Our Family Has Fallen

His action was like a switch, and within the crowded group of refugees, several figures suddenly appeared, fleeing in different directions.

”Bang!”

Just as a gunshot rang out, the figure that had just jumped up fell to the ground in the next second.

It was not Lance who fired the shot; he just watched without any intention to act.

”Damn it! I didn’t manage to hit the head.” Dismas stood holding his gun, clicked his tongue at the scene, seemingly grumbling a bit displeased.

However, seeing him turn to reload, it was clear that he was quite satisfied with the power of this new gun.

Guns also have life; only those who can tame them can hit where they intend.

No one stopped to mourn that person; everyone was busy running, trying to break out of the encirclement amidst the chaos.

”Hmph! Trying to escape?”

A cold snort sounded, and an iron hook flew out from the darkness, directly hooking a spy, breaking his movement as the rope tightened and pulled him down.

The flickering light of the torches illuminated the figure of Tadiff charging in with an axe.

Not all the spies were from the Eagle Flock; some were shoving people within the crowd to create chaos, but they didn’t expect to have been targeted long ago.

”Take them down, girls!”

At the command, Fergus dashed forward, his sharp teeth showing no mercy as he bit down, and simultaneously, with a mad shake of his head, he used his body weight to drag and tear.

The bitten wound instantly bled profusely, with a mass of mangled flesh above it.

Dismas, Tadiff, and William had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Boudica hadn’t fully recovered yet; otherwise, he wouldn’t mind joining the fun.

Even if the refugees broke out, it was useless; those long-waiting musketeers pulled their triggers without the slightest hesitation.

At this distance, they were just targets, with no room for resistance, pierced through by dense barrages before falling.

Funny, Lance encircled them with his army, having anticipated this outcome—none could escape.

Anyone who popped their head out was quickly dealt with; Lance originally thought there would be some elite operatives, which was why he stayed here.

Unexpectedly, Count Bastia was so stingy, not even willing to use some elites for the invasion—just some worthless lackeys, losing interest right away.

If Count Bastia looked at Lance as an ordinary noble lord, then he couldn’t complain about the wrong outcome.

This wasn’t about underestimation; normally, when facing refugees, the first thing to do is to guard against their chaos, usually just driving them away or handing out some food.

Simply put, they should be like Totnes and Bastia, blocking them outside; who has time to care for them?

To these old-school noble rulers like the Count, inciting refugees was a trivial matter, naturally impossible to use any elites.

What kind of lord personally handles refugee issues seriously?

He simply didn’t understand Hamlet, nor did he understand Lance...

With the front stabilized, Lance no longer saw any reason to stay and turned his horse to leave the area.

When he returned to the Lord’s Mansion, he saw the three people in the hall.

Laura was fine, but the other two were almost unable to sit still.

”Why haven’t my guests been properly welcomed? Go get some food.” Lance said to Susan beside him, reminding, ”They’ve been hungry for days, get some thin porridge that’s easy to digest.”

”Yes.”

Susan turned and left, while Lance began to examine the two individuals.

The ragged cloth used to cover their bodies had been removed, revealing the slender figure of the black-haired woman under ill-fitting clothes.

Unfortunately, her visible weakness was evident, her face lost its rosy glow, with only exhaustion and pallor remaining from the past few days, even with remnants of blood stains from days before, lacking any aesthetic appeal.

She should be the daughter of Baron Lawrence that Laura had mentioned. From her appearance, it was clear she was accustomed to a life of luxury, so being in such a situation wasn’t surprising.

The other woman, with disheveled red hair, was also quite good-looking, but the days of hunger made her appear thin and fatigued, though her eyes remained bright, not completely subdued by hardship.

Her physique showed signs of training, with a musket visible inside the cut-open ragged cloth she leaned on with a staff.

Laura didn’t say who she was, but anyone willing to defect from Bastia was worth recruiting.

No! It wasn’t called defecting; a more accurate term would be seeing the light.

”How did she get injured?” Lance noticed the simply bandaged wound on the black-haired woman’s head and instinctively moved closer.

The woman was in no position to resist now; she didn’t have the strength to care as Lance removed the bandage, exposing the wound.

It hadn’t been treated for some time, yet the medicine used and bandaging method were quite good, but even in such harsh conditions, it still festered.

Managing to reach Hamlet and encountering Lance before completely passing out meant she had incredible luck.

The wound hadn’t reached the bone, merely a superficial injury. For Lance, it was a breeze to handle, and Flesh Reconstruction easily healed the wound on the back of her head, though the performance had to be made, pretending to treat it and re-bandage.

”No big deal, just a few more days to recover.”

Laura found it inexplicable, why was the Lord dealing with this? She was discharged with just a word back then.

Soon, Susan brought over a pot of warm fish porridge; it was clear it was similar to what was given to the refugees outside, prepared by Hamlet, merely scooped from the bottom of the pot for more concentration.

But for the two who had eaten roots for days, it was a delicacy, their weakened bodies couldn’t help but look up, supported by tables and chairs.

Before Margaret could react, the black-haired woman beside her went up first.

However, having been hungry for so long, standing up wasn’t easy, and her movement turned into a staggering lunge forward.

”Careful.” Lance reached out to steady her, preventing a spill of the food.

Helping her to the table, signalling Susan to tend to them, Lance didn’t focus too much on the two, knowing any conversation now was futile; it was better left until they were satiated.

He turned his attention to Laura, rising and walking into a room.

Laura, not being hungry with the convoy, followed on noticing the Lord’s gaze, stepping inside.

”How did that baron’s daughter get injured?”

Lance’s expression was marginally helpless, wanting to use her to pressure Baron Lawrence; she needed to be intact, otherwise injuries could imply mistreatment on his part.

Regardless of who inflicted it, as long as she appeared here injured, the Baron would think he captured her, turning it into a threat — the demeanor would differ.

But Laura seemed perplexed by his words.

”She isn’t injured?”

Hearing this, Lance paused, baffled, turning back to question her.

”The red-haired one is Baron Lawrence’s daughter?”

”Yes, sir.” Laura clarified, realizing the mix-up, and nodded to correct it.

In the previous situation, focus lay on Count Bastia’s deployment concerning the refugee convoy, mentioning those two in passing, leading to misunderstanding.

Once confirmed, Lance was surprised — his earlier healing gesture was meant to build rapport.

Had he expressed goodwill to the wrong person?

Leaving the main character aside unacknowledged?

Remembering something unspoken, he continued enquiring.

”Then who is the black-haired one?”

”...” Laura was silent momentarily, then paused to reply, ”I don’t know.”

”Um...?” This confused Lance — why bring someone unknown to him?

Laura sensed her words were ambiguous, quickly explaining the woman’s encounter and rescue, clarifying.