"How is it? Did those mobs have much to squeeze from?"
Zweig Koala, a potbellied noble, reclined in a luxurious leather chair, swirling the red wine in his glass. His other hand idly fondled a maid struggling to breathe under his grip. Without looking up, he addressed the sharp-faced steward beside him.
"My lord truly has eyes like a torch, always seeing through the tricks of those untouchables. Nothing escapes you. The refugees did indeed have plenty of wealth hidden away. In the end, they surrendered it all just for a bite of bread."
Hearing the flattery, Zweig let out a pleased laugh. His chair groaned beneath his weight.
"Old Cora, listen well. These beggars may look destitute, but they're no different from dried-up ququmai. Squeeze them hard enough, and you'll always get something out, hahahaha!"
"Master is truly wise. The old servant could never speak with such philosophy," the wily steward chimed in, pouring on the flattery.
But then, with a hint of hesitation, he added,
"However, there's still a mountain of grain in our warehouses, and those poor wretches have nothing left to pay. What do we do next?"
The grain in question was last year's harvest, hoarded by the nobles to drive up prices. The plague had severed Dolez from outside trade, leaving half a million khakis of grain rotting in the warehouses. Yet, despite the abundance, the ruling class had no intention of lowering prices or offering aid.
Now, with no buyers except for the Minohorn Chamber of Commerce, the pressure was mounting. The nobles were breathing down Zweig's neck, demanding answers. If they took back control of the grain trade, his family would lose everything.
Zweig's smile faded as he set his wine glass down. His mind churned through options.
Then, a sinister idea took shape.
"Well, if those wretches have no money to buy food… they do have wives, sons, and daughters. Why not let them trade their 'possessions' instead?"
His eyes gleamed with malice as he leaned forward.
It was a perfect plan—reducing the burden of "useless mouths," acquiring fresh slaves, and securing the favor of the other nobles. A solution that served every purpose.
But Cora hesitated.
"But, my lord… there's little demand for slaves in the city now, and no other territory will accept anyone from Dolez."
"That… is indeed a problem."
Zweig frowned, swirling the last of his wine before downing it in one gulp.
His mind drifted to an old "business partner"—one he had been avoiding lately.
His greed battled with caution.
In the end, greed won.
"Don't worry," he finally said, flashing a cruel grin.
"I am a benevolent noble. Those 'lucky' untouchables will find a fine new home."
As the plan took shape in his mind, he didn't notice the maid in his grasp gasping in pain.
Nor did he see the flicker of satisfaction in Old Cora's eyes.
Meanwhile…
Unlike the nobles gloating over their latest plunder, Knight Commander Cascarser found himself drowning in disgust.
The world around him had never felt filthier—dark, cold, and utterly ruthless.
After organizing the refugee encampment, he had ridden straight to the castle, desperate to plead with Lord Gorath.
Even as he walked through the stone corridors, he held onto a fragile hope—that his lord would see reason, that he would act with compassion and revoke the order keeping the refugees out.
But Lord Gorath was too preoccupied, indulging in his concubines.
He refused to grant Cascarser an audience.
Undeterred, Cascarser turned to the one place where justice was supposed to prevail—the Church of Heronius, the God of Chivalry.
He knelt before the priests, begging them to intervene, to at least pressure the nobles into offering food and medicine.
The answer was cold and clear.
"Heronius is a kind and lawful god. As his followers, we may send healers to tend to the sick, but we cannot interfere with the legal decisions of the nobility."
A wall.
Another rejection.
Still unwilling to give up, Cascarser rallied his personal knights, calling upon the citizens of Dolez to donate supplies. He sought out every merchant, every influential figure, urging them to petition the lord together.
But the people of Dolez had already made up their minds.
The nobles had poisoned them against the refugees, convincing them that these desperate souls were a plague upon the city.
The same people who had been their neighbors only a week ago were now "filthy outsiders" who needed to be kept away at all costs.
Instead of support, Cascarser was met with scorn.
"Why should we risk our safety? If you're so desperate to help them, go join them outside the walls!"
Even the few kind-hearted souls could only offer whispered prayers.
Up to this moment, the people of Dolez still clung to the belief that once the "garbage" outside the walls perished, life would return to normal.
That they could inherit the wealth of the dead and move on, unscathed.
Not once did they consider the agony and despair of those suffering beyond the gates.
For the first time, Cascarser truly saw it.
The nobles.
The merchants.
The common folk.
All of them.
Monsters in human skin.
His final, desperate hope had been crushed.
The nobles had let him exhaust himself because they knew all along—his efforts would be in vain.
"To them, I'm nothing but a pathetic clown," Cascarser realized bitterly.
The knight commander dragged himself to an inn.
He was a man of discipline, rarely touching alcohol.
But tonight, he bought an entire crate of strong ale.
He drank recklessly, trying to drown the fury threatening to consume him.
"Why? Why is it like this? Is the entire world nothing but hellspawn in human form?"
Slumped over the table, he wept like a child.
Images of the refugees flashed in his mind—their desperate eyes, the starving children who had looked up to him, the girls who had clung to hope as he fought for them.
He had failed them all.
"I'm just a useless knight. In a world ruled by demons, what can a fool like me possibly accomplish?"
His reflection in the bottle distorted in the flickering candlelight, twisting into something unrecognizable.
Then—
"No, no, no. Young man, you're being too extreme."
A white-gloved hand patted his shoulder.
A soothing warmth spread through him, dissolving the alcohol's haze in an instant.
The voice carried a kind of sincerity he had nearly forgotten existed.
It wasn't just empty sympathy.
It was warmth.
Genuine, human warmth.
"Allow me to introduce myself," the stranger said with a confident smirk.
"A wandering hero who takes 'salvation' as his calling—Conkey Nino."