Chapter 408: The Villagers

Leight walked slowly among the collapsed ruins. The southern wind swept across the fields, over the trampled and ruined wheat, and into this scarred land. The air no longer carried the stench of blood and burning; instead, it was moist and sweet—a sign that a summer rain might soon fall.

After the rain, the grass and trees would sprout anew, and fresh shoots would rise from the damaged fields. Nature always recovered faster than humans. But this village, set ablaze by the retreating noble soldiers, who knew when it would ever be rebuilt?

Leight’s small squad wasn’t here to clean up the battlefield. He and his new comrades were simply passing through on orders to replace the medical staff at the prisoner camp in Hosman, coming from the Kant region. Their passing through these ruins was a coincidence; they wouldn’t stay long. Leight knew this, yet he still wished to hold a small purification ritual for the village—his duty as a priest.

After getting the squad leader’s permission, he made his way to the village center, where a longhouse had collapsed. It was likely the villagers’ meeting place. The building had been burned down; charred planks and beams lay tangled like dead branches, buried in broken earth and rubble. The thin rafters that once supported the roof jutted into the clear blue sky like gaunt, twisted limbs.

Beside the house was a buried well.

Leight found a relatively intact tile among the ruins and placed it beside the well. He poured some clean water onto the tile and laid a few small wildflowers next to it. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a stub of a white candle, barely the length of his thumb, and set it behind the tile to symbolize the Holy Light.

Once everything was arranged, he gently rubbed his fingers above the candle.

Nothing happened. Not even a flicker of holy light.

Leight quietly withdrew his hand and took out a small ignition device—a compact magical tool made from two copper plates etched with fire runes and a tiny mana crystal. He brought it close to the candle and pressed the switch. The runes glowed red, igniting the wick.

“May the Holy Light guide your path… no longer trapped by cold and darkness… may your souls find peace… no more hunger or suffering…”

Leight whispered the prayer, then bent down to snuff out the candle. But just before putting it away, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something familiar lying quietly among the weeds near the well.

It was a small iron badge, about the size of a hazelnut. It bore a ring and rays of light—a symbol of the Holy Light Church—and had a metal loop for attaching to a leather strap or cord. It was a Holy Light badge, worn on the breastplate of a church knight.

Leight picked it up and stared silently at the emblem representing the Holy Light Church.

Suddenly, he recalled that the noble coalition’s forces included priests, clerics, and even church knights from the Holy Spirit Plains.

He turned back to the burned longhouse. Amid the ruins, he faintly sensed a lingering trace of magical energy—the breath of the Holy Light.

The lost badge twisted and bent slowly in his hand.

At that moment, a faint sound caught the priest’s attention.

It was brief and subtle, like a small twig snapping on the ground. Even the lightest rustle of a rabbit running through the grass might have been louder. Yet Leight noticed it immediately and began searching, pacing back and forth beside the ruined longhouse.

Finally, he found a hatch covered by dirt, rubble, and charred wood, with an iron ring fixed to it.

Leight pushed aside some larger stones and wood, grabbed the iron ring, and pulled hard. The hatch creaked open, revealing a dark cellar beneath—and dozens of terrified eyes staring back at him.

“There are survivors here!”

The soldiers quickly gathered around. After a dozen or so fully armed men appeared, the frightened villagers in the cellar had no choice but to come out. Leight counted seventeen in total—men, women, and children.

They were ragged and gaunt, their faces pale and hollow from days without sunlight. They must have been hiding in the cellar since the noble soldiers left. Weak and barely able to stand, they leaned on each other, forming a small cluster, their eyes filled with fear as they looked at the unfamiliar soldiers.

One soldier jumped down into the cellar and climbed back up moments later. “There are three more down there—already dead. We’ll need help carrying them out.”

The squad leader ordered others to assist and then approached the survivors. “Are you from this village? Are you the only ones left?”

The survivors exchanged anxious glances. Some shook their heads repeatedly, others hesitated before nodding, and a few just stood blankly, as if not understanding the question.

“Go get some food and water,” the leader sighed, turning to his men. “No jerky—they might choke on it.”

Food was soon brought over, but the villagers only watched warily, swallowing hard without daring to move forward. It wasn’t until the soldiers pressed the food into their hands that they accepted it was truly for them.

Once the first person took a bite, the others quickly followed, devouring the food. Leight could feel their wariness slowly easing as they ate, though tension still lingered.

“Are you from this village?” Leight asked gently once they had regained some strength. “Have you been hiding in the cellar all this time? Are there other cellars in the village?”

Several villagers eyed Leight’s imposing figure with fear, but finally one spoke up. “We are… there’s no one else…”

He pointed to the cellar behind him and then to the others around him. “Just us.”

“We’re soldiers of Duke Gawain Cecil,” the squad leader said nearby. “Don’t be afraid. You’re safe now.”

But the villagers seemed not to understand, showing no reaction to the leader’s words. They looked fearfully at the soldiers’ melting swords hanging at their waists.

“The Cecil army is different from the others. We don’t steal food,” the leader reassured them, knowing what they feared. “Who burned the village? The knights of Viscount Konsko? The men of Viscount Carol? Or some other noble?”

The villagers trembled at the names but no one dared answer directly, as if speaking out would mean being hanged the next day. After a few seconds, a clear voice spoke up timidly: “The knights in white robes…”

It was a child’s voice, likely a girl’s. But before she could finish, an adult quickly covered her mouth, muffling the rest into indistinct sounds.

Leight crouched down in front of the girl and motioned for the adult to step aside. He looked into the child’s eyes—large and bright, despite her rough, freckled skin and tangled, dry hair that covered a quarter of her face. Those eyes left a deep impression.

Leight looked at her carefully and asked slowly, “The knights in white robes—were they church knights?”

The girl first shook her head blankly, then hesitated before nodding. “I don’t know… but they had priests with them…”

One of the survivors finally broke down, sobbing quietly, “We gave them food… we gave them food…”

Leight understood the meaning behind those fragmented words.

They had given up their grain—when the noble coalition marched out, peasants from every territory likely donated food and goods as military supplies. The nobles claimed, “We march to protect you,” and many peasants believed it, or at least accepted it, since they had no power to resist. Probably, even when the defeated noble soldiers came back to loot and burn the village, the villagers didn’t fully understand what was happening.

Even now, seeing the Cecilian soldiers before them, few would think these “foreigners” were the same ones who had fought their lord. And even if they did, they would only lament their misfortune and fear the nobles, knights, and soldiers with their swords and staffs. The complex web of interests beyond that was beyond their comprehension.

All they could think of was that they had “given food.”

It seemed foolish, but behind that foolishness was ignorance—and behind ignorance, numbness.

The soldiers sent to scout around the village returned, reporting dozens of bodies found in a nearby pit.

Burning so many corpses thoroughly in a short time was impossible. The squad lacked enough fuel, and there was no suitable kindling nearby. The leader ordered the bodies to be buried in the pit, along with the three corpses found in the cellar.

After these tasks were done, Leight approached the commander. “I want to take those survivors to Cecil—at least to the frontline camp. There, someone can escort them south.”

Leight couldn’t abandon the survivors. Their homes were destroyed, they had no food or medicine, and it was early summer—wild wolves and other predators were roaming the wilderness. Without village fences, houses, or lights to protect them, these unarmed villagers wouldn’t survive more than three days. This wasn’t Cecil; the dangers of the wild were real.

“We have to report within the designated time. That’s military discipline,” the commander understood Leight’s concern but had to stress the problem. “Those civilians are too weak to travel quickly. Bringing them along will definitely cause delays.”

Leight had no argument. After a brief pause, the commander added, “But if you want, I can leave a few soldiers with you. I’ll take the medical team to the camp to report first, and you can follow with the survivors later—that way, it’s within regulations.”

“All right, I’m good with that,” Leight agreed readily, then his expression turned serious. “Also, Captain, I have a suggestion—there are probably more villages like this one, where noble deserters have pillaged and survivors are either hiding or scattered. We should report this up the chain and try to locate those places to rescue as many people as possible.”

“Don’t worry,” the squad leader nodded. “I’ll make sure it gets reported.”

(End of chapter)