The original residents had moved to the new fief and were settled in newly built, semi-subterranean homes.
The space was small, even a little cramped, but warm and safe. Compared with that lifeless wasteland, it felt like an entirely different world.
They even received two meals a day: hot porridge and rye flatbread, enough to fill their bellies, and fairly tasty too.
This was already the finest life they could imagine.
On the first night, a scrawny old man offered a bowl of hot soup. The newcomer took it carefully, his hands still trembling a little.
"Th-thank you..."
"Don't thank me." The old man grinned, revealing several missing teeth. "We haven't been here long ourselves... everyone in this fief owes their survival to Lord Louis."
The man froze for a moment, then lowered his head to look at the hot soup in his hands. "He doesn't know us, yet he was willing to save us."
"Lord Louis never asks who you are," the old man said gently. "He only cares whether you can survive."
The room fell silent for a moment, then quiet sobs broke out. Some people furtively wiped their eyes.
"This isn't a camp," he murmured. "It's heaven."
They had never imagined that someone would be willing to reach out to them in their hell.
And the name Louis Calvin was now engraved deep in every one of their hearts.
After dealing with McKinney's whole wretched mess, Louis's life returned to peace.
As winter arrived in earnest, even his duties as lord dwindled day by day.
Snow sealed the mountain roads, the river froze over, and even the scheming among nobles ceased.
Of the ten entries the Daily Intelligence System produced each day, eight were trivial matters like "someone's horse kicked down someone else's door" or "the