Ruin has come to our family

Staring at the countless battle scars that marred the breastplate, Lance knew the armor had belonged to a true warrior, a hardened man who had walked the line between life and death. It was a warrior's tapestry of medals.

Dismas brought him a pouch containing some coins—the captain's entire fortune. There were few silver pieces, mostly copper. It looked like a hefty sum, but in truth, it was little more than a hundred coppers in total.

Lance's work was not yet finished. After dealing with the immediate aftermath, he led his party to a different part of the town to continue his purge of the mercenaries.

The brigand attack had caused a massive loss of male life in the town, leaving behind many women. With their families' providers gone, and facing a market of grotesquely inflated food prices, what were they to do?

The answer was that they themselves had become a commodity. Most of the people here had been driven to desperation by circumstance. In these last days, the act of selling oneself, one's wife, or one's children was no longer a rarity. The only people left with coin were the mercenaries and the sailors from the port, and in this age, there were only a few places for a man to spend his coin on leisure. The town's new, "booming" industries provided the answer: the tavern, the gambling den, and the brothel.

Women were forced to service these men to earn enough to live. Some had fallen into this life for nothing more than a mouthful of food.

When Lance learned of this from Susan, he was overcome with a cold fury. In this world, population was both the cheapest and most precious of resources. As a lord, Lance knew that to develop the Hamlet, he needed more people. Now, the young, fertile women of the town were being used as tools for these men to make money. How long would it take for the town's population to recover? These men were not merely exploiting women; they were strangling the very future of the domain.

Damn them all. This wasn't whoring; this was digging at the very foundations of his house!

"To allow the people of my domain to survive only in this way..." Lance stared up at the building before them, his face a dark mask. "It is my shame as their lord!"

Dismas and Reynauld felt their lord's anger. They had been to many domains, but this was the first time they had ever seen a nobleman enraged by the living conditions of the common folk.

The brothel was a two-story wooden building, a rare sight in a place like this. It looked old, and had been lucky to survive the fires of war. The interior had no sense of aesthetics; it was as plain and functional as the most common inn. The main door was open, and a corpulent, middle-aged woman stood watch at the front counter. As Lance's party entered, she began her greeting.

"Welcome, sirs..."

"Where are the constables?" Lance cut her off, his voice flat.

"What constables? I only have women here," the madam said, looking them over with a strange expression.

Lance had no patience for her. He drew his pistol and slammed it down on the counter.

"I am only interested in the information I have asked for."

Though Lance's party looked dangerous, the madam was not afraid. She clearly mistook them for penniless mercenaries looking for a free ride.

"Where did you crawl from, trying to rob me? Do you know who I am?"

"She is the Magistrate's wife," Susan supplied from the side. "The owner of this brothel."

The madam's gaze fell upon Susan, a look of disdain on her face. "If you're looking to sell, this one isn't worth much."

None of them expected what happened next. Lance exploded. He grabbed the madam by the hair and slammed her head onto the counter. Then he brought the butt of his pistol down on her temple, hard.

"Sell your own mother!"

He did not hold back his strength. The first blow split her scalp, the sudden, searing pain stunning her into inaction. He struck again, and again, until she collapsed onto the counter in a bloody heap, unconscious. But Lance did not stop. He continued to strike until the madam's life had fled her broken body.

"Who gave you the courage to speak to me so?" Lance's contempt was naked in his eyes. He calmly wiped the blood from his hand onto her clothes, and then [Sacrificed] her body.

"The space inside is tight. Reynauld, you will guard this door. Let no one out. Dismas, Susan, with me."

Susan took a candlestick from the counter without hesitation and followed. Dismas, seeing this, hurried after them, leaving Reynauld alone at the entrance. The Crusader stood silent, a steel sentinel, his hands resting on the pommel of his greatsword.

Tired of slow investigation, Lance simply kicked open the first door.

A strange, foul odor filled the room. The bedclothes were stained with filth, so long unwashed they were nearly black with grime. But it was the next sight that he found hard to stomach.

The woman inside did not even look at him. At the sound of the door opening, she moved like a marionette whose strings had been pulled, robotically shedding the rags that served as her clothes and lying down on the bed. Her naked body was a tapestry of bizarre scars. That, combined with her blank expression and hollow eyes, made her seem little different from a corpse.

The woman's reaction held no interest for Lance. Instead, it filled him with a profound rage—the feeling of human dignity being trampled into dust. She was no longer a person, not even an animal. She was a tool. A tool for the madam to make money, a tool for the mercenaries to vent their lust. Anything but human.

"Put on your clothes," he said, his voice low. "I promise you will see tomorrow's sunrise."

A flicker of movement in the woman's numb expression. But by the time she could process it, the door was closed again. His words felt like a hallucination. As darkness once more consumed the room, the tiny spark of hope that had just been kindled was extinguished.

Lance had no time to waste on one or two people. He went down the hall, kicking open every door. Behind them were women either as numb as the first, or so terrified they could only huddle in the corners of their beds. He found not only adult women, but underage girls, and even young boys. Lance, in his past life and his current one, had never encountered such a place. To hear of it was one thing; to witness it was another. There was no beauty here, only a twisted, chaotic filth.

Aside from those who were alone, he opened some doors to find scenes not meant for children. In these moments, few of the men could react in time. They could only submit to Dismas's pistol and blade. The women and children were led away by Susan to be sheltered elsewhere. The mercenaries, however, were not so lucky. They all became offerings, their essence feeding the [Boon] in Lance's hands.

But soon, an unexpected person appeared.

Lance pushed open a door and found, on the bed, a withered old man, thin as a skeleton, holding a woman. Startled by the noise, the old man began to fumble for the spectacles he had set aside.

"Who is it?"

Dismas, who had been about to strike, froze. He instinctively turned to look at Lance, awaiting an order.

It was the steward. The same man who had abandoned them on the Old Road.