Our Family Has Fallen

Chapter 1136: Chapter 627: Hidden Corruption (2)

I’ve checked all the equipment, and there’s nothing wrong, but the battle damage from last time hasn’t been repaired. If we want to use it, it’ll probably take time to fix.”

The Earl heard this and couldn’t help but fall into thought. He originally thought the other party would get tangled up in this issue, but was surprised to see it end just like that.

Could it be that he was really mistaken? That the Lord wasn’t as formidable as he thought?

Or is there a larger plot at play?

Francis knew the Earl was suspicious, so he chose to say as little as possible. If you don’t ask, I won’t tell.

To be honest, as the loyal servant of Lord Lance, Francis understood that there was destined to be a war between Hamlet and Bastia.

One seeks the revival of Hamlet, which requires the Earl to return the territory he swallowed.

The other seeks the expansion of Bastia, which necessitates the annexation of Hamlet’s last territory.

He could sense that both the Earl and the Lord harbored an irreconcilable conflict, as they both coveted each other’s land.

Yet Francis had already hinted to Lord Lance about Bastia’s current deficit, suspecting that the army capable of capturing the Order of Knights might be able to take down the faltering Bastia.

However, Lord Lance seemed indifferent to this, instead following the agreement to let him redeem the knights’ entire equipment set.

Though most were damaged in battle, compared to making a new set every half year, repairing them would alleviate Bastia’s problems.

Francis was unsure about this and simply needed to handle his own affairs thoroughly...

Even before becoming a spy for Hamlet, Francis felt some resistance toward reporting like this because the Earl gave off an inexplicable pressure, and should he slip up, the old man would send the Eagle Flock to assassinate him.

Moreover, he often engages in hyperbole without fulfilling his promises, and no one can force him otherwise.

Dead men don’t need promises kept.

This high-pressure rule was partly why Francis pledged loyalty to Lance; following the Earl led to a bleak future filled with fear.

But now, he had gathered some crucial information from the earlier report, waiting for the contact person to approach...

His carriage had just left the castle when he heard a vendor’s voice.

”Silver Scale Breastplate, five gold a piece.”

Looking outside the window, he saw a person selling on the street, but the item before him was a broken, rusty breastplate, practically ready for the scrap heap.

Currently in Bastia, most craftsmen had been taken by the Earl for ironwork to fill the equipment gap, driving civilian equipment prices up, yet no one cared about this.

Calling it trash would be an overstatement, dumped on the ground without anyone picking it up, let alone at the price of five gold, so no one paid him any mind.

Only Francis recognized the phrase as a code for meeting.

Surprised the other party knew about his return in just half a day, Francis realized Lord Lance had a frightening command over Bastia!

After returning, Francis quickly prepared to head to the designated meeting place, one that wouldn’t attract attention.

As a Flame Warlock, under the Church’s oppression, he couldn’t be unprepared, needing a place to shed his identity.

”What’s the price of the shirt?”

”Nine pounds and fifteen pence.”

Neither party met face-to-face; upon matching the code, negotiations began.

”The war between Bastia and the Mountains has ceased, likely due to internal issues within the Barbarian Tribes.

However, the Earl has no intention of advancing into the Mountains as Commander Bruce returned from the front.

I guess it’s still an issue of equipment and logistics, especially since the autumn harvest will also affect Bastia’s survival.”

”Mm~” A low hum resounded in the dim environment, signaling listening.

Francis paid it no mind and continued rapidly speaking about what he knew.

...

A unit shrouded in despair and fear under the bleak autumn winds traversed the desolate wild forest.

They were mostly dressed as members of the Barbarian Tribes, yet the majority were women and children, as the elderly had long passed to the Mountains.

Only on the outskirts were there a few young and strong bearing the guise of mercenaries and tribal members providing guard duty, yet oppressively, even these weapon-wielding youths showed confusion and uneasiness.

Like young beasts separated from their mother, blindly wandering, everything around them seemed fraught with danger.

The mixed decorations indicated they weren’t from the same tribe.

Indeed, this was a group comprised of members who escaped from tribes wrecked by the Warwolf-led Fang Tribe.

Why is this certain? Because the leader carried a Serpent Pattern Greatbow on his back, identifying him as Boslake.

Previously hoping to survive the harsh winter under the sanctuary of those great tribes, these returning mercenaries served the great tribes to secure a chance for their kin to live.

Yet various abstract encounters resulted in the current situation.

Even he hesitated to think about attacking the Fang Tribe; the dread was fear, a fear too terrifying.

A few escaped back; had he not distanced himself, he might not have returned.

To confront such issues, the Barbarian Alliance Army had to withdraw from Bastia.

For those tribes, the Mountains were foundational, and resources were here, leaving no room for them to retreat, forcing them to remain.

But for Boslake, the Mountains were uninhabitable; survival meant fleeing.

Without a doubt, those presences cast a horrid shadow upon him.

”Cough, cough! Cough, cough!”

A young teen in the crowd began to cough. Bearing a weak frame, unlike the sturdy Barbarian Tribe physique, he was thin and pale, coughing after a few steps, fearing death along the road.

Seeing this, Boslake felt heartache; it was his son, left weakened after a failed ritual, though saved, with an ailment lingering.

”Are you okay, child? Let me carry you.”

”I’m fine.” The boy refrained from complaining, persisting to walk, yet couldn’t resist asking, ”Father, will Hamlet truly take us in?”

”Yes, Hamlet is different from Bastia.”

Truthfully, Boslake was uncertain, but knew the group needed a goal for spiritual support; without it, they’d crumble instantly.

Yet they were fortunate; with the Barbarian Alliance Army’s withdrawal and Bastia’s internal matters, the army didn’t immediately block them, so the path from the Mountains to Hamlet remained clear, free from military opposition.

Otherwise, among a hundred or so people, fewer than ten would escape.

Thankfully, the Mountains blessed them, having crossed the most dangerous control zones, now within Hamlet’s territory.

Entering the forest, their survival capability dramatically increased.

Suddenly, a terrifying cry echoed from the forest, piercing the sky.

The raspy sound seemed to tear through flesh and snap bones, echoing lamentations of countless souls, freezing the hundred-strong group in place.

For a more dreadful scene transpired: a colossal shadow appeared in the sky, wings spread vast as if covering the heavens, instantly swallowing the crowd’s last shred of sanity.

”Ah! Such power... none can stop them...”

”The Elders never warned me of such... malevolent beings.”

”Which warrior — regardless of gender — can face such a terrifying being...?”

Fear and despair spread further among the crowd, the emotions seemingly beckoning the shadow’s attention, pressing close.

Some crumbled, kneeling and praying.

Others stood numb, awaiting death.

Mothers clutched their children despite fear, unable to forsake their instinct to protect.

But not all surrendered to fear.

Boslake drew his Serpent Bow, roaring at the group.

”Look at me! You’ll all get through this — every one of you!”