The refugees did not dare to resist. Regardless of their physical condition, they forced themselves up from the ground and hurriedly left.
Anser and the others watched coldly from the side, leaning against the wall without moving.
Before long, a middle-aged man wearing a cloak emblazoned with a red background and golden flame insignia—apparently the captain—arrived in this area. After carefully sizing Anser up twice, he did not linger and instead went straight to Rand and Zahir.
After bowing to the two paladins to show his respect, the middle-aged man began speaking with them, but his voice was kept very low and could not be heard clearly.
Anser focused his mind on him. As time passed, related information gradually surfaced.
[Flaming Fist Elite, Human, Level 4 Fighter (Battle Master)]
'Even at the worst, he's probably mid- to upper-level,' he speculated inwardly.
A few minutes later, the middle-aged man turned around and left, his expression calm, betraying no emotion.
"What does that mean? We don't have to leave?" Bratt whispered.
"Resting in the fortress for a bit isn't bad either," Finn said stiffly.
Anser stood up, leaning on his staff, with a trace of a cold smile at the corner of his mouth. "Heh, the relationship between the Flaming Fist and the paladins isn't very good."
The original owner had lived in the Outer City since childhood and had often seen conflicts break out between paladins and the Flaming Fist, leaving a deep impression of this.
Sure enough, after resting for a while, Rand checked the condition of the wounded, confirmed that there was no danger to their Hit Point, and then waved his hand broadly to signal everyone to leave.
Bratt and the other person both looked at Anser at the same time, not expecting that he had guessed correctly again.
Several of them got up to help. Bratt pushed the cart, looking puzzled. "There's something wrong with the Flaming Fist's heads. They've got such strong reinforcements, yet they insist on guarding the fortress themselves."
"I infer there are three reasons," Anser said thoughtfully. "First, they have enough manpower. I observed it when we came in just now—there are guards on every section of the wall, with a total of at least two to three hundred.
"Second, they should have elite professionals no weaker than Uncle Rand. Third, they have absolute confidence in the defenses of the Flaming Fist fortress…"
"Wouldn't one more person mean one more bit of combat strength?" Bratt shook his head.
"If, in the middle of a battle, the commander ordered you to go die, would you go?" Anser said with a smile.
"I definitely wouldn't," Bratt shook his head.
"Exactly," Anser also shook his head. "Adventurers don't listen, and paladins don't tolerate any sand in their eyes. Since that's the case, why make trouble for yourself? Driving them all away keeps things much cleaner."
The Flaming Fist's objective was to hold the fortress to the death, unwilling to gamble on any accidents. Putting himself in their place, if he were the commander, he would probably do the same.
Bratt suddenly understood. It wasn't that he hadn't considered this point; he just hadn't expected the Flaming Fist to still have so many careful calculations at such a moment.
The convoy slowly left the fortress passage, and the view immediately opened up.
The fortress's south gate had one more drawbridge than the north gate. When the last person stepped onto the stone-plank road of Wyrm's Crossing, the sound of winches came from behind as the drawbridge was slowly raised. A sheer cliff separated everyone outside, with roaring river water below.
Anser turned his head to look at the fortress's high walls and thought to himself, 'I hope you can hold on. Duergar are not easy to deal with.'
Now that the Upper City had fallen, even if the fortress had ample food, it might not be able to hold out for long. What was more, the Duergar's main force had not even taken the field yet; those who had died were mostly slaves.
By leveraging the natural disaster, the Duergar had occupied the massive city of Baldur's Gate—home to hundreds of thousands—with only several thousand to tens of thousands of people. With benefits of such scale, how could they possibly let go easily?
...
After crossing Wyrm's Crossing came the Rivington district. It was the only Outer City district located on the south bank of the River Chionthar.
It was said that this place had not originally been a district, but rather a settlement that naturally formed due to Wyrm's Crossing's geographical position and commercial environment. Only after it expanded in scale was it incorporated into city administration.
A district that could accommodate only several thousand residents was now packed with at least tens of thousands of refugees.
Once the convoy left Wyrm's Crossing, it felt as though there was nowhere to set foot. Roads were nowhere to be seen; everywhere was piled with half-clothed, starving people—beggars and the injured beyond counting.
Following behind the convoy, Anser had only just entered the district when waves of stench rushed straight into his nose, nearly making him vomit. His gaze swept over the filthy streets covered in excrement and urine, and he could not help but feel nauseated.
At that moment, the convoy suddenly stopped. Looking ahead, he saw a crowd of refugees blocking the convoy—elderly people, the weak, women, and children in front, with able-bodied adults behind. They called it begging, but in truth, if you did not give, they would not let you pass.
Rand's face darkened. He waved his hand, and several fighters carrying shield-clubs stepped forward, beginning to shove and strike those blocking the road.
The scene descended into chaos. Some shouted that the church was beating people, trying to provoke trouble or apply moral pressure, but the fighters remained unmoved and instead struck even harder.
The road was cleared, and the convoy started moving again.
Anser nodded slightly. Rand had no choice but to act this way—once food was given, the situation would immediately spiral out of control.
The paladins were experienced in disaster relief and deeply understood that even charity must observe limits and timing.
After advancing several hundred meters, the convoy turned west. On the western side of the district, near the riverbank, there was a church of Lathander, the Morninglord, and Rand planned to settle there.
But along the way, the convoy's atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. With the Flaming Fist withdrawn, the district lacked public security, and chaos bred. They personally witnessed multiple incidents of theft, robbery, and fighting—shocking to the eye.
Occasionally, they could also see a few patrol personnel maintaining public order, indicating that the Rivington district's government hall was still there. In addition, the major churches and guilds were also spontaneously maintaining order, barely preventing the situation from sliding into collapse.
"It's only been a few days—how could it become like this?" Bratt gritted his teeth, finding it hard to believe.
"The disaster happened too suddenly. No food, no water…" Anser sighed.
Baldur's Gate was a trade capital. Its own food production and reserves were difficult to make it self-sufficient. After the district connecting to Grey Harbor collapsed, merchant ships did not dare to dock, and trade was nearly cut off.
The southern trade route was still there, but grain prices had skyrocketed. How many meals could the little bit of belongings ordinary people brought with them last?
If nothing unexpected happened, the farms and villages south of the city were already overcrowded as well. As for the wilderness… it was full of all kinds of dangers, and ordinary people probably did not dare to run around recklessly.
Near the church district, the situation was much better. Lathander's church had taken in many of the elderly and weak. It was crowded, but not chaotic.
After Rand negotiated with the church, he organized the clergy to set up tents on the open ground on the south side and establish a temporary camp, used to house the statue and the wounded.
As soon as things were settled, he and Zahir took their swords and went out, faces cold, with no one knowing what they went to do.
It was just past noon. No one had eaten, and the clergy began distributing food. When the refugees outside saw it, they surged over like madmen, and some directly reached out and started grabbing.
They did not dare elsewhere, but this was a church. At most they would take a beating, so each and every one of them was very bold.
Bratt could not stand it. He raised his sword and lashed out, using great force—not enough to break bones, but it would definitely make them suffer.
The young clergy also picked up clubs to maintain order, and in the end, they did not let these people overwhelm the church.
Anser held his staff and stood in front of the tent where the wounded were being placed. The white light emitted by the staff was exceptionally conspicuous under the dim sky, and the "starving refugees" held back and did not dare to come forward.
These fighters had all fought shoulder to shoulder with him. He could not let them go without even bread to eat.
The old cleric was softhearted and had someone bring more ingredients, set up a large pot, and prepare to cook porridge to provide relief to the refugees.
Anser's brow was tightly furrowed, and he did not really agree with Berg's approach. There were an astonishing number of refugees, and the church's small amount of rations was simply not enough. A moment of kindness might plant the seeds of disaster.
The disaster had only happened two or three days ago. People could still endure it somewhat, and they still had some rationality. But what about tomorrow and the day after? At that time, even if Rand and the other were here, they might not be able to control the scene.
When people are hungry to the point that their eyes turn red, they are no longer people!
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