Ruin has come to our family

It was a storage cellar of considerable size. In one corner, sacks of grain were piled high; some of the sacks at the bottom had begun to mold from the damp of the floor. In another corner stood several oak barrels, a faint aroma of wine drifting from them.

Outside, people had stripped the fields of wild vegetables and were starving to death. Down here, grain was left to rot, and surplus was used to brew wine. The Magistrate, Lance thought, had done very well for himself.

His face a stony mask, Lance continued to inspect the room. There was also a bed. The setup looked more like a private sanctuary or a bolt-hole. He imagined this was where the Magistrate had disappeared to when the brigands attacked.

On the far side of the room was a wooden rack, holding boxes of various sizes. Several larger crates sat on the floor, some of which Dismas had already pried open. Portraits, busts, tapestries, antique decor... Lance's field was archaeology, and his eye for such things was sharp. He could tell from the style that many of the items were valuable antiques, possessing a certain noble flair.

Then, a sigil among the antiques caught his eye: a base of a winged crow, a shield at its center bearing the image of a castle, and behind it, a black, sun-like family emblem.

Isn't that... my family crest? What is it doing here?

Lance looked again at the noble furnishings. These bastards were stealing my inheritance!

Who knew what deals the Magistrate and the steward had made, but it was clear from the scene before him that his own legacy was being bled dry. How could he tolerate this?

"Whoa!"

An exclamation from Dismas drew Lance's attention. One of the crates was filled to the brim with copper coins. Though it was only copper, the sheer volume of it was a stunning sight. Only Reynauld seemed unimpressed, casting it a single glance before turning away.

They continued their search. Another crate was opened, also filled mostly with copper, with only a scattering of silver coins to be seen. There were five such crates in total. It was impossible to count how much was there, but one thing was certain: the vast majority of the Hamlet's wealth was gathered in this room. In a small, rural town like this, coin was not often used, and what did circulate was mostly copper. This hoard was undoubtedly the blood money scraped from the hands of the common folk, the profits of the Magistrate's and the landowners' price-gouging.

Lance reached in and grabbed a handful of coins, feeling them slip through his fingers with a crisp, metallic clatter. The sound, he had to admit, had a calming effect, and the unease in his heart began to subside.

"It wasn't enough for the steward and the Magistrate to steal my inheritance," Lance said suddenly, letting the coins fall and his voice filling with righteous anger. "They had to conspire with the landowners to bleed the townsfolk dry as well."

"Men like that deserve to die!" Dismas spat, his voice echoing Lance's fury. The sight of the coins no longer filled him with desire. Instead, it reminded him of his own childhood, of the oppression and exploitation that had pushed him onto the path of a highwayman.

Lance rummaged through a box and produced ten silver coins for each of them.

"We draw our swords for the future of the world. In following me, there is no glory, no fiefdoms to be had. But there will be coin. It is not much, but it is something. When the town is on its feet again, I will see that you are paid more."

Lance's light, almost joking tone did not put Dismas at ease. On the contrary, he recoiled as if burned.

"No! I am not worthy of this coin."

Lance, of course, knew that Dismas was still tormented by what had happened earlier. He spoke in a softer tone.

"Everyone makes mistakes. I am willing to give you a chance. Why are you unwilling to give one to yourself?" Lance pressed the coins into his hand. "Take this, and prove your worth to me."

As Lance's hand closed over his, Dismas was overcome with an emotion he could not name. A pressure built in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He could only turn his head away, to prevent the others from seeing the moisture gathering in his long-dry eyes. After I was paralyzed by a monster, he thought, my lord still trusts me, still gives me a chance.

Reynauld, watching the exchange, found it strange. Remembering the commotion at the brothel, he suspected something had happened. "Did something occur?"

"We encountered a powerful foe earlier," Lance began, covering for him. "Dismas made a small error, but in the end, the enemy was dealt with."

But Dismas could no longer bear the torment of his shame. He spoke up, his voice rough.

"Upstairs... we encountered the steward. He had been corrupted. When I saw him transform into a monster... I was frozen with fear. The lord had to kill it himself."

After confessing, Dismas let out a long breath, as if a great weight had been lifted. Lance looked at him and nodded, satisfied. He smiled encouragingly.

"Only those who dare to face themselves can truly grow."

Reynauld, however, was stunned. Even his helm could not hide the shock in his voice. "A monster?"

"That's right. The steward had long been corrupted into a monster. Anyone seeing that for the first time would have been stunned. In truth, I was terrified myself. It was not I who killed the steward, but the blood that flows in my veins—a power left behind by my Ancestors."

He had no intention of dwelling on the topic. He immediately shifted to another matter.

"I learned from the steward that he was, in fact, a cultist who had infiltrated my family. The previous lord was murdered long ago by the steward and his cult. They usurped his bloodline, and the steward has been acting in the lord's name ever since. Those cultists have been using the power of my family's blood to tamper with the seal. They orchestrated the brigand attack to gather blood and flesh to power their ritual and break it."

"What!" Dismas forgot his earlier sensitivity, his voice now urgent. "Then we have little time!"

"Do not rush. The seals left by my Ancestors are not so easily broken," Lance said, his demeanor calm and confident. "The very reason they summoned me back in the lord's name is because they have run into a problem breaking the seal. For now, we need not worry about that. The affairs of this town are more important. We need more like-minded souls to rally to our cause."

Lance's party exited the cellar, sealing it behind them, and returned to Susan's house. After checking the veteran's condition, Lance immediately began to use [Reconstitution of Flesh]. He felt the boon he had just collected flow like water into the veteran's wound, but he did not hold back, continuing to pour his power into the healing.

A miraculous sight unfolded before their eyes. Filth and pus were squeezed out of the wound by the writhing of the muscle beneath. The cavity left by the debridement was quickly filled by new, growing tissue. Soon, where the gruesome wound had been, there was only a tender, pink scar.

But the veteran still did not wake. Lance switched from targeted healing to a full-body enhancement. The drain on his boons increased dramatically, but under the powerful effect of the [Bestow], the veteran's organs began to revive, his heartbeat growing slow and strong.