscribed with words.

After completing his registration, the soldier casually handed him the "identity plaque," engraved with his name, village, and a number.

According to the soldier, starting tomorrow, no more registration; instead, people would collect food using their identity plaques.

Honestly, he kind of liked this "accessory" that bore his name.

Sitting in the corner of the camp, Old Hank took a sip of porridge from his bowl, mumbling.

"... Turns out my name looks so nice."

Meanwhile, at the end of the registration line, the scholarly man finally received his food.

Apart from oatmeal, there was some smoked meat as a reward for his work.

After expressing his gratitude, he prepared to leave, but the soldier called to him.

"Hold on, your name isn't written yet."

The man's face showed a momentary panic upon hearing he needed to register his name, stammering for quite a while before softly asking.

"Why are you recording this?"