"Are you the blacksmith?"
Lance was responsible for assessing townspeople with special occupations or abilities. At that moment, he regarded the disheveled, white-bearded man currently wolfing down vegetable gruel with a touch of curiosity.
In his mind, blacksmiths in this world were skilled workers, highly sought after for manufacturing and repairing both tools and weapons. He couldn't quite understand how one could have fallen into such dire straits.
As the blacksmith spoke of his situation, his face filled with sorrow, and he proceeded to tell Lance the whole story.
Before the bandits arrived, it had been just as Lance surmised: he was the only blacksmith in town. Orders from farmers sometimes faced month-long queues, not to mention the significant workload from crafting and repairing weapons.
Then the bandits came. The mayor had placed a large order with him for various weapons and gear to arm the militia.
Initially, he thought he would make a fortune, so he worked day and night. But after he delivered a few batches of equipment, the bandits attacked. A cannonball directly hit his forge. If he hadn't happened to be out at the time, he probably would have been killed on the spot.
Although he escaped the bandits' slaughter, his shop was gone. With the mayor refusing to pay him because the order wasn't completed, his hope of rebuilding the forge was utterly dashed. He was left jobless, wandering the streets.
"Even without the remaining weapons, the ones I already delivered must be worth quite a bit."
"What do you mean by that?" Lance heard the implication in his words.
"It's just... the money from that order the mayor placed..." The blacksmith cradled his bowl, his face etched with a desperate plea.
The blacksmith's intention was simple: he wanted Lance to settle the debt for the former mayor's order. But was Lance that kind of person? It's generous enough I'm not looking for trouble with *you*, and you expect me to pay a dead man's debts?
"Is this something you made?"
Lance didn't answer him directly. Instead, he took out the dagger they had seized on the old road and handed it over.
The blacksmith picked it up, examined it, and began to boast, "Yes, that's my work—solid and durable."
It was clear he was confident in his craftsmanship, but Lance's next words, spoken slowly, terrified him so much he almost fell to his knees.
"This dagger was found on the person who tried to assassinate me. You supplied weapons to the mayor's people. Were you their accomplice?"
"What!" The blacksmith froze. With a CLANG, the dagger fell from his hands. He couldn't care less about the blade now; he frantically waved his arms, denying everything. "I've sold too many weapons! It's got nothing to do with me, My Lord!"
"If you had merely sold it to someone else, of course, I wouldn't make things difficult for you. But why did you give him the equipment when he hadn't paid? It's hard to argue you're not an accomplice, you know." Lance's gaze was icy as he watched the blacksmith.
Trying to extort *me*? Does he really think I'm some kind of pushover?
"He did pay! He did!" The blacksmith, realizing his predicament, hastily changed his tune. "The mayor paid for that batch of weapons!"
"So, you were just trying to extort me, then?"
Lance's words cornered him again. The blacksmith felt completely overwhelmed and could only stammer out pleas for mercy.
"My Lord, I truly knew nothing! Please, spare me!"
"What are you implying? That I would wrongfully accuse you?"
"No, no, no!" The blacksmith was so desperate he couldn't even cry; he wished he could just end it all with a single, clean strike of a blade.
"Alright." Lance saw the blacksmith had reached his limit and decided not to press him further. "I still believe you."
"Phew..." Like a drowning man grasping a lifeline, the blacksmith finally breathed a sigh of relief. The crushing pressure in his chest eased considerably.
"That mayor was a man of many evil deeds. I hope you won't follow his example. Otherwise, I'll have to take action."
"Yes, yes, yes!" The blacksmith nodded hurriedly, daring not to harbor a single complaint against the Lord's words.
"Go get yourself another bowl. I'll prioritize you when we rebuild the town," Lance said, patting the blacksmith on the shoulder before sending him away.
"Thank you, My Lord..."
Lance watched the blacksmith retreat, his face showing little emotion.
It wasn't that he begrudged the money, but whether spending it would have any meaning. No one knew exactly what the former mayor had done or how much debt he had accrued. If he, Lance, acknowledged the blacksmith's debt today, what about the others? Therefore, that precedent couldn't be set. He couldn't afford to waste his energy on endless, unresolved debts. However, he couldn't simply deny this debt outright. The town had only one blacksmith, and he needed the man's skills in forging and repair. So, he needed the blacksmith to give up on the claim willingly. And in the end, the blacksmith would even have to thank him gratefully for an extra bowl of porridge.
Was the blacksmith at fault? Not really. But when his interests clashed with Lance's, the outcome was already clear.
「Sometime later」
As the situation in town stabilized, Lance left the veterans to rest and hurried to the agreed-upon location.
"How's it going?"
"Just as the Lord predicted," Dismas replied, visibly impressed. Lance's ability to accurately identify the farm owner's spies among the townspeople seemed almost prophetic. "Some tried to go and warn those at the farm, but we stopped them all. The boy is inside."
"Let's have a look."
Lance didn't waste words. Dismas promptly led him into the woods bordering the road. There, they immediately saw a figure strung up in a tree. It was a boy, probably no more than eleven or twelve years old, but life had made him appear as gaunt and emaciated as a skinny monkey.
"Get him down."
The boy was brought before Lance. He appeared terrified, for he too had witnessed the scene in the square. He had seen how the mayor, in this man's hands, had looked like a fat pig awaiting slaughter.
"Do you know who I am?"
"My Lord..."
"What is your name?" Lance didn't rush to reveal his intentions, instead directing the conversation to the boy.
"I don't have a proper name. My father is John, so everyone calls me Little John."
"Where is your family? How did you end up working for the farm owner?"
"My mother and brother... they were killed by bandits..."
Lance roughly understood the boy's situation. Only he and his father had survived the bandits. Later, due to a lack of food, his father had been forced to sell their land and himself to the farm owner. The boy, being too young to be of use, would have starved if the grain shop hadn't taken him in to do odd jobs in exchange for food.
"Then, do you hate the bandits?"
"Hate!" At his age, Little John didn't hide his emotions; they were all laid bare on his face.
"Do you hate the mayor and the farm owner?"
This time, he seemed somewhat dazed, clearly not yet understanding the impact these two had on his life.
"The farm owner is the one who forced your father to sell himself and your land," Lance explained. "If it weren't for him, you'd have your own fields. You'd have food every day, not like you do now."
"It's all their fault?"
"Yes. It's because of them that you can't eat. They're just like the bandits." Lance used the simplest terms to explain, and just a few straightforward words were enough to stir the boy's emotions.
If the bandits were the direct cause of suffering, then the mayor and the farm owner were accomplices. After all, if they hadn't inflated grain prices, the townspeople wouldn't have been forced to sell themselves just for a bite to eat.
"And I am here to fight the bandits. I will protect you. I will make sure you can eat your fill. Now, who will you help?"