Knights and Magic Wand
Chapter 435 - 435 204 Gloom

435: Chapter 204: Gloom 435: Chapter 204: Gloom Just southeast of the border of Mamor County, in the eastern part of Baldim County, built by the great lake, the bustling outskirts of “Shatai City” are a sprawl of tattered tents and ramshackle huts.

In bygone years, a massive influx of people into the territory might have delighted the Lord governing this land.

However, several months ago, this region had already been plundered by a few thousand Urian mercenaries.

Only after extorting valuables and food supplies could Shatai City, now suffering a severe shortage of resources, avoid being sacked.

The dire situation has pushed the city to open its granaries and release the Lord’s emergency reserves to aid the ever-growing number of border refugees arriving.

Gazing at the throngs of refugees outside the city walls, donning battered iron helmets, armed with axes, spears, and farming tools, and towing away the distributed relief grain, the Fat Baron kicked the battlements in a fit of resentment.

Releasing grain from the storehouses and “donating” food was certainly not an act of his great generosity.

The Fat Baron cursed himself for not having decisively sent soldiers to promptly slaughter these lowlifes.

He simply had no choice but to give in.

Several thousand scoundrels outside the city, emboldened, imitated the Urian bandits’ extortion tactics, united by a few audacious leaders to threaten him—either release the grain or they would storm the city to plunder it themselves.

“…Ungrateful wretches, once Duke Ablo has returned with the army, I’ll hang all those mongrels outside,” muttered the Fat Baron indignantly, watching the precious grain being hauled away by the refugees’ organizers, in agony as if his heart were being carved by knives.

To respond to Aviout’s call to arms, the troops he had amassed over years had been nearly entirely expended in the grand eastern invasion.

The looted treasures and gold were indeed gratifying, but before even warming to them, the whimsical Urians seized a large portion.

The soldiers he dispatched are now escorted by Duke Ablo to protect the injured King on his return to the court.

With only two hundred guards fit for battle remaining in the city, forcibly conscripting civilians was not sufficient to confront the Urians, who looted while retreating to the southern plains, nor to handle the several thousand refugees outside…

…Joy for some, sorrow for others.

The Baron atop the city endured his rage, thunderous as a tempest.

Beneath the city walls, the refugees, seeing their leader returning with grain procured from the Lord, excitedly surged forward in a noisy jubilation.

But soon they were shoved aside by a group of men dressed in makeshift, patchwork Armor, bearing swords.

A middle-aged strongman in a worn half suit of armor swiftly led his men to the grain-laden carts, driving back the overeager crowd.

The armored strongman drew his sword to restore order to the queue for grain distribution, then commenced the organized dispersal.

Having learned from past experiences where chaos and looting led to fatalities of instigators, the refugees, now cognizant of the bloodstained blades in the hands of the leaders’ men, readily acquiesced to the camp’s established order.

A young boy with a dagger at his waist, energetically aiding beside Uncle Ron, quickly broke into a sweat in the increasingly hot summer weather.

The stern leader oversaw the crowd and sparing a moment, glanced at the youngster and pat his head with a faint smile, “Little Gold Coin, take your portion back to the tent, and catch up on some sleep.

You’ve been waking up startled in the middle of the night lately.”

The boy, resisting the rough hand on his head, couldn’t help but look up and complain, “Uncle Ron, my name is Brandon, not Little Gold Coin.”

“I still find Little Gold Coin rolls off the tongue easier.”

Ron gave the youthful boy a good rub, akin to his own child who had passed away, and urged repeatedly, “Alright, enough chit-chat, now off you go.”

Knowing Uncle Ron cared for him, Brandon didn’t press on; he’d indeed been plagued by frequent nightmares lately, draining his spirits.

Collecting enough food for sustenance, Brandon, clutching the dagger at his waist, hurried back to the leader’s camp.

Next to the communal bonfire, he mixed crumbled black bread and wheat with wild vegetables into a clay pot to boil into porridge.

After a hearty meal, he crawled back into his draughty tent, clutching his dagger as he closed his weary eyes.

For several nights in a row, he’d dared not close his eyes in the silent darkness.

It was as if merely shutting his eyes summoned nightmarish visions…monsters and demons appeared in his mind.

The boy realized that only the bright light of day allowed him to drift into dreamless sleep without interruption from nightmares.

Though the camp was noisy during the daytime, away from the monsters of his dreams, Brandon’s tense nerves inevitably relaxed.

Refugees in famine years were also dreadful, but Uncle Ron had found a path forward for everyone.

The young boy at least didn’t have to fear being thrown into a pot by a ravenous refugee in his sleep…

…He slept comfortably this time around, oblivious to the coming darkness.

Night fell.

Upon awakening, Brandon looked around the camp, lit only by flickering bonfires.

Instinctively tensing up, but reassured by the thunderous snoring beside him and seeing Uncle Ron sound asleep like a log, he relaxed somewhat.

He turned to see Uncle Ron’s men guarding the fire outside the torn tent, decided against further sleep, and wide-eyed, joined them in vigilance alongside his sleeping chieftain.

But the boy overestimated his stamina; the prolonged pressures of survival and malnutrition soon had his eyelids drooping once more into slumber.

For how long he’d dozed off he couldn’t tell, but Brandon was abruptly shaken awake by a pair of strong hands.