"Count Bastia threw you over to us like garbage, and then incited you to cause trouble as you did, hoping to use my hands to kill you."
Lance looked at the refugees, and their reaction showed no shock at these words.
There was no hatred for the Earl, nor any gratitude towards him; instead, there was a sense of numbness.
They appeared indifferent, as if Lance's shouted words had nothing to do with them.
Indeed, didn't they know they were discriminated against, loathed, and resented?
They knew. They've experienced too much of this on their journey, but they simply have no power to choose.
To put it bluntly, they weren't sure if they'd live to see the sun tomorrow. Talking to them about this was less useful than serving them a al.
Lance had a lot to say. He wanted to guide these refugees to vent their emotions against Count Bastia and make them grateful to Hamlet.
But seeing them like this, he rely pursed his lips and let out a slightly helpless sigh.
"I could let you be killed by the heretics, or I could launch a massacre on you for what happened just now and drive you to the next place, just like the Count did.
But I didn't do that. My soldiers showed restraint because you are human, a part of the Empire."
With that, Lance waved his hand, "Continue distributing the porridge."
Lance originally wanted to take this opportunity to withhold the food, to leave them to dry out for a night, and teach them Hamlet's rules.
But... these people were already at their limit. If he did that, who knows how many would die overnight.
He's not fit to be a Lord, unable to casually take the lives of innocents like Count Bastia.
In the end, he softened...
But once spoken, words cannot be retracted. Lance quickly restrained his excessive emotions and turned his gaze to those trying to snatch food, who were beaten down by the sheriff and managers.
"Drive them out; those causing trouble have no right to eat even a grain of Hamlet's food."
This decision imdiately caused those people to cry out in painful pleas, even though their wounds could hardly squeeze out one last tear to try and make Lance change his mind.
But since they chose to make trouble, they had to be prepared to bear the consequences.
"These are Hamlet's rules." Lance didn't want to waste ti on these unruly people, let alone waste dical resources on them. He waved his hand, "I don't want to see them again."
Under the threat of death, those ten or so were forced to leave, and this situation had an even greater impact on those people than Lance's lengthy speech.
And for the first ti, they vividly felt "Hamlet's rules."
At the sa ti, an undetectable ripple spread in the Void but cald down just as quickly.
Lance's gaze returned from those people, turning to the refugees as he threw out a statent.
"All of Count Bastia's spies, co out on your own. I won't kill you, but if you're caught while hiding, don't bla for not giving you a chance."
Lance had his considerations.
If they ca out on their own, Lance wouldn't want to kill them, because they could be exchanged for money, a harsh extortion from the Earl, while also exposing the Earl's conspiracy openly.
He ntioned the Count planting spies to incite, but saying it over and over without evidence is never as convincing as seeing it firsthand.
A reputation is a subtle and interesting thing.
But those hiding among the refugees, unless foolish, would never reveal themselves voluntarily.
Lance wasn't in a hurry and raised his hand with a signal.
"Everyone, remove all covers and co forward one by one to receive porridge."
The convoy's supplies weren't just for the guards; the refugees could only eat so wild fruits and tree roots along the way.
It's safe to say the state between a refugee and a spy would be quite different, and it wouldn't take much attention to notice this.
Sure enough, as soon as he said this, there was a stir in the crowd, but the muskets with fixed bayonets wouldn't tolerate any nonsense from them.
Lance's earlier words had already taken effect, at least cutting off their ability to incite refugees, calming a disturbance before it could even start.
The restrained refugees were released one by one to line up again for porridge. Most refugees didn't mind removing the rags covering them to get a bowl of porridge and end the terrible hunger.
But for those sneaking among them, they weren't willing to so easily remove it—taking a gamble on the enemy's rcy was risky.
Lance didn't even urge them to remove the cover but continued to push the process forward.
Fewer people ant less cover, and like fish in a drying pond, Lance, unconcerned with rules, drained the water, putting them in a predicant.
This was a psychological attack beyond physical harm~
Not everyone could withstand the gradually mounting pressure, and soon soone couldn't hold on anymore, shouting from the crowd.
"Murder!"
Vaguely, a refugee could be seen falling to the ground, blood staining his clothes.
This trick might have worked elsewhere, causing an uproar.
But the problem was these refugees had been overlooked, even in death. They weren't afraid, so this foolish act only exposed the perpetrator.
With all eyes on him, he couldn't sustain any longer. With a leap, the rag draped over him flew open. The feathered necklace at his neck flared up, and his secret technique unleashed surprising agility, allowing him to step on the heads of refugees, soaring into the air.
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