Hungry Disciples

The refugees dared not resist; ignoring their physical 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 wearing a red surcoat with a golden flame emblem—apparently a captain—arrived in the area. After giving Anse a careful look, he did not linger, heading straight for Land and Zahir.

The middle-aged man bowed to the two paladins to show his respect before they began to converse, though their voices were kept so low that nothing could be heard clearly.

Anse focused his mind on him, and as time passed, relevant information gradually emerged.

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

This must be at least a mid-to-high-ranking officer, he speculated inwardly.

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

"What does this mean? We don't have to leave?" Brat whispered.

"Resting in the fortress for a while wouldn't be bad," Finn said with a stiff face.

Anse stood up, leaning on his staff, a cold sneer hanging on his lips. "Heh, the relationship between the Flaming Fist and paladins isn't exactly friendly."

The original owner of this body had lived in the Outer City since childhood and had often seen conflicts between paladins and the Flaming Fist, leaving a deep impression on him.

Sure enough, after resting for a while, Land checked the condition of the wounded to ensure there was no immediate danger to their lives, then waved his hand to signal everyone to leave.

Brat and Finn both looked at Anse, surprised that he had guessed correctly again.

The group stood up to help, and as Brat pushed the cart, he looked puzzled. "Is the Flaming Fist brain-damaged? They have such powerful reinforcements and refuse them, insisting on guarding the fortress themselves."

"I suspect there are three reasons," Anse mused. "First, they have enough men. I observed them when we entered; every section of the wall has guards, totaling at least two or three hundred. Second, they likely have elite professionals no weaker than Uncle Land. Third, they have absolute confidence in the defenses of the Flame Fist Fortress..."

"Doesn't one extra person mean one extra bit of combat power?" Brat shook his head.

"If you were ordered to your death during a battle, would you go?" Anse laughed.

"I certainly wouldn't," Brat shook his head.

"Exactly!" Anse said. "Adventurers are disobedient, and paladins have no tolerance for sand in their eyes. Since that's the case, why invite trouble? It's much cleaner to just drive everyone away."

The Flaming Fist's goal was to hold the fortress at all costs, and they dared not gamble on any variables. Putting himself in their shoes, if he were the commander, he would likely do the same.

Brat suddenly understood. It wasn't that he hadn't considered this, but he hadn't expected the Flaming Fist to have so many ulterior motives at a time like this.

The caravan slowly left the fortress passage, and their line of sight immediately widened.

The south gate of the fortress had an extra drawbridge compared to the north gate. As the last person stepped onto the stone road of the Flying Dragon Bridge, the sound of a winch came from behind. The drawbridge slowly rose, a cliff isolating everyone from the fortress, with the roaring river below.

Anse turned to look at the high walls of the fortress and thought to himself, I hope you can hold out. The Gray Dwarves are not easy to deal with.

Now that the Upper City had fallen, even if the fortress had sufficient food, it was uncertain how long they could hold out. Moreover, the main force of the Gray Dwarves hadn't even appeared yet; those who had died were mostly slaves.

By exploiting the Natural Disaster, the Gray Dwarves had occupied Baldur's Gate, a massive city of hundreds of thousands, with only a few thousand troops. How could they easily let go of such vast interests?

Crossing the Flying Dragon Bridge brought them to the Livington District, the only outer district located on the south bank of the Chongsa River.

It was said that this place was not originally a district, but a settlement that formed naturally due to the geographical location and commercial environment of the Flying Dragon Bridge. It was only incorporated into city management after its scale expanded.

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

As the caravan left the Flying Dragon Bridge, there was a sense of having nowhere to step. The roads were invisible, piled high with starving people in rags; beggars and the wounded were countless.

Anse followed behind the caravan. Just as he entered the district, a foul stench rushed into his nose, nearly making him vomit. His eyes swept over the filthy streets covered in excrement, and he couldn't help but feel nauseated.

Suddenly, the caravan stopped. He looked ahead to see a group of refugees blocking the path—the elderly, weak, women, and children in front, with able-bodied men in the back. They called it begging, but in reality, they wouldn't let anyone pass unless they gave them something.

Land's face darkened. He waved his hand, and several warriors with shields and clubs stepped forward, beginning to shove and strike those blocking the road.

The scene descended into chaos. Some shouted that the church was beating people, trying to incite others or use moral kidnapping, but the warriors remained unmoved, instead striking even harder.

The road opened, and the caravan moved again.

Anse nodded slightly. Land was forced to do this; if he had given them food, the situation would have immediately spiraled out of control.

The paladins were experienced in disaster relief and understood deeply that charity required both scale and timing.

After traveling several hundred meters, the caravan turned west. Near the riverbank on the west side of the district stood a church of the Lord of Dawn, Lothander, where Land planned to settle down.

However, as they walked, the atmosphere of the caravan became increasingly oppressive. Because the Flaming Fist had withdrawn, the district lacked law and order, and chaos was breeding. They witnessed multiple instances of theft, robbery, and fighting—a shocking sight.

Occasionally, they could see a few patrols maintaining order, indicating that the Hall of Governance of the Livington District still existed. Furthermore, various churches and guilds were spontaneously maintaining order, barely preventing the situation from collapsing entirely.

"It's only been a few days, how did it become like this?" Brat gritted his teeth, finding it hard to believe.

"The disaster happened too suddenly, and there's no food or water..." Anse sighed.

Baldur's Gate was a city of trade, and its own food production and reserves could not meet its needs. After the district connecting to Gray Harbor collapsed, merchant ships dared not approach, and trade was nearly severed.

The southern trade route was still open, but food prices had skyrocketed. How many meals could the meager belongings that ordinary people brought with them when fleeing last?

If nothing went wrong, the farms and villages south of the city were already overcrowded. As for the wilderness... it was full of various dangers, and most people likely didn't dare to wander around.

As they neared the church area, the situation improved significantly. The church of Lothander had taken in many of the elderly and weak; it was crowded, but not chaotic.

After negotiating with the church, Land organized the clerics to set up tents in the clearing on the south side, establishing a temporary camp to house the statues and the wounded.

No sooner had they settled in than he and Zahir drew their swords and headed out, their faces cold, though it was unclear where they were going.

It was just past noon, and since no one had eaten, the clerics began distributing food. Seeing this, the refugees outside swarmed forward like madmen, some reaching out to snatch the supplies directly.

They wouldn't dare try this elsewhere, but since this was the church, the worst they would face was a beating, making them all quite bold.

Brat could not stand to watch; he drew his sword and struck out with it. The force was heavy—not enough to break bones, but certainly enough to cause suffering.

The young clerics also picked up clubs to maintain order, finally preventing the crowd from overrunning the church.

Anse stood before the tent housing the wounded, holding his Staff. The white light radiating from it was exceptionally eye-catching in the dim light, causing the "Hungry Disciples" to recoil, not daring to approach.

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

The Old Cleric, soft-hearted, ordered more ingredients to be brought out and set up a large pot to boil porridge to provide relief for the refugees.

Anse frowned deeply, not entirely agreeing with Berg's approach. The number of refugees was terrifying, and the church's meager rations would never be enough; such momentary kindness might only sow the seeds of disaster.

The disaster had only occurred two or three days ago, so people could still hold on and retain some semblance of reason. But what about tomorrow or the day after? By then, even if Land and the other were here, they might not be able to control the situation.

When people are driven mad by hunger, they cease to be human!