I peeked through a hole in the tent. Many people sat on the ground in a loose circle. At the center, a middle-aged man told stories to children gathered close around him. They leaned in, knees pulled to their chests, eyes fixed on his face.
One of the adults whispered, barely moving his lips, "At least Father Basil is distracting the children from their hunger. I just hope tomorrow they'll serve real food… enough to fill our stomachs."
The men and women nearby nodded faintly. Some hugged themselves for warmth; others rested hollow cheeks in trembling hands. Their eyes drifted back to the children, who listened with an intensity that bordered on desperation. It was impossible not to notice how malnourished they all were. Without proper jackets, their thin frames were exposed to the biting cold.
"Father," one of the children asked softly, tugging at the priest's sleeve, "can you tell us the story about your dream?"
"My child, this is no story," Father Basil said gently, lowering himself to their level. His voice was calm, practiced. "I saw a vision. God will send an angel to save us...from terrible monsters and from cruel humans alike. The angel will guide us into the light. So we must keep our hope alive. We must stand united. Someday, all of us will be free from suffering. Until then, we must believe. We must be strong."
The children's eyes widened. Some leaned closer, others clasped their hands together as if in prayer.
The adults, however, dropped their gazes. Shoulders sagged. Jaws tightened. They stared at the dirt beneath them, listening but not believing.
For people who had nothing left, even the smallest hope could carry them a long way.
I could clearly see what the priest was trying to do.
But if you want change, you have to make it yourself.
Relying on salvation alone is foolish.
I stepped into the tent.
The reaction was immediate. Bodies stiffened. Conversations died mid-breath. Children scrambled backward, pressing themselves against the adults. Fear rippled through the crowd like a physical wave.
I walked straight toward the priest.
He noticed me and collapsed to his knees before I said a word. His head bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the ground.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," he pleaded, voice shaking. "Please forgive me. I'll never say anything again. Please… have mercy."
"Get up," I said coldly.
He hesitated, then rose unsteadily to his feet.
"Answer my questions truthfully," I continued. "If I hear even a hint of a lie, you won't be standing on both legs."
The priest nodded rapidly. Sweat beaded on his temple. Around us, people froze—backs rigid, eyes wide, breaths shallow.
"Did any of you see an attack unit bring a girl into the camp recently?" I asked. "She wears a baseball hat. Her name is Clementine. She's about five foot two, has curly hair, and a diamond ring on her hand."
The priest glanced over his shoulder. The others exchanged quick looks—silent, nervous. Lips moved, but no sound came out.
"Did you or did you not...Answer Me?" I snapped.
Several people flinched. One child whimpered before an adult clamped a hand over their mouth.
"I'm sorry," the priest whispered, his voice hollow. "The main guard returned earlier, but there was no girl with them. No one like the one you're looking for."
My jaw tightened. My patience was gone.
I leaned closer, forcing him to meet my eyes.
"Where is the headquarters?" I demanded. "Where is your leader?"
Confusion flickered across their faces. Then fear won.
"At… the farmhouse," the priest said. "He's there."
His knees buckled again, and he dropped to the ground.
Without wasting another second, I turned and walked out of the tent, already heading toward the farmhouse.
It was time to speak to him directly.
Walking straight toward the farmhouse, I passed rows of severed slave heads mounted on pikes. They lined the path like signposts, warnings to anyone who dared to disobey or run. The people moving through the area didn't even glance at the frozen faces, It was so normal to them.
When I reached the farmhouse, two guards stood at the entrance, rifles in hand. As they noticed me approaching, one raised his weapon slightly.
"Hello, brother," he said cautiously. "You need to remove your hood and mask… and state your business."
I didn't have the time or the energy to answer.
I grabbed their heads and slammed them together. Bone shattered. Their skulls burst apart with a wet crack, and they dropped without ever understanding what had happened.
I dragged the bodies inside and locked the door behind me.
Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I let my senses expand. I mapped every movement in the house, every breath, every footstep. Sword in hand, I moved from room to room. Anyone I encountered died. I didn't care who they were, most didn't even realize they were dead until it was over.
The ground floor was slick with blood. So was I. Still, it wasn't enough.
I found a maid frozen in terror and swung once, slicing her body clean in two.
Then I turned toward the upper floor.
My hands trembled, not from fear, but from anticipation. Finally, I would face the piece of shit who thought he could take what was mine.
I climbed the stairs, killing anyone who crossed my path. At the master bedroom door, I heard voices. Laughter and glass clinking.
And then, I heard a familiar voice.
I kicked the door open.
Two guards in the corner reached for their pistols. They died instantly, bullets tearing through their heads.
Four people sat on the sofa, drinks still frozen in their hands.
"Hello, Drill Sergeant," I said calmly. "We meet again."
He sprang to his feet, instinctively reaching for his empty holster. His face drained of color as he realized he was unarmed.
I turned my attention to the fat man struggling to stand beside him. Two beautiful women sat rigid, terror locking their bodies in place.
"Oh, you must be the Butcher," I said. "Leader of this community. Nice to meet you again. You've gotten fat since Savannah."