FL - Chapter 98: A New Lord

"Ian?"

Hearing his name, Ian looked up. A vaguely familiar young man was standing at the tent entrance, bowl of gruel in hand, waving at him cautiously.

It was Ike, a young man from the same village. They had never been close, but in this unfamiliar camp, even a familiar face felt like an old friend.

"Ian! You survived too!" Ike's voice was far warmer than it had ever been before.

He looked much livelier than Ian would have expected—decent color in his face. His clothes were torn, sure, but compared to Ian's wretched state, he actually looked like a human being.

"You're here too?" Ian asked, surprised.

"Got lucky." Ike sat down beside him. "Fled into the mountains a while back. Nearly froze to death. If the Crimson Tide people hadn't found me, I figure there wouldn't even be bones left by now."

"The Crimson Tide people?" Ian looked at him, confusion written across his face.

"These people!" Ike's eyes lit up, his voice nearly soaring. "You haven't heard? We've got a new lord now! His name is—Lord Louis Calvin."

"Calvin…" Ian repeated the name under his breath.

"That's right! Him!" Ike's tone had taken on a note of reverence. "I was still up in the mountains, running for my life with a few others. They sent people into the mountains to find us. Carried us down. Fed us gruel. Gave us medicine. Handed me a temporary identification badge and said if I worked, I'd get grain."

Ike spoke with the pride of a man recounting a great honor, his eyes bright.

"The new lord isn't like Baron Merrick, the kind of noble who spends all day in his castle drowning in wine, wolfing down meat, and picking concubines. This Lord Calvin, he's different. He sent down loads of medics, soldiers, stewards. We've got food and drink. Even the kids and the old folks get to sleep in tents. And they say they're going to dig wells, build houses. Does that sound like any lord you've ever heard of? It's like the Dragon Ancestor's own emissary came down from the heavens!"

Ian listened in silence, his gaze drifting.

He looked at his daughter, whom he had watched over day and night. He thought of the old nobles who had regarded refugees as little more than weeds. His heart grew heavy.

Ian had never met Lord Calvin and did not know his face. Yet Calvin's people had saved Mia, Ian, and countless others. In their shattered world, the young lord had restored hope.

"It really does seem different," Ian murmured, so quietly even Ike didn't catch it.

If this lord truly was willing to take them in—if he was willing—then Ian would follow him without question. No matter how grueling the work, no matter how bitter the labor, as long as his daughter could live, he would do anything.

Fortunately, his wish was granted soon enough.

At noon, an unarmed official in Crimson Tide uniform entered with pen and paper. He questioned each refugee in turn, then stopped before Ian. "Name and village of origin?"

"Ian. From Whitestone Village." The words came out on reflex. Wariness still lingered in his eyes.

"We are gathering refugees here and need to register identities. We can provide food and shelter, but they must be earned through labor. Do you have any particular skills?"

Ian hesitated. "I used to be a carpenter. I can make furniture. Repair houses."

Hearing this, the official nodded, and his tone turned a shade more serious. "Good. Those with a trade will be prioritized for housing assignments and may apply for permanent settlement later."

He handed Ian a set of supplies:

A number plate painted with red lacquer, bearing his new identification number. A set of gray thermal inner garments—the style looked like old military issue, altered by hand—clean and sturdy. A wooden bowl wrapped in coarse burlap. And a worn but sun-dried woolen blanket.

He noticed that Ian didn't even have shoes on his feet. After a brief silence, he pulled a pair of somewhat grimy, used military boots from his pack and handed them over. "These will have to do for now."

Ian took the boots. His fingertips trembled. His voice came out hoarse. "Thank you."

"You're assigned to Work Shed Number Three. Report there tomorrow morning, join the craftsmen's team for house-building. Don't worry about going hungry—three meals a day, all arranged in due course."

The official moved on. Ian ran his fingers over each item, half afraid they might disappear.

That night, as had become his custom, Ian stayed by his daughter's side, spooning gruel into her mouth bit by bit.

At some point, Mia opened her eyes.

"Mia…?" Ian could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

The little girl remained terribly weak, but her eyes could focus. Tears gathered as she reached out and closed one small hand around her father's.

"Daddy…"

That single word shattered the boulder that had been pressing down on Ian's heart for so long. He lowered his head and buried his face beside his daughter, his voice so ragged with sobs it sounded torn open. "You're alive… Thank you, Lord. Dragon Ancestor bless you… Thank you…"

Outside, a gust caught the crimson banner and spread it across the night like flame. The golden sun at its center shone against winter's darkness.

Ian gazed up at that flag. His lips moved, barely. He whispered the name he had heard from Ike.

"Lord. Lord Louis Calvin… thank you… thank you…"

Such miracles did not fall upon Ian alone.

Louis had dispatched similar teams throughout his new lands. Crimson Tide soldiers, knights, medics, craftsmen, and registration officers carried grain, medicine, and order into ruined villages. They raised tents, cooked gruel, treated refugees, and recorded their names, offering war's survivors a chance to live.

And for refugees who were not technically on his lands, as long as they were willing to come and willing to work, Louis turned a half-blind eye and took them in anyway.

Not everyone came with gratitude in their hearts, of course.

War always spawned its share of bandits and thugs. Men who robbed, extorted, even disguised themselves as refugees to slip into the camps.

One morning, just after daybreak, a long line stretched outside the camp's gruel tent. Cooking smoke curled upward. Pots bubbled and gurgled.

And then, from the rear, chaos erupted.

"Get out of the way! Move or die!"

"The grain! Give us all the grain!!"

Roughly thirty bandits burst from the tree line in ragged clothes, armed with broken axes, hatchets, and several swords. They had waited nearby for the moment when the camp began distributing gruel.