Garland

By the time they returned to camp, the sun had already climbed overhead.

From a distance, Ron could see that the courtyard had changed. The collapsed stable had been propped back up, and the broken wooden fence had been patched with freshly cut planks.

Supplies had been sorted and stacked in the courtyard—food, weapons, and tools arranged separately in neat rows. Several refugees were clearing rubble from in front of the main building, women were washing clothes by the well, and elderly people sat against the wall repairing wooden buckets.

Erwin stood in the middle of the courtyard, holding the wooden board as he directed two young men moving a bundle of lumber. When he saw Ron's group return, he hurried over.

"Your Highness... no, Ron."

He corrected himself and adjusted his monocle. "Thirteen refugees left this morning. They all had relatives or friends they could rely on. As you instructed, I gave each of them two days' worth of rations."

Ron dismounted and handed his axe and shield to a soldier beside him.

"What about the rest?"

Erwin stepped aside and pointed to the busy crowd in the courtyard.

"There are over forty left. The women and children are mending clothes and doing laundry for now. A few of the elderly know carpentry and are helping repair the camp."

He pointed toward a temporary shed on the eastern side of the yard. "There's someone over there who used to be an apprentice at a blacksmith's shop. He's helping the soldiers maintain their armor, and he can make simple arrows as well."

Ron looked around, his gaze settling on a fire in the corner of the courtyard. A gray-haired old man was carefully wiping down a breastplate with an old rag.

His movements were slow, but meticulous. Two young men crouched beside him, one holding a short sword and grinding it against a whetstone again and again.

"His Highness is back!"

No one knew who spoke first, but people in the courtyard gradually stopped working. They looked at Ron, and the fear in their eyes from the first night was gone, replaced by a cautious sort of hope.

A young man stepped out from the crowd. He was in his early twenties, his face still bruised. He stopped before Ron and took a deep breath.

"My lord, I want to be a soldier."

Ron looked at him.

"What's your name?"

"Miko, my lord." The young man straightened his chest. "I've worked the fields and chopped firewood. I'm not lacking in strength."

Ron glanced at his arms. He was thin, but his frame was solid. Feed him well, and he would put on muscle.

"Can you use a sword?"

Miko hesitated. "...I learned from an old soldier in the village for a while, but we trained with wooden swords. I've never used a real one..."

Several soldiers nearby let out low chuckles, and Miko's face turned red.

Ron did not laugh. He turned to Karl.

"He'll follow you. Start him on basic recruit training."

Karl nodded, walked over, patted Miko on the shoulder, and led him aside.

Another elderly man came out of the crowd. His hair was gray, his back slightly hunched, and his hands were broad, his knuckles misshapen—the hands of an old carpenter.

"My lord," the old man said hoarsely, "I've done carpentry for decades. I can repair your camp gates, fences, and stables. I don't need payment. Just give me something to eat."

Ron nodded.

"Register with Erwin. Tell him what materials you need."

The old man nodded repeatedly and turned toward Erwin. After taking two steps, he looked back. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he merely gave Ron a deep bow.

A middle-aged woman rose from beside the well, still clutching wet clothes in her hands. She did not dare approach, only looked at Ron from afar and spoke softly. "My lord... I can mend clothes and cook. Can I stay?"

Ron looked at her.

"Yes."

The woman's eyes reddened. She lowered her head and continued scrubbing the dirty clothing in her hands, though no one knew whose it was.

One after another, people stepped forward. Some asked whether they could learn swordsmanship. Some asked if they could help care for the horses. Others said they could weave baskets, mend shoes, or make charcoal.

Ron answered every one of them. His tone was not warm, but he gave each of them a response.

What they needed was not useless comfort or tender words. They needed a certain voice—one that told them directly "yes" or "no," "stay" or "get out."

Ron gave them that certainty.

The crowd gradually dispersed, each returning to their work.

Ron turned and was about to head toward the main building when he caught sight of a small, thin figure standing behind a pillar.

It was a little girl, around seven or eight years old. Her hair was a mess, and her face still had smudges of dirt on it. She hid both hands behind her back, drawing circles on the ground with her toes. Every so often, she looked up at him, then quickly lowered her head again.

Ron stopped and looked at her.

The little girl hesitated for a long time before finally gathering the courage to step out from behind the pillar. She brought her hands forward from behind her back, holding a flower crown.

It was nothing delicate. It was a ring woven from wild grass, decorated with several tiny yellow flowers of unknown name. Some of the petals had already wilted. It was crooked and uneven, as if small hands had taken it apart and woven it again many times.

"This... this is for you." Her voice was as soft as a mosquito's buzz.

Ron froze for a moment, not understanding.

The little girl grew a little anxious. She took another step forward and looked up at him. She had to crane her neck almost toward the sky just to see his face.

"I... I'm going to marry you when I grow up!"

Her voice was not quiet. Several people in the courtyard heard her.

Some held back their laughter, while others pretended they had heard nothing. Karl turned away, his shoulders trembling.

Ron crouched down.

When he crouched, his knees nearly touched the ground, and only then was his gaze barely level with the little girl's. From down there, he could see more—the tear tracks she had not wiped dry, the small cuts on her fingers from grass stems, and the speck of dirt still on the tip of her nose.

Ron reached out and accepted the flower crown.

"Thank you, little one."

The girl smiled, revealing the gap where one of her front teeth was missing. Then she turned and ran, rushing into the arms of the woman by the well and burying her face in her skirt.

Ron looked at the flower crown in his hand. It was woven from wild grass and decorated with a few little yellow flowers, carrying the faint scent of fresh grass mixed with earth.

He stood up, holding the flower crown in his hand.

The people around him went back to their work. No one stared at him any longer.

Night fell.

Ron sat alone in a room on the second floor of the main building.

Several maps taken from the bandits lay spread across the table, their edges curled and their paper rough. An oil lamp stood at the corner of the table, its flame flickering gently, leaving the room half-lit and half-dark.

The flower crown lay in the middle of the table.

Ron stared at it for a long time.

He thought of many things: the numbers on the status panel, the gray options on the system interface. He had once believed this world was a game he could clear, after which he could return to his old life.

But today...

When that little girl had stood before him, craned her head up, and said, "This is for you," he realized that he could no longer go back. Not that he could not return in the physical sense, but that his state of mind could never return to what it had been at the start.

This was not a game.

NPCs would not look at you that way. They would not whisper "thank you" after you turned away. They would not smile with a missing front tooth when you crouched down.

Monsters in games disappeared once they died. Refugees you saved in games would disappear automatically. No one would ask, "Can I stay?" No one would let their eyes turn red, then force the tears back down.

Ron looked down at his hands. These hands had smashed in the heads of two water ghouls, and they had also accepted a flower crown woven from wild grass and flowers by a little girl.

He suddenly understood something.

On this cruel land filled with war, bandits, and monsters, he was this group's hope for survival.

The feeling was unfamiliar. He had never been needed like this before. If you won't do it, there are plenty of others who will. That was what he had heard most often. But this feeling was not bad either.

Ron reached out, picked up the flower crown, and turned it over. Several wilted little yellow flowers fell off and landed on the table.

Karl appeared at the doorway, the plates of his armor still carrying the chill of the night. He was about to report something when his gaze fell on the crooked flower crown on the table.

His mouth opened, then closed.

Karl smiled but said nothing. He turned and quietly withdrew, his footsteps gradually fading down the stairs.

Ron gently placed the flower crown back on the table.

The oil lamp's flame flickered softly.