Ruin has come to our family

"You are a blacksmith?"

Lance, who was overseeing the registration of townsfolk with special skills or abilities, looked with some surprise at the white-bearded man ravenously devouring his bowl of gruel. In his mind, a blacksmith in this world was a skilled artisan. Whether for farm tools or weapons, the demand for both creation and repair was high. How could one end up in such a state?

At the question, a look of bitterness crossed the blacksmith's face, and he began to tell his story. Before the brigands came, it was just as Lance had imagined. He was the only blacksmith in town, and the farmers' orders were sometimes backed up for a month, to say nothing of the larger, more profitable work of forging and repairing weapons.

Then the brigands arrived. The Magistrate placed a huge order with him for all manner of weapons and armor to equip the militia. The blacksmith thought he was about to make a fortune and worked day and night to fulfill it. But after delivering only a few batches, the brigands attacked in force. A cannonball destroyed his smithy. If he hadn't been away from the shop at that moment, he would have been killed. He had escaped the brigands' blades, but his shop was gone. And the Magistrate, citing that the order was incomplete, refused to pay him a single coin. His hopes of rebuilding his smithy were dashed, and he became just another vagrant.

"Even without the rest of the weapons, the gear I already delivered was worth a great deal of money."

"What are you trying to say?" Lance heard the implication in the man's words.

"It's just that... the money the Magistrate owed..." the blacksmith said, clutching his bowl, his face a mask of pleading. His intent was simple: he wanted Lance to pay the old Magistrate's debt.

But was Lance that kind of man? You should be grateful I don't hold you accountable, he thought. And you want me to pay a dead man's debts?

"Was this your work?" Lance did not answer directly. Instead, he pulled out the dagger he had taken from the assassin on the Old Road and handed it to the man.

The blacksmith took it, examined it for a moment, and then began to boast. "Aye, that's mine. Sturdy. Durable." He was clearly proud of his craft.

But Lance's next words nearly made him drop to his knees in terror. "This dagger was recovered from the body of one of my would-be assassins. You supplied weapons to them. Were you their accomplice?"

"Wha—!" The blacksmith froze. The dagger clattered from his hand. He began to wave his arms frantically, denying everything. "I've sold so many weapons, my lord! It has nothing to do with me!"

"If you had merely sold it to another, I would of course not trouble you," Lance said, his eyes turning cold as ice. "But why did you give him the equipment if he hadn't paid? It is hard to say you are not an accomplice."

To think he would try to extort me, Lance thought. Does he truly think me a fool?

"He paid! He paid!" the blacksmith cried, realizing his mistake and immediately reversing his story. "The Magistrate paid for the weapons he ordered!"

"So," Lance said softly, "you were attempting to defraud me just now?"

The single sentence pushed the blacksmith into a corner once more. His mind was reeling. He could only stammer out pleas for mercy. "My lord, I truly know nothing! I beg you, spare me!"

"What are you saying? Do you think I would frame an innocent man?"

"No, no!" The blacksmith was on the verge of tears. It would have been kinder to just be cut down.

"Enough." Seeing the man had reached his breaking point, Lance ceased his pressure. "I believe you."

"Hah..." The word was like a life raft to a drowning man. The blacksmith let out a long sigh, the pressure on his chest finally easing.

"The Magistrate was a wicked man," Lance warned. "I hope you will not be like him. Otherwise, I will be forced to act."

"Yes, yes!" The blacksmith nodded vigorously, not daring to have the slightest complaint about his lord's words.

"Go and get another bowl. When it comes time to rebuild the town, I will give you priority." Lance patted him on the shoulder and sent him on his way.

"Thank you, my lord..."

Lance watched the blacksmith retreat, his own face expressionless. It wasn't that he was unwilling to part with the coin, but a matter of whether it was worth spending. He had no idea what the Magistrate had truly done, nor the extent of his debts. If he acknowledged the blacksmith's claim today, what of the others tomorrow? He could not set this precedent. He could not waste his energy on these endless, tangled debts. But he couldn't simply refuse, either. The town had only one blacksmith, and he needed the man's skills.

So, he needed the blacksmith to willingly renounce his claim, and what's more, to thank Lance with a smile for the extra bowl of gruel. Was the blacksmith in the wrong? Not really. But when his interests conflicted with Lance's, the outcome was already decided.

......

With the situation in the town stabilizing, Lance left Barristan to rest and went to the rendezvous point. "What is the situation?"

"Just as you predicted, my lord. Someone tried to sneak out to the farmsteads to report what was happening. We stopped them. The person is inside," Dismas reported. It was clear he was impressed by Lance's almost prophetic foresight, to know so precisely that the landowners would have spies among the townsfolk.

"Let's have a look."

Lance wasted no words. Dismas and Reynauld led him into the woods bordering the road. He saw a figure tied to a tree. It was a boy, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, though life had left him so scrawny and haggard he looked like a little monkey.

"Cut him down."

The boy was brought before Lance, trembling with fear. He had seen what this man had done to the Magistrate in the square—like a pig to the slaughter.

"Do you know who I am?"

"The... the lord..."

"What is your name?" Lance did not press the matter, instead turning the conversation to the boy himself.

"I have no name. My father's name is John, so everyone calls me Little John."

"And your family? How did you end up in the service of a landowner?"

"My mother and brother... they were killed by the brigands..."

Lance pieced together the boy's story. Only he and his father had survived. With no food, his father had been forced to sell his land—and himself—to a landowner. The boy was too young to be wanted as labor. He had only survived by doing odd jobs at a grain store in exchange for scraps of food.

"Do you hate the brigands?"

"I hate them!" At his age, the boy could not hide his emotions. They were plain on his face.

"And do you hate the Magistrate and the landowners?"

At this, the boy looked confused. He clearly did not yet understand the role they had played in his life.

"It was the landowners who forced your father to sell his land and himself," Lance explained in the simplest terms. "If not for them, you would have your own land. You would have food to eat every day, not like now."

"It was them?"

"That's right. They are the reason you cannot eat. They are no different from the brigands."

With a few plain words, Lance had explained the cause, and stoked the boy's emotions. If the brigands were the direct cause, then the Magistrate and the landowners were their accomplices. If not for them driving up the price of grain, the townsfolk would not have been forced to sell themselves for a mouthful of food.

"I am here to fight the brigands," Lance said, his voice firm. "I will protect you. I will see that you are fed. Now, whose side will you choose?"