Hungry Disciples

The refugees wouldn't dare resist. Regardless of their condition, they forced themselves up from the ground and hurried away.

Anse and the others watched coldly, leaning against the wall without moving.

Before long, a middle-aged man in a red surcoat embroidered with a golden flame, who looked like a captain, entered the area. He gave Anse a careful once-over, then didn't stop, heading straight for Land and Zahir.

The middle-aged man bowed to the two Paladins to show his respect, then began talking with them, though his voice was too low to make out.

Anse focused his attention on him. As time passed, information about the man gradually surfaced.

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

He's got to be mid-to-high-ranking, at the very least, Anse guessed.

A few minutes later, the middle-aged man turned and left, his expression calm and unreadable.

"What's that supposed to mean? We don't have to leave?" Brat whispered.

"Resting at the fortress wouldn't be bad," Finn said, his face stiff.

Anse stood up, leaning on his staff, a faint sneer on his lips. "Heh. The Flaming Fist and the Paladins don't get along."

The original owner had grown up in the Outer City and often witnessed clashes between the Paladins and the Flaming Fist. It had left a deep impression on him.

Sure enough, after they'd rested for a while, Land checked the wounded to make sure none of them were in mortal danger, then waved his hand and called for everyone to leave.

Brat and Finn both looked at Anse, surprised that he'd guessed right again.

They got up to help. Brat pushed the cart, looking baffled. "The Flaming Fist must be out of their minds. They won't accept such powerful reinforcements and insist on defending the fortress themselves."

"I can think of three reasons," Anse said thoughtfully. "First, they have enough people. I looked around when we came in. Every section of the wall had guards, at least two or three hundred in all.

"Second, they probably have elite Professionals no weaker than Uncle Land. Third, they have absolute confidence in the Flame Fist Fortress's defenses..."

"Doesn't one more person mean one more fighter?" Brat shook his head.

"If you were ordered to go die in battle, would you do it?" Anse asked with a smile.

"Definitely not." Brat shook his head.

"Exactly!" Anse said, shaking his head. "Adventurers don't follow orders, and the Paladins can't tolerate any wrongdoing. So why make trouble for themselves? They're better off sending everyone away."

The Flaming Fist's goal was to hold the fortress at all costs. They couldn't afford to gamble on anything going wrong. If Anse put himself in their shoes, he would probably have done the same.

Brat understood. He hadn't failed to consider that possibility; he just hadn't expected the Flaming Fist to be so particular even at a time like this.

The caravan slowly left the fortress passage, and the view opened up at once.

The fortress's South Gate had an extra drawbridge compared with the North Gate. As the last person stepped onto the stone road of Flying Dragon Bridge, the winch groaned behind them and the drawbridge slowly rose. A sheer drop cut everyone off from the fortress, with the river roaring below.

Anse turned to look at the fortress's high walls and thought, I hope you can hold out. Gray Dwarves are no pushovers.

Now that the Upper City had fallen, even if the fortress had plenty of food, it might not hold out for long. Besides, the Gray Dwarves' main force hadn't even appeared yet. Most of the dead so far were slaves.

With the disaster as cover, the Gray Dwarves had seized the vast city of Baldur's Gate, home to tens of thousands, with only several thousand or perhaps ten thousand troops. There was no way they would give up such enormous gains easily.

Beyond Flying Dragon Bridge lay the Livington District, the only Outer City district on the south bank of the Chongsa River.

It was said that the area hadn't originally been a district at all, but a settlement that had sprung up naturally thanks to Flying Dragon Bridge's location and commercial opportunities. It was only brought under the city's administration after it grew large enough.

The district, which could only accommodate a few thousand residents, was now packed with at least tens of thousands of refugees!

After the caravan left Flying Dragon Bridge, there was barely room to set foot anywhere. The road was impossible to make out, buried beneath throngs of starving people in rags. Countless others were begging or wounded.

Anse followed behind the caravan. The moment he entered the district, waves of stench assaulted his nose, nearly making him throw up. His eyes swept across the filthy streets, littered with feces and urine, and he couldn't help feeling sick.

The caravan suddenly stopped. He looked ahead and saw a crowd of refugees blocking the way. The elderly, women, and children stood in front, with strong young men behind them. They called it begging, but in truth, they wouldn't let anyone pass without giving them something.

Land's face darkened. He waved, and several Warriors went forward with shields and clubs, shoving and beating those blocking the road.

The scene descended into chaos. Someone yelled that the church was beating people, trying to stir up trouble or guilt-trip them, but the Warriors paid no heed. If anything, they struck even harder.

The road cleared, and the caravan started moving again.

Anse nodded slightly. Land had little choice. The moment they handed out food, the situation would spiral out of control.

The Paladins had plenty of experience providing disaster relief. They understood all too well that charity had to be offered in the right measure and at the right time.

After traveling a few hundred meters, the caravan turned west. Near the river on the district's western side stood a church of Lathander, the Lord of the Dawn. Land planned to go there and find shelter.

But the farther they went, the more oppressive the atmosphere in the caravan became. With the Flaming Fist gone, the district was short on law enforcement, and disorder was spreading. They saw several thefts, robberies, and fights with their own eyes. It was a harrowing sight.

Every now and then, they spotted a few patrol officers keeping the peace, proof that the Livington District Hall of Governance was still operating. The major churches and guilds were also doing their part to maintain order, barely managing to keep the situation from collapsing.

"It's only been a few days. How did things get this bad?" Brat said through gritted teeth, finding it hard to believe.

"The disaster came so suddenly. There's nothing to eat or drink..." Anse sighed.

Baldur's Gate was a city of trade, and its own food production and reserves could hardly sustain it. After the district connecting it to Gray Harbor collapsed, merchant ships no longer dared to approach, and trade had all but come to a halt.

The southern trade routes were still open, but food prices had soared. How many meals could ordinary people get from the few belongings they'd managed to bring with them as they fled?

Unless something unexpected had happened, the farms and villages south of the city were also overcrowded. As for the wilderness...it was full of all kinds of dangers. Ordinary people probably wouldn't dare venture out.

Things improved considerably as they neared the church district. Lathander's church had taken in many of the elderly and weak. It was crowded, but not chaotic.

After speaking with the church, Land organized the clerics to set up tents in the open area to the south, establishing a temporary camp to house the statue and the wounded.

As soon as everyone had settled in, Land and Zahir left with their swords in hand, faces cold. No one knew where they were going.

It was just past noon, and no one had eaten. The clerics began handing out food. Seeing this, refugees outside rushed over like mad, and some started grabbing food outright.

They wouldn't dare behave that way elsewhere, but this was a church. At worst, they'd get beaten up, so they were bold enough.

Brat couldn't stand watching. He drew his sword and started striking people. His blows were heavy—not enough to break bones, but they definitely hurt.

The young clerics also picked up clubs to keep order. At last, they managed to stop the crowd from overrunning the church.

Anse stood in front of the tent where the wounded were being housed, staff in hand. Its white light stood out against the dim sky, making the "Hungry Disciples" hesitate and keep their distance.

These Warriors had fought alongside him. They couldn't be left without even a piece of bread to eat.

The Old Cleric's heart softened. He had more ingredients brought over and set up a large pot to cook porridge for the refugees.

Anse frowned, unconvinced by Berg's decision. There were far too many refugees, and the church's meager supplies wouldn't be enough. A moment of kindness could sow the seeds of disaster.

The disaster had only happened two or three days ago. People could still hold out, and they still had some sense. But what about tomorrow or the day after? By then, even if Land and Zahir were here, they might not be able to control the situation.

When people got hungry enough, they stopped being human!