The refugees did not dare resist. Ignoring their condition, they forced themselves up from the ground and hurried away.

Anser and the others watched coldly, remaining against the wall without moving.

Before long, a middle-aged man who looked like a captain entered the area. He wore a red surcoat emblazoned with a golden flame. After studying Anser carefully, he moved on without stopping and went straight to Rand and Zahir.

The man bowed respectfully to the two paladins, then began speaking with them. He kept his voice so low that Anser could not make out the words.

Anser focused on him. Little by little, the man’s information took shape.

[Flaming Fist Elite, Human, Level 4 Fighter (Battle Master)]

At the very least, he must be somewhere in the middle or upper ranks, Anser guessed.

A few minutes later, the middle-aged man turned and left. His expression was calm, revealing nothing.

“What does that mean? We don’t have to leave?” Bratt asked quietly.

“Resting in the fortress for a while wouldn’t be bad,” Finn said stiffly.

Anser rose with the help of his staff, a cold smile tugging at his lips. “Heh. The Flaming Fist and paladins don’t get along.”

The original Anser had grown up in the Outer City and often seen paladins clash with the Flaming Fist. It had left a deep impression on him.

Sure enough, after a short rest, Rand checked the wounded. Once he confirmed that none were in mortal danger, he waved everyone onward.

Bratt and Finn both looked at Anser. They had not expected him to be right again.

The group got up to help, with Bratt pushing a cart. He looked baffled. “There’s something wrong with the Flaming Fist’s brains. They’re turning away such powerful reinforcements just so they can defend the fortress alone.”

“I can think of three reasons,” Anser said thoughtfully. “First, they have enough people. I looked around when we entered. Every section of wall was guarded, which means they have at least two or three hundred soldiers.

“Second, they should have elite classed individuals no weaker than Uncle Rand. Third, they have absolute confidence in the fortress’s defenses...”

“Wouldn’t every extra person mean more fighting strength?” Bratt shook his head.

“If they ordered you to die in battle, would you obey?” Anser asked with a smile.

“Of course not.” Bratt shook his head again.

“Exactly!” Anser gave a shrug. “Adventurers don’t follow orders, and paladins refuse to tolerate misconduct. Why invite trouble? Sending everyone away makes things much simpler.”

The Flaming Fist intended to hold the fortress to the death and dared not risk any surprises. In their place, Anser might have made the same decision.

Understanding dawned on Bratt. It was not that he had never considered this, but he had not expected the Flaming Fist to remain so calculating at a time like this.

The caravan made its way out of the fortress passage, and the view opened around them.

Unlike the north gate, the fortress’s south gate had a drawbridge. As the last person stepped onto the flagstone road of Wyrm’s Crossing, a winch clattered behind them. The drawbridge slowly rose, leaving a sheer drop that shut everyone outside. The river roared below.

Anser looked back at the fortress walls. ‘I hope you can hold out. The duergar won’t be easy to deal with.’

The Upper City had fallen. Even if the fortress had plenty of food, it might not last long. Besides, the duergar’s main force had yet to appear. Most of those killed so far had been slaves.

Taking advantage of the catastrophe, a force of only several thousand—perhaps ten thousand—had occupied Baldur’s Gate, a great city of more than a hundred thousand people. With such enormous gains at stake, how could the duergar possibly give them up without a fight?

—

Beyond Wyrm’s Crossing lay Rivington, the only Outer City district on the southern bank of the River Chionthar.

According to rumor, it had not originally been a district at all. Its location beside Wyrm’s Crossing and favorable commercial environment had naturally drawn settlers, and only after the settlement expanded was it incorporated into the city’s administration.

Yet a district built to hold only a few thousand residents was now packed with tens of thousands of refugees!

As the caravan left Wyrm’s Crossing, there was scarcely anywhere to set foot. The road itself had vanished beneath starving people in rags. Beggars and wounded refugees were everywhere.

Anser followed behind the caravan. The moment he entered the district, a wave of stench hit him and nearly made him vomit. The filthy streets, fouled with excrement and urine, made his stomach churn.

The caravan suddenly stopped. Looking ahead, he saw a crowd of refugees blocking the way. Elderly and infirm people, women, and children stood at the front, with young and able-bodied men behind them. They called it begging, but in truth, they would not let anyone pass without receiving something.

Rand’s face darkened. At his signal, several warriors advanced with shields and clubs, shoving and beating those blocking the road.

Chaos erupted. Some shouted that the church was attacking people, attempting to stir up outrage or shame the warriors into stopping. The warriors remained unmoved and only struck harder.

The road cleared, and the caravan began moving again.

Anser nodded. Rand had no choice. The moment he handed out food, the situation would spiral out of control.

The paladins had extensive disaster-relief experience. They understood all too well that even charity had to be offered in the right measure and at the right time.

After traveling several hundred meters, the caravan turned west. Near the riverbank on the western side of the district stood a church dedicated to Lathander, the Morninglord. Rand planned to settle there.

But the mood grew more oppressive as they traveled. With the Flaming Fist withdrawn, law and order had vanished from the district. Disorder ran rampant. They personally witnessed thefts, robberies, and brawls, each scene more alarming than the last.

They occasionally saw a few patrol officers trying to keep order, proof that Rivington’s administrative office was still functioning. The major churches and guilds were also maintaining order on their own, barely preventing the situation from collapsing entirely.

“It’s only been a few days. How did things get this bad?” Bratt clenched his teeth in disbelief.

“The disaster struck too suddenly. There’s no food or water...” Anser sighed.

Baldur’s Gate was a city of trade. Its own food production and reserves had never been enough to sustain it. After the district connected to Gray Harbor collapsed, merchant ships no longer dared approach, and trade had almost completely ceased.

The southern trade roads and farms remained intact, and some stockpiles survived, but without proper control, food prices had soared. How many meals could ordinary people buy with the few possessions they had carried during their escape?

Barring any surprises, the farms and villages south of the city were already overflowing as well. As for the wilderness... it was filled with danger. Ordinary people would not dare wander around outside.

Conditions improved as they approached the church. Lathander’s clergy had taken in many elderly and infirm refugees. The grounds were crowded but orderly.

After negotiating with the church, Rand organized the priests to pitch tents on an open area to the south, establishing a temporary camp for the sacred statue and the wounded.

As soon as everything was settled, Rand and Zahir left early with swords in hand and cold expressions on their faces. No one knew where they were going.

It was just past noon, and no one had eaten. When the priests began handing out food, the refugees outside surged toward them like madmen. Some simply reached out to snatch it.

They would not have dared elsewhere, but this was a church. At worst, they expected a beating, so every last one of them was brazen.

Unable to stand by, Bratt drew his sword and struck them with the flat of the blade. He hit hard enough to make them suffer, though not hard enough to break bones.

The younger priests also picked up clubs to maintain order. Between them, they managed to keep the mob from overrunning the church.

Anser stood before the tents sheltering the wounded, staff in hand. Its white light was conspicuous beneath the dim sky, and the “starving” stopped short at the sight of him, not daring to approach.

These warriors had fought beside him. Surely they could not be left without so much as a piece of bread.

The old priest’s heart softened. He had more ingredients brought out and ordered large pots set up to cook porridge for the refugees.

Anser frowned. He did not agree with Berg’s decision. The number of refugees was terrifying, and the church’s meager provisions were nowhere near enough. A moment of compassion might plant the seeds of disaster.

The catastrophe had begun only two or three days ago. People could still endure their hunger and retain some degree of reason. But what about tomorrow, or the day after? Even with Rand and Zahir present, they might not be able to control the crowd then.

Once hunger drove people past their limits, they would cast aside their humanity!

Thanks to all the honored readers for your support and suggestions!

(End of Chapter)