Henville was terrified, but his experiences from two lifetimes gave him more composure than his inexperienced mother or his young siblings.
To ensure their survival, he had no choice but to summon his courage and undertake these dangerous tasks.
His feelings toward his parents were complicated.
He could never forget his parents from his previous life, yet he could not ignore the love his current parents showered upon him.
Humans are emotional creatures, incapable of complete cold-blooded detachment.
Whether shaped by the values of this life or the outlook from his past one, Henville could not stand by and watch his family fall into peril while he cowered in fear.
If he did nothing, he might scrape by in cowardice, but his conscience would torment him every single day thereafter.
It was precisely for these reasons that Henville chose to take the risk and stay behind.
Consider it repayment for the care they had given him in raising him.
That was how Henville consoled himself.
By now, the fires in the town burned brighter, and Henville knew he had to act quickly.
It would not be long before the enemy's main infantry forces settled in, and the large-scale plundering would begin.
He refused to overestimate the quality of those peasant soldiers or harbor any illusions about the discipline of professional troops.
As Henville carefully erased the traces on the ground, he suddenly heard a strange sound.
His body reacted faster than his mind.
By the time he registered it as the whistle of an arrow slicing through the air, he had already rolled aside.
"Huh?!"
A surprised voice rang out, clearly baffled that Henville had dodged the shot.
While the attacker expressed astonishment, Henville felt only dread—he had failed to notice someone sneaking so close.
After landing, Henville flipped over, unslung the bow from his back, and scanned for the enemy's position.
"Heh! So it's just a kid! So alert, too—that's rare! Want to know where I am?"
No sooner had the words faded than a sharp pain exploded at the base of Henville's neck, and his vision went black.
In the moment before he lost consciousness, he vaguely glimpsed a figure in black, bow slung over their shoulder, standing right behind where he had been, peering down at him with curiosity.
"Damn it! I better get reincarnated into a good life this time…"
Contrary to Henville's expectations, he was not killed.
When he regained consciousness, the back of his neck throbbed with intense pain.
Rubbing it, he surveyed his surroundings: a dark, frigid dungeon.
This was clearly not the afterlife.
The cell held many others, most of whom Henville recognized as residents of Diversion Bay.
Some sobbed quietly, others stared blankly ahead, and more pretended to sleep.
Or rather, they desperately tried to force themselves into slumber, hoping this was merely a nightmare and that they would wake to their peaceful town once more.
Thus, no one paid any attention to Henville as he stirred.
The terror of an unknown fate had overwhelmed any trace of curiosity.
Henville spent three full days in that dungeon.
His emotions progressed from initial fear to nausea and discomfort, and finally to numbness.
No one had brought water or food in those three days; some prisoners had already died, their bodies left rotting in the cell.
A few had shouted at the guards outside, demanding the corpses be removed.
The soldiers' response was swift: they descended to the cell, drew their swords, and thrust through the bars, killing the complainer with a single stab.
Blood sprayed everywhere amid agonized screams, and the soldiers then silenced two more civilians whose terrified shrieks were particularly loud.
From that point on, no one dared make any further demands.
In that instant, Henville understood that even if everyone here perished, the enemy soldiers outside would not care in the least.
Thinking ahead, he began catching the rats scurrying in the cell and hiding them in a corner.
He had no idea how long this ordeal would last; he had to do everything possible to survive.
Over the next two days, as they stared at the bloodied corpses and hunger made their vision blur, no one resorted to eating the dead.
It was not due to any high moral standards among the townsfolk; the very concept of cannibalism to sustain life simply did not exist in their minds.
Henville certainly had no intention of suggesting it—who knew how much longer they would be confined?
What if these three bodies were not enough?
As a child, he would be in grave danger; fresh, living flesh would surely be more appealing than the dead.
In the following two days, more people succumbed.
The first time Henville ate a rat, he forced himself to imagine it as a delicacy from his previous life.
Yet after two bites, he vomited it back up.
Then came dry heaves; with no food in his stomach, he could only retch bile.
Henville bit down hard on his own arm, using the pain to combat the nausea.
He needed to conserve every drop of moisture in his body; he refused to die like this, especially from starvation.
By midday on the fourth day, the enemy finally remembered their existence.
Several soldiers descended, covering their noses and mouths, faces twisted in disgust.
"Everyone out!"
With that single command, they fled the dungeon as if escaping a place reeking of potential marsh gas.
Henville was extremely weak, but he forced himself to stand and shuffled unsteadily toward the door.
Along the way, he kicked at those too famished to move.
Few responded.
As he reached the exit, a hoarse voice called back compassionately: "Get up! We're leaving!"
Seeing that no one followed in the end, Henville turned and stepped into the light beyond the door.
The survivors were herded into a line by the soldiers.
Two more guards went down into the dungeon and emerged moments later, nodding to those outside.
Then, bundles of oil-soaked firewood were tossed inside, followed by torches.
Before the flames fully erupted, the door was chained shut.
Henville had anticipated this outcome.
The enemy would not spare the useless.
This army was locked in a life-or-death struggle with the Kingdom of Ika; they were not here to liberate the people.
They would not burden themselves with those who could not walk, nor would they leave population or land for the enemy.
This was war between nations—devoid of good or evil, merely a fight for the enemy's death and one's own survival.
Or rather, war was an unspeakable atrocity in itself, never truly just.
Justice and evil were relative terms, nothing more.
Henville forced himself not to look at the horrors around him: bodies impaled on stakes, women violated and left dead with barely any clothing, children casually dashed to the ground.
Just days ago, these had been living people—Henville's neighbors who offered kindness, friendly shopkeepers, innocent playmates.
Now, they were nothing but cold, mutilated corpses.
Despite his best efforts to steel himself, an inexplicable surge of anger rose within Henville.