Ruin has come to our family

Now it was the woman's turn to hesitate. She remembered the smile Lance had given her, something she had never dared to hope for. Now, meeting his gaze, filled as it was with a world-weary compassion, she could not help but tremble.

"I am sorry," Lance said, stepping forward fearlessly, seizing the opportunity to pull the woman into an embrace. "We came too late." He soothed her with a soft voice. "There will be no more of that. I will protect you. I will see that you have enough to eat. I will..."

As he spoke, he secretly channelled a faint [Bestow] into her. A warm current bloomed in the woman's chest, awakening tears that had long run dry. They burst forth like a breaking dam, and she began to sob uncontrollably, the shard of metal falling from her hand with a clatter.

Witnessing this, Reynauld was awestruck, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword. He was reminded of the statues he had seen in the abbey as a child, of the Madonna's mercy as she cradled the holy child. In that moment, the image overlapped with the man before him.

Is this... the savior?

Even Dismas, a man of rougher sensibilities, was profoundly shaken. No nobleman would ever willingly draw near to the filth of the common folk, let alone embrace them. A nobleman is never wrong. But this man chose to shoulder a burden that was not his, to admit fault to a commoner, even to allow them to strike him. In that moment, Dismas felt a bottomless well of strength surge through his weary body. He knew, with absolute certainty, that by following in his lord's glorious light, he would find his own redemption.

Sensing he had achieved the desired effect, Lance dropped the act and released the woman. In truth, having grown up in modern society, he had a touch of mysophobia. He was repulsed by the woman's ragged, dirty clothes, to say nothing of the sour, rotten smell that clung to her. But to craft his persona, he had to endure it.

After calming the woman, Lance approached the bed and studied the man lying upon it. His hair and beard were white as frost; he was clearly of advanced age. His face was as pale as a corpse's, his right eye covered by a black patch. A gruesome, festering, suppurating wound marred his right shoulder, poorly covered by a scrap of cloth.

Lance frowned, using a stick to lift the rag, revealing the rot beneath.

"He's still alive," Dismas murmured, amazed.

It was true. Any other man would have long ago succumbed to such a grievous wound, followed by days of fever and neglect. This man still clung to life. Though his breath was so faint as to be nearly imperceptible, the spark of life was undeniably still there.

"She is the one who has been caring for him. Otherwise, not even the strongest constitution could fend off the Reaper's scythe," Lance said, taking in the surroundings. He turned to the woman. "Why did you save him?"

Was the woman mad? In the eyes of the townsfolk, after all she had endured, she must have been. Why else would she try to save another when she could not even feed herself? But Lance sensed it was something different. It was as if she were in a fugue state, pouring all the love she held for her dead husband and son into this single veteran. If he lived, then in her mind, her husband and son still lived. His intervention had shattered that delusion, hence her breakdown.

"Because he saved my son..."

As the woman slowly spoke, the three of them heard a story somewhat different from the one the tavern boy had told.

The brigands had not attacked the town at first. They had appeared suddenly, raiding the caravans that traveled the Old Road. For safety, the caravans began hiring sellswords, which in turn had stimulated the Hamlet's economy. But half a month ago, the brigands had launched a sudden, direct assault on the town. The Magistrate had immediately pressed the local men into service, and the woman's husband was one of them. The abbey housed a contingent of knights and priests from the Church, and while they did not sally forth, their presence was a deterrent. Between them, the sellswords, and the conscripted militia, they had initially held the brigands at bay, a tense stalemate.

Among the sellswords was an experienced veteran. While the other mercenaries spent their time drinking and whoring, he was in the square, organizing the militia and teaching any willing citizen his methods of training and self-defense.

Then one day, the war began without warning. This time, the brigands had brought artillery, procured from some unknown source. They shattered the town's defenses and poured in, burning, killing, and looting. The Church knights retreated to the safety of their abbey. The Magistrate fled. The woman's husband was killed in the first exchange, torn to shreds by a cannonball.

Only the veteran was left, rallying the remaining militia to organize a defense and cover the retreat of the townsfolk. During the fighting, he was run through the right shoulder with a sword while shielding her son. But another cannonball screamed down, and it still took her son's life. The veteran fell, lost in the chaos of the battle. She had not fled with the others. Instead, she had used the confusion to drag the unconscious veteran into the ruins of a collapsed building, hiding from the brigands' rampage. After they had finally left, she dragged him home. And with him... her son.

Lance followed the woman's gaze to a straw mat in the corner of the room. He hadn't noticed it before, but now he knew what lay beneath it. It was the source of the stench. With a sigh, and under the watchful eyes of his companions, he lifted the mat.

The small, decaying corpse was that of a child no older than six or seven. The impact of the sight was immense. Even though Lance had braced himself, the reality of it drove home the cruelty of this world. It was the fear of death.

Upon seeing the child's body, Dismas became even more agitated than Lance, hissing through clenched teeth.

"I will slit their throats!"

Lance, however, refused to be cowed by the horror. He turned to his men, his voice sharp.

"Anger will blind you. Composure is the blade with which we will slay this evil."

Dismas reined in his emotions. Only then did Lance turn back to the woman. "The dead are gone, but the living must go on. Now, please, let us grant the child his final peace."

The woman looked at the body, fresh tears welling in her eyes, but she finally nodded. She turned away, covering her face to weep.

"No, madam. Please watch," Lance guided her, turning her back towards the body. He then approached the corpse with great solemnity, raised a hand, and began to chant.

"I grant you peace."

[Sacrifice] activated. In the next instant, the child's corpse was consumed by the void. To the woman's eyes, her son's body had simply vanished. The sight stunned her into silence, but a moment later she lunged forward on pure instinct.

"My child! My child!"

"Be at ease," Lance said softly. "He has entered God's kingdom. There is no war or death there, no hunger or sickness. He will be happy, forever."

"Is... is that true?"

"It is."