Ruin has come to our family

Lance calmed the woman, and as he did, he felt the [Boon] from the void flow into him. He didn't know if it was because the body had lain for so long, or because it was a child, but the gift was far smaller than what he had received from the brigands. Still, it was a gain he hadn't expected, and he would not scorn it.

His eyes fell upon the wounds on her wrist. A dense network of half-healed cuts told the story of her last fortnight, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow. He took her hand and, pulling out his own handkerchief, began to bandage the wound. He used this moment of gentle care to explain who he was.

The rightful heir to this domain—Lance Hamlet.

In turn, Lance learned the woman's name was Susan.

Susan was finding it hard to believe. No nobleman would ever treat one of them like this. But the testimony of Dismas and Reynauld confirmed Lance's identity. He was a great lord. This knowledge only made Susan's grief more acute. Why did he only come now? If he had been here sooner, would my husband and son still be alive?

Lance sensed her thoughts, and his own expression fell. In the game, he could treat everyone as a consumable resource on the path to victory. He had thought he could do the same now, treat these people as mere characters. But to truly engage with them was to become infected by their emotions.

"They have harmed my people," Lance declared, standing tall, his vow ringing with grim purpose. "I swear I will make those brigands pay in blood!" His cold, severe expression sent a chill even through Dismas, who could only echo the sentiment.

"And I shall be your blade!"

"Our strength is still slight. We must gather our power," Lance said, knowing that anger alone would not win the day. He quickly calmed himself and turned his attention to the veteran on the bed. "He needs our help."

A wound of this severity was beyond ordinary care. The battlefield dressings that Reynauld and Dismas knew would be of no use here.

"Boil water."

As a man from the modern era, Lance had a basic understanding of medicine. He directed the others, clearing a small, clean space. He took a soft undershirt from his pack, tore it into strips, and dropped them into the boiling water. After sterilizing a small knife in the fire, he began to debride the wound, cutting away the dead flesh. In an age without anesthetic, such a procedure was a torment close to death. Mercifully, the veteran was lost to consciousness.

Soon, the wound was clean. Lance applied the herbal salve Reynauld carried and bound it tightly with the sterilized cloth strips. Susan watched as Lance tended to the veteran, her gaze falling to her own bandaged wrist. A nobleman who would tear his own fine clothes to bind the wounds of a "dead man."

The procedure exhausted the last of Lance's boons, but it was enough to stabilize the veteran's condition. At the very least, his breathing became smoother, the rise and fall of his chest now clearly visible. They had bought him some time. To truly heal the wound would require more boons, and more time. Which meant he needed to kill, and to sacrifice.

"The people of this domain are suffering. We must act quickly," Lance said, his brow furrowed. He looked to Susan. She was the only one who truly knew the town's situation. "I need your help."

"I understand..."

The fire of vengeance began to smolder in Susan's eyes, which had, until now, been placid with grief.

...

Night fell upon the Hamlet like a shroud. For the townsfolk, who had no nightlife to speak of, sleep was the only activity. At least in sleep, they did not feel the hunger. In this world, the poverty of lighting made the night difficult. Commoners used candles of paraffin or lamps filled with animal fat and pine resin. The nobility used beeswax, which burned without the black smoke.

But for the mercenaries and thugs, their nightlife was just beginning.

"Hahaha! You should have seen it! I sent a brigand flying with a single punch..."

In the tavern, a burly man swung his fists as he boasted. No one dared question his thick arms, even though they all knew the "brigand" he had sent flying was a townsman who had been blocking his escape route. These mercenaries and thugs drank and bragged in the tavern, or staggered off to spend the night with a harlot. Some, the more vicious ones, would even break into the homes of townsfolk and take the women by force. They had never imagined that the brigands, by sealing off the town, had created such an opportunity for them. They had fled the battle, but they had survived. Those who had chosen to fight were dead.

The revelry ended, and the mercenaries left one by one, leaving behind the usual nightly wreckage in the tavern.

But tonight was destined to be different.

"Not staying for a few hands of cards?"

"Pah! With coin in my pocket, why wouldn't I find a woman?"

The mercenary who had confronted Lance earlier left the tavern, pleasantly drunk. The thought of the brothel made him sway as he walked. He had been nothing but a local layabout before the brigands came. Now, he was a "constable." But his habit of bullying the townsfolk had not only persisted, it had intensified.

As he passed down a street, a hand shot out from behind, closing around his neck and dragging him into a black alley.

"Who—!" the ruffian cried in alarm, but in the next second a hand clamped over his mouth. He tried to struggle, but found his arms pinned.

Dismas was about to finish him, but Lance stopped him. Instead, he took a dagger—one they had confiscated earlier—and handed it to Susan.

"Go. Take back what is yours."

Susan took the dagger without hesitation. Driven by a frenzied hatred, she plunged the dagger into the ruffian's body. Once... twice... The agony made him thrash wildly, but he was nothing against Reynauld's iron grip.

"That's enough. He's dead," Lance said, pulling Susan away as he casually sacrificed the corpse.

Her vengeance spent, Susan said nothing. The air about her felt colder, more silent. But she had not forgotten her task. As planned, she led them to the next location.

According to Susan, the Magistrate had more than thirty constables under his command. The real threat came from the twenty-odd mercenaries among them; the rest were local thugs who knew the layout of the town. Normally, attacking them in their barracks or the guild hall would be difficult. But the brigands had destroyed those places. Now, their dissolution gave Lance his opportunity. Their love of wine and women left them scattered across the town at night, vulnerable.

During the day, while resting, Lance had used Susan's knowledge to map the locations of his targets. He was waiting for this night to bury them all.