The Truth of the Invasion

At last, Lance no longer had to hide in the shadows. He could stand openly on the soil of the Hamlet. But there was one last matter to attend to. He needed to pay a "visit" to the Magistrate.

"Susan, take these things back to the house for now. We have one final piece of business, and then we will return."

After sending Susan off with an excuse, Lance led his men directly to the Magistrate's home. It was a two-story structure of brick and stone, with a courtyard in front and back—by far the finest house in the town. To his surprise, two horses were tied to a trough in the front yard.

Weren't those the horses the steward rode away on? Their presence here could only mean...

Lance exchanged a look with his companions. It was clear they had reached the same conclusion.

"I was right," Lance declared, seizing the opportunity to cement his narrative. "The steward betrayed us and revealed our route. Otherwise, how could the Magistrate have known the precise time and place of our return?"

He had another motive for this, of course. By branding the Magistrate a traitor's accomplice from the outset, he would have grounds to dismiss anything the man might say in his own defense.

They slipped into the house and soon found the Magistrate fast asleep. He was a fat man whose belly rose like a small hill as he lay there, his snores like thunder.

Damn him! After a long night of bloody work, the sight of the man sleeping so soundly filled Lance with a surge of resentment. He found a rope and bound the man securely to his bed, then turned to his companions.

"Search the other rooms. If you find anyone else, finish them."

With his men dispatched, Lance turned his attention to the Magistrate. He patted the man's face with the barrel of his pistol.

"Wake up." When there was no response, he delivered a heavy slap across the man's face.

"Hah!" The Magistrate gasped, as if he couldn't breathe. He tried to sit up, only to find himself tied to the bed.

"Who are you?" he asked instinctively, seeing a dark figure standing beside him. Then, his mind snapped into focus, and realizing his predicament, he opened his mouth to shout.

"You can scream louder, if you like," Lance said, shoving the pistol's barrel into his mouth. "Or you can be quiet."

The Magistrate instantly fell silent, nodding frantically. Only then did Lance withdraw the pistol.

"The money's in the cabinet. Please, don't hurt me."

"Do you really think I came here for your money?"

A sudden realization dawned on the Magistrate. "You're the heir!" he gasped.

"Are you surprised that I'm not dead?" Lance sneered.

"Oh, I swear to the gods, this has nothing to do with me!" the Magistrate pleaded, his voice filled with terror. "It must be those vile brigands, slandering my name!"

"I haven't even said anything, and yet you've confessed to it all," Lance mocked him with a shake of his head.

The Magistrate realized his slip but refused to admit it, continuing his frantic denials. "I truly know nothing!"

"And you think I would believe you? They almost killed me!" Lance could no longer suppress the tide of his own emotions. In truth, before he had crossed over, he was just an ordinary person, not some grizzled soldier or god of war. When those thugs had chased him, his fear had been real, not an act. The same was true of the first time he had seen such carnage. The unshakable, all-knowing lord he presented to Dismas and Reynauld was nothing more than a persona he forced himself to perform.

Reality, it seemed, truly did force one to grow up quickly. Because those who were slow... were already dead.

Lance reined in his emotions. His voice became flat. "Even if you didn't send assassins, do you think I would let you live, after what you've done to my domain?"

"Without me, this town would have been slaughtered by the brigands long ago!" Realizing he was cornered, the Magistrate played his trump card. "Don't think I don't know about the Old Lord's dealings with those brigands! You just be a good little lord and stay out of the town's affairs."

But Lance's expression did not change. He had expected this. In the next instant, he drew his dagger and plunged it directly into the Magistrate's mouth, twisting it violently.

"Ah!"

The Magistrate had not anticipated this. A wave of agony sent his corpulent body into violent convulsions, nearly shaking the bed frame apart. But it could not stop Lance's assault. A muffled scream rose and was just as quickly silenced as Lance stuffed a rag into the man's mouth.

"Mmmph! Mmmph!"

The Magistrate was now completely unable to speak, the wound in his mouth scraping against the rough cloth a torment like swallowing blades.

Seeing this, Lance smiled with satisfaction. In truth, he knew more about the Ancestor's deal with the brigands than the Magistrate ever could. Why else would he have sent his men away to conduct this interrogation alone?

Years ago, as the Ancestor began his excavations, a prophet had come to the town, declaring that the Ancestor's work was blasphemy and would bring about the end of days. In a world where the influence of religion was immense, the common folk were deeply superstitious. The prophecy incited protests, which, fueled by rumor, escalated into riots that severely hindered the Ancestor's work. To solve the problem of the "noisy" populace, the Ancestor, that ruthless man, simply hired an army of conscience-free killing specialists. Soon, a band of thugs, brigands, and professional killers began their slaughter of the town.

The "brigand invasion" was, in fact, the Ancestor's method of crushing a peasants' revolt. As the town's administrator, the Magistrate must have known something. But sometimes, knowing too much is not a good thing. And for that, he now suffered this fate.

Lance knew that to seize control of the town with his heroic narrative intact, he had to eliminate all who knew the truth. The steward was dead. Now, only the Magistrate remained.

Lance left the room to rejoin Dismas and Reynauld. Strangely, they had found no one else in the house. This troubled Lance; he did not like it when things fell outside his control. But for now, there was nothing to be done.

"Look what I found!"

Dismas's excited voice broke his train of thought. He walked over and saw, next to the fireplace, the entrance to a cellar.

"Careful of traps."

An ordinary person might have rushed in eagerly. But Lance, knowing the nature of this world, was extremely wary, as cautious as a man who had already lost everything once. At Lance's reminder, Dismas calmed himself. He took a candlestick and carefully made his way down.

"It's clear. Come on down."

Hearing the call from below, Lance entered the cellar. Stone steps led down into an arched corridor built of hewn stone blocks. It was clear the builders had placed great importance on this place. Following the passage, Lance soon arrived at the bottom. By the light of the candlestick, he began to survey the cellar.