Lance began giving orders, and the fat man imdiately sensed sothing was wrong upon hearing them.
Although there wasn't anything too valuable in the convoy, mostly logistics supplies, but...
That's my convoy! My supplies!
Why? Why are you doing this?
"If anyone disagrees..." Lance suddenly turned to look at the fat man and slowly said, "I don't like bloody scenes, don't make ~"
The fat man's conflicted expression froze instantly; having seen soone get their head smashed for saying sothing earlier, he wondered what Lance's words could an for him now?
The thought of struggling was extinguished, but such humiliation was intolerable; he could only console himself inwardly.
When I return to Bastia with the army and crush this dump, I'll make sure to humiliate you thoroughly.
But for now... the mission is more important.
He was enduring this for the Count's mission, truly a tale of bearing great humiliation for the sake of a worthy cause.
Lance withdrew his gaze from the fat man, wondering why he seed a bit befuddled — could the Heretic Priest have fried his brains?
Nevertheless, Lance couldn't be bothered to care and waved his hand to signal others to get to work.
He then turned his attention to the refugees.
Having received scout reports, Lance had already issued orders, and his n, quite experienced in dealing with refugees, set up camp even though it was night. With several bonfires and rows of torches lit, the entire clearing was brightly illuminated.
Several large pots boiled thin porridge continuously, with barely any whole grains visible as they had all been cooked down into mush.
Though the substance was not much better than water, the aroma of grain emanating from the porridge was fatally tempting to the refugees, not to ntion the faint fish at fibers visible in the ladles.
"Line up single file, everyone will get to eat, but if anyone causes trouble, they won't get a bit."
So staff with short sticks maintained order among them; sotis dealing with these refugees, you can't be too gentle and must apply pressure.
In their current state, they wouldn't understand anything unless given a physical warning to maintain their final shreds of rationality.
William also brought a team of sheriffs over to maintain order, and in theory, there should be no problems.
A single bowl of thin porridge could greatly pacify these refugees and establish a channel of communication.
And indeed, that seed to be the case; several lines ford, and staff sorted the refugees.
After a brief process, so had already received porridge and were guided to another clearing where they began sorting and dividing the refugees.
A thousand people would understandably take a while, but they had enough capacity and experience to manage them.
However, if it were really that simple, one would be underestimating Count Bastia's arrangents.
Bear in mind that these refugees were not all pure; so among them sensed stability erging and deliberately started inciting disputes.
"There's barely any food, not enough to go around all of us."
"Why do they get two bowls while we only get one?"
"The porridge is running out, we'll have nothing left to eat."
"I want two bowls too!"
"They're grabbing it, hurry and grab so!"
A few simple remarks, even though porridge was being steadily supplied and no one actually received two bowls as people were taken away after receiving their share.
Yet these leaking lies easily tugged at the hearts of refugees because those in the back couldn't see what was happening in the front.
While those in front, despite seeing plenty of porridge, wanted to seize the chance to eat more, not caring about the others behind them, thinking only of survival.
Human nature's baseness was played upon by them, spreading madness as refugees began displaying their ugly sides.
A thousand people in chaos would inevitably lead to violent suppression to protect Hamlet.
And then there would be a river of blood, hundreds dead perhaps before things cald.
Just then, the explosive sound of musket fire intersected, suppressing the disturbance, as soldiers rushed forward in the torchlight, encircling the refugees.
"Stop everything! Approach, and you die!"
Soldiers aid their muskets at the refugees while behind them, rows of cavalry stood ready, able to charge through the refugees as if mowing grass.
anwhile, the prepared sheriffs swung their short sticks at those trying to storm the porridge station, their movents lacking any hint of rcy.
They were responsible for Hamlet's law and order, and those who dared cause trouble would face a hard crackdown!
The presence of soldiers and sheriffs nipped the incipient chaos in the bud.
Lance watched coldly from the side, unmoved even as refugees were beaten to the ground, wailing in pain.
Laura had already told him about spies hidden among the refugees stirring up trouble, ultimately leading to slaughter; how could he not have prepared?
He had extended goodwill earlier, but Lance knew that wasn't enough—benevolence was rely synonymous with weakness to these folks, giving them the courage to overstep bounds.
Refugees' short-sightedness and greed were facts since they fundantally didn't believe Hamlet was so kind of Eden; to survive, they had to seize every opportunity to grab as much food as possible.
If Lance showed even a hint of weakness, it would embolden them; given a chance, they would plunder without hesitation, indifferent to the misery it might inflict on others.
But refugees were easily incited because they had lost faith in the world.
Abandoned by the main society, detached from the crowd, they beca irrational "beasts" on the run.
And Lance needed an excuse to give them a show of force, to truly ta these "beasts."
Just like now, in the face of musket fear and the agony under batons, the refugees' eyes beca instantly clear.
In so sense, what Lance did was no different from what Count Bastia did; both used spies hidden among them, allowing them to incite rebellion, then suppressing it.
Moreover, Lance did it more cleverly, using an enemy's trap for his own purpose and keeping the chaos contained.
A good person cannot manage a territory because, when issues arise, solutions inevitably involve compromise, harming so people's interests.
The notion of a good person is essentially about neutrality, offending no one and accomplishing nothing, rely delaying issues as long as they don't erupt under their watch.
But Lance was not that kind of person, or he would've turned around on that old road instead of diving headfirst into Hamlet's ss.
If there were a thousand pigs, it might take two days to catch them all, but a thousand people could easily be driven and gathered like sardines packed in a can.
Lance, on horseback from a high vantage, overlooked them, feeling their anxious eyes before finally calling out.
"You've been deceived by Bastia's Lord; Hamlet is just a regular place, not as praised in rumors. Their lies aid to push you, troublemakers, here.
For this, Count Bastia planted spies among you, inciting disturbances to provide excuses for slaughter, severing your hopes of returning."
Lance disliked using fancy words—uneducated and lacking a Noble upbringing, he was simply an ordinary person.
He preferred to speak plainly, uncaring for feudal nobility's "political non-diffusion principle," revealing what seed like thick clouds but was actually childish political scuffling before their eyes.
"Bastia abandoned you! The Count wants you dead!"
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