By the time they returned to the camp, the sun was already high overhead.
From a distance, Rhoen could already see that the courtyard had been transformed.
The collapsed stable had been propped back up, and the broken wooden fence had been repaired with freshly cut planks.
Supplies had been sorted into neat piles throughout the yard—food, weapons, and tools each stacked separately.
Several refugees were clearing rubble from the entrance to the main hall, women knelt by the well washing clothes, and elderly men sat against the walls repairing wooden buckets.
Erwin stood in the middle of the courtyard with the wooden board in his hands, directing two young men as they carried a bundle of lumber.
When he saw Rhoen’s party returning, he quickly walked over.
“Your Highness…
no, Rhoen.”
He corrected himself, adjusting his monocle.
“Thirteen refugees left this morning.
They all had relatives or friends they could rely on.
Following your instructions, I gave each of them two days’ worth of rations.”
Rhoen swung down from his horse and handed his axe and shield to a nearby soldier.
“What about the rest?”
Stepping aside, Erwin gestured toward the busy courtyard.
“There are still over forty people here.
The women and children are handling sewing and laundry, while several elderly men who know carpentry are helping repair the camp.”
He pointed toward a temporary shelter on the eastern side of the courtyard.
“Over there is a former blacksmith’s apprentice.
He’s helping the soldiers maintain their armor and can also make simple arrows.”
Rhoen swept his gaze around the courtyard before it settled on a campfire in one corner.
An elderly man with graying hair was carefully wiping down a breastplate with an old rag.
His movements were slow, but meticulous.
Beside him crouched two young men.
One held a shortsword, drawing it back and forth across a whetstone.
“His Highness is back!!”
Someone called out first.
One after another, the people in the courtyard stopped what they were doing.
As they looked at Rhoen, the fear that had filled their eyes on that first night was gone, replaced instead by a cautious hope.
A young man stepped out from the crowd.
Barely in his twenties, bruises still marked his face.
He stopped in front of Rhoen and took a deep breath.
“My lord, I want to become a soldier!”
Rhoen looked at him.
“What’s your name?”
“Miko, my lord.”
The young man straightened his back.
“I’ve worked the fields and chopped firewood.
I’m not short on strength.”
Rhoen glanced at his arms.
They were thin, but his frame was solid.
With proper food, he would fill out.
“Do you know how to use a sword?”
Miko hesitated.
“…I trained with a veteran in my village for a while, but we only used wooden swords.
I’ve never fought with a real one…”
Several soldiers nearby let out quiet chuckles, and Miko’s face immediately flushed red.
Rhoen didn’t laugh.
Instead, he turned to Karl.
“Take him under your wing.
Start him with basic recruit training.”
Karl nodded, walked over, patted Miko on the shoulder, and led him away.
An elderly man stepped out from the crowd next.
His hair was completely white, his back slightly hunched, and his large hands had knotted, misshapen joints—the unmistakable hands of an old carpenter.
“My lord,” the old man said in a hoarse voice, “I’ve worked as a carpenter for decades.
I can repair the gates, fences, and stables in your camp.
Just give me enough food to eat.”
Rhoen nodded.
“Go register with Erwin.
Tell him whatever materials you need.”
The old man turned toward Erwin.
After taking two steps, he looked back.
His lips moved as though he wanted to say something, but in the end, he simply bowed deeply.
A middle-aged woman stood up from beside the well, still clutching a bundle of wet clothes.
She didn’t dare approach, only looked at Rhoen from afar and spoke softly.
“My lord…
I can mend clothes, and I know how to cook.
May I stay?”
Rhoen looked at her.
“You may.”
Her eyes immediately reddened.
Lowering her head, she returned to scrubbing the filthy garment in her hands, whoever it belonged to.
One after another, more people stepped forward.
Some asked if they could learn swordsmanship.
Some asked if they could help care for the horses.
Others said they knew how to weave baskets, mend shoes, or make charcoal.
Rhoen answered each of them in turn.
His tone wasn’t warm, but every single person received a clear reply.
What they needed wasn’t empty comfort or kind words.
What they needed was certainty—someone to tell them plainly whether the answer was “yes” or “no,” whether they should “stay” or “get out.”
Rhoen gave them that certainty.
The crowd gradually dispersed, everyone returning to their own work.
Rhoen turned to head toward the main building when the corner of his eye caught a small figure standing behind one of the pillars.
It was a little girl, about seven or eight years old.
Her hair was a tangled mess, her face still smudged with dirt.
Both hands were hidden behind her back as she traced circles in the dirt with the tip of her shoe.
Every so often, she would sneak a glance at him before quickly lowering her head again.
Rhoen stopped and looked at her.
After hesitating for a long time, the little girl finally gathered her courage and stepped out from behind the pillar.
She brought her hands forward, revealing a flower wreath cradled in her palms.
It wasn’t anything elaborate.
It was simply woven from wild grass, decorated with a few tiny yellow wildflowers.
Some of the petals had already wilted, and the wreath itself was uneven and lopsided, as if a pair of little hands had taken it apart and woven it back together several times.
“Th-This…
is…
is for you.”
Her voice was barely louder than a mosquito’s buzz.
Rhoen froze for a moment, caught completely off guard.
Growing anxious, the little girl took another step forward and tilted her head back to look at him.
She had to crane her neck almost straight upward just to see his face.
“When…
when I grow up, I’m going to marry you!”
Her voice wasn’t quiet this time.
Several people in the courtyard heard it.
Some struggled to suppress their laughter.
Others pretended they hadn’t heard a thing.
Karl’s lips twitched, but not a sound escaped him.
Rhoen crouched down.
Even then, his knees nearly touched the ground before his eyes were finally level with the little girl’s.
And from that height, he noticed far more than before.
The tear stains she hadn’t quite wiped away.
The tiny cuts on her fingers from the grass stems.
Rhoen reached out and accepted the flower wreath.
“Thank you, little one.”
The little girl beamed, revealing the gap where one of her front teeth was missing.
Then she turned and ran, straight into the arms of the woman by the well, burying her face in the woman’s skirt.
Rhoen looked down at the wreath in his hands.
It was woven from wild grass and dotted with tiny yellow flowers, carrying the faint scent of fresh greenery mixed with damp earth.
He rose to his feet, the wreath still resting in his hands.
Around him, everyone returned to their work.
No one was watching him anymore.
Night fell.
Rhoen sat alone in a room on the second floor of the main building.
Several maps taken from the bandits lay spread across the table.
Their edges were curled, the paper rough and coarse.
An oil lamp rested in one corner, its flame flickering gently and filling the room with shifting pools of light and shadow.
The flower wreath sat in the middle of the table.
Rhoen stared at it for a long time.
He thought about many things.
The numbers on his status panel.
The grayed-out options on the system interface.
He had always believed this world was just a game—one he could eventually clear before returning to his old life.
But today…
When that little girl had stood before him, looked up at him, and said, “This is for you,” he realized he could never go back.
Not physically.
Mentally.
This wasn’t a game.
NPCs didn’t look at you with eyes like hers.
They didn’t quietly whisper “Thank you” after you turned away.
They didn’t flash a gap-toothed smile when you crouched down to meet them at eye level.
In games, monsters disappeared the moment they died.
The refugees you rescued simply despawned afterward.
No one asked, “Can I stay?”
No one fought back tears after their eyes turned red.
Rhoen lowered his gaze to his own hands.
These hands had crushed the skulls of two Drowners.
They had also accepted a flower wreath woven from wild grass and fresh blossoms by a little girl.
At that moment, he understood something.
On this harsh land filled with war, bandits, and monsters…
He was these people’s hope of surviving.
The feeling was unfamiliar.
No one had ever needed him like this before.
‘If you won’t do it, someone else will.’
That was what he had always heard.
But…
This feeling wasn’t bad at all.
Rhoen picked up the flower wreath and slowly turned it in his hands.
Several of the wilted little yellow flowers fell free, drifting onto the tabletop.
Karl appeared in the doorway.
The night air still clung to the lamellar plates of his armor.
He had been about to report something, but his gaze landed on the crooked little flower wreath resting on the table.
His mouth opened slightly.
Then closed again.
Karl smiled.
Without saying a word, he turned and quietly left, his footsteps gradually fading down the staircase.
Rhoen gently set the flower wreath back onto the table.
The flame of the oil lamp flickered softly.