Ruin has come to our family

The veteran, however, gave no ground. He remained as steady as a mountain, shield held cautiously before him, the bloody mace once again hidden from view behind it. No one could know from what angle the next blow would come. Seeing that his show of weakness and pleas for mercy had not made the old soldier lower his guard, the captain knew his ploy had been seen through. He descended into a final madness, launching himself at the veteran once more.

If he could not threaten the veteran when his own body was whole, what chance did he have now, with a shattered leg that could barely support him? The townsfolk were astonished at how the tables had turned the moment the veteran struck. But Lance and Reynauld knew that control of this fight had been in the old soldier's hands from the very beginning.

In truth, though the veteran's wound had been healed by Lance's skill, the torment of lingering on death's door for more than a fortnight had left him in a severely weakened state. The captain's initial assessment had been correct: the veteran's condition was poor, and the captain had the advantage in both strength and speed.

But he never should have taken the sword Lance threw him.

It was not a matter of the weapon's quality, but of his method of attack. Without a sword, he would have had to close the distance, which would have played to his strengths. He could have absorbed a few blows from the mace and, once in close, the veteran would likely not have withstood more than a few of his punches. But with a longsword in hand, he instinctively kept his distance, swinging his blade, which gave the veteran the opportunity to trade his own stamina for the captain's, a battle the exhausted captain was doomed to lose. The captain already had a sword wound on his shoulder from Reynauld and a sliced hand. After a night of struggle, his condition was far from ideal. Once he fell into the veteran's rhythm, his defeat was only a matter of time.

He was simply too young, unaware that for every gift bestowed by fate, a price has already been secretly marked.

Amidst the captain's howls of agony, the veteran methodically shattered his limbs with the mace, one by one, until the man was a helpless wreck, unable to move.

"It seems you have lost," Lance said, walking up to the captain, his expression full of mockery as he looked down at the puddle of broken flesh, like a cat toying with a mouse.

"AGHH! I'LL KILL YOU!" the captain screamed, his body writhing on the ground like a fat maggot, his words now utterly toothless. His noisy hollering was simply an annoyance. Lance took the bloody mace from the veteran's hand, swung it hard, and brought it down squarely on the captain's face.

Devastating Blow!

His entire face caved in. Eyeballs burst, and a spray of blood and gore erupted. Those standing close enough could hear the crisp crack of bone. The captain who had terrorized the townsfolk was now well and truly dead.

Then, Lance seized the veteran's hand and raised it high.

"The victor—Barristan!"

"BARRISTAN!"

"..."

Under the leadership of their new lord, the great villain who had oppressed them for so long had finally been defeated. The townsfolk erupted in cheers, all of them chanting the veteran's name. Only Lance could feel the slight tremor in Barristan's hand. The old man was also at his limit. Lance secretly activated [Bestow], sending a faint stream of power to stabilize him. He could not be allowed to fall. Lance still needed Barristan to stand for him.

"My Lord!" Barristan, understanding his role, cried out. The crowd's cheers immediately shifted.

"MY LORD!"

Seeing the expressions on their faces, Lance knew he had established the authority he desired. An emperor is never wrong; only his ministers, eunuchs, and consorts can be at fault. This is the reasoning behind "purging the monarch's side." So it is with a lord. Lance had laid all blame at the feet of the two dead men, the steward and the Magistrate. He himself remained infallible. Then, he had used their deaths to build his own legend, his own authority. And now, it seemed, he had succeeded.

But this was only the beginning. He had not yet fully consolidated his power over the Hamlet. But sooner or later, he would clear away every obstacle and take all of the Hamlet into his grasp. Only then would he have the power to excise the tumors the Ancestor had left behind, and finally, kill the Ancestor himself.

Having achieved what he wanted, Lance wasted no more time on these common folk. He waved a hand and shouted.

"Distribute the grain! Gruel for three days, two meals a day!"

No speech, no grand deed, could have been more powerful than those words. The half-dead townsfolk burst into ecstatic cheers, the crowd seething like a boiling pot. Chaos was about to erupt.

At that moment, a horse whinnied, followed by the sharp clatter of hooves on stone. Reynauld was already mounted, his longsword flashing silver. The sheer presence of the armed knight was enough to quell the rising disorder.

"All form a line at the brothel! Anyone who breaks the order loses their share!"

At Lance's shout, the crowd quickly fell into an orderly line. They were all too starved to have the energy to cause trouble. Besides, the distribution would last for three days; no one wanted to lose this precious chance. Soon, a long line snaked from the brothel's door all the way back to the square.

The location was chosen because it had the people to manage it, the equipment, and most importantly, the food; they had found a great deal of grain in the brothel's cellar.

"Name?"

"Weber."

"..."

Three lines were formed at the entrance. To receive their porridge, each person had to be registered: name, gender, age, and former profession. If they possessed a special talent or skill, they would receive an extra bowl. However, informing on others was encouraged. An informant who exposed a fraud would also receive an extra bowl, while the one who lied would be disqualified immediately.

Giving out gruel for three days was not because Lance had food to spare. Though he had seized a sizable amount, it was not enough to be wasted. This was his chance to conduct a census of the town, to assess the population and identify skilled individuals. He needed the townsfolk to live, and more than that, to gradually regain their vitality. It was a good way to use up the grain that was already on the verge of molding anyway.

Finding literate people, however, was difficult. He was lucky to find two in the brothel. They were the daughters of town merchants and had received a basic education before the brigands came. They couldn't do much, but they could at least record names. Unfortunately, their families had been targeted by the brigands, and they had been killed. As women, they had endured great shame to survive the attack, only to end up in a place like this when their homes and families were gone. The third scribe was the Magistrate's former clerk, whose life Lance had spared for his literacy. With talent so scarce, he had to make do.

After completing the registration, the townsfolk finally received a bowl of porridge. It was a great cauldron of gruel made from coarse grains, wild vegetables, and a little animal fat, with only a pinch of salt for such a large pot. It was little better than pig slop, but to these people, it was the finest food in the world. As the warm gruel filled their empty stomachs, an unprecedented sense of bliss washed over them.

Following the lord... it really does mean we get to eat.