Let it be known, first and foremost, that Michael, a 100%, 24-karat genuine article of a man, was definitively nota lolicon deserving of a fiery stake. This fact was irrefutably proven by his well-documented and fervent appreciation for fully-grown women, from the vexing Audra to the more recent delights of the wolf-girl and the fox-girl. His tastes ran towards maturity, not childish innocence.
However, he was still human, subject to the universal, instinctive appreciation of beauty. And honestly, what red-blooded man could remain immune to a little golden-haired, blue-eyed girl who resembled a life-sized, impossibly beautiful doll? And if that doll happened to possess the delicate, pointed ears and otherworldly charm of a half-elf, adding a layer of enchanting, exotic allure? Could anyone truly resist?
Whatever others might manage, Michael, a certified purebred man's man, was utterly defenseless. The moment little Annie had thrown back her hood, revealing her full, unblemished features, it was like gazing upon a storybook angel. A wave of pure, protective affection washed over him, so potent he almost expected to see a pair of pristine, white wings unfurl behind her. This, of course, was a purely platonic, instinctual appreciation—the kind one has for a perfect, innocent creature.
As for the girl's mother, the Lady Rowena, a comely blonde woman with a certain worn grace, she might as well have been part of the shack's furniture for all the attention Michael paid her. The version of him that was a down-on-his-luck salesman might have felt a flicker of interest for such a "primary-grade foreign beauty." But the current Lord Harry Potter, whose palate had grown accustomed to the metaphorical lobsters and abalones of the wasteland, held no interest for what he now considered the equivalent of seaweed and laver.
After spending a good minute affectionately ruffling Annie's golden hair, Michael finally remembered his purpose. He gathered the modest gifts he'd brought: the "four-piece set" of the elite in Cinder Town—a straw hat, flip-flops, an advertisement-emblazoned T-shirt, and garishly patterned shorts—along with two precious cans of expired yellow peach, renowned for their restorative properties, and stepped properly into the shack.
The dwelling was small, a single room of perhaps twenty square meters, but it was meticulously clean and orderly. The care invested by its female inhabitants was palpable. For a family of scavengers, accustomed to huddling in the lee of ruined walls for a night's fitful rest, this humble shack must have felt like a leap from a factory dormitory to a seaside villa. Seeing this, Michael's confidence in recruiting the Richard into the fold of the Territory of Meili grew exponentially.
The family's bed was a plank laid across stacks of rocks and a worn-out tire. Upon it, the half-elf Richard lay propped up, his face still pale from the monumental effort of his single, battle-turning shot. The toll it had taken was severe; Michael wondered if two cans of peaches would be enough to replenish such a depletion.
Upon seeing the local chieftain arrive, the half-elf made a valiant effort to rise, a gesture of respect. Michael hurried forward, his voice booming with feigned concern. "Master Richard! Please, remain at ease! Your only duty now is to rest and recover!" Without a hint of distaste for the hard, makeshift bed, he planted himself firmly on its edge beside the archer.
Then began the deluge. A torrent of effusive gratitude and praise, heavy enough to sink a battleship, was unleashed upon the semi-conscious elf. The process, for anyone familiar with the classics, bore a striking resemblance to the Three Visits to the Thatched Cottage. Lacking any real experience in recruiting subordinates, Michael was blindly following this age-old template of winning over a talented recluse.
After a significant amount of aimless chatter, Michael posed a question, feigning casualness. "Master Richard, you needn't worry about a thing during your recovery here—food, water, medicine, it's all taken care of. I was just wondering... what are your plans once you've fully regained your strength?"
"The... Territory of Meili?" Richard asked, his face a mask of pure confusion. "Where is that? I thought this was Cinder Town."
The matter of the town's renaming had only been discussed with Zhang Dabiao and his kin; no public announcement had been made. Michael remembered this perfectly well. His feigned forgetfulness was merely a rhetorical ploy, a hook to dangle a grand vision and lure the half-elf into his service.
Slapping his own forehead with theatrical force, Michael cried, "Ah! My apologies! The plan for the Territory of Meili hasn't been publicly disclosed yet! But you're practically family, so it's no trouble to share it with you." And so, the grand blueprint was unfurled once more: clearing wastelands for farms, erecting workshops and factories, building a proper city, establishing schools. This was the second time Michael had painted this particular masterpiece, and his strokes were even more vivid and convincing. He imagined the half-elf, a simple son of the wilds, would be utterly stupefied by the brilliance of the vision.
What should follow, according to the well-worn tropes of internet novels, was inevitable: Lord Harry Potter Michael would exude an aura of such overwhelming authority that his new subordinate would immediately kowtow in allegiance. And, of course, he'd bring his wife and daughter along for the ride.
Onil, the dark-skinned warrior hearing this grand vision for the first time, listened with eyes burning with a fierce, desperate hope. It was a life far surpassing his most elaborate dreams. The Territory of Meili! The name was perfect! The bitter water from the original deep well was now ignored; everyone drank their fill from the new, sweet, limitless supply. It was a comfort that reached one's bones on a hot day. Cinder Town shouldbe called the Territory of Meili!
However, Michael's confidence wavered. He saw no flicker of excitement on Richard's face. His subsequent invitation thus emerged with considerably less assurance. "Master Richard, you see, a project of such grandeur requires talents like yours. Perhaps you should consider settling here in the Territory of Meili? It would provide a stable life for Annie and her mother."
His worries, it turned out, were not unfounded.
Richard offered a reserved, diplomatic smile. "Annie and I, though half-breeds, still carry the wandering spirit of our elven heritage. We are not accustomed to staying in one place for too long, so—"
Michael's heart sank with each word. But then, salvation arrived from the most unexpected quarter. Little Annie, the fruit candy clacking in her mouth, toddled over and looked up at her father with wide, innocent eyes. "But Papa, didn't you decide to bring us here because you heard Cinder Town was taking in scavenger families? And when you shot that arrow, you said you were making this lord owe you a big favor. So why are you saying this now?"
A silence, thick and profoundly awkward, descended upon the shack.
The minds of the adults present became a theater of frantic, unspoken thoughts:
Richard: 'You wretched child! Must you speak such inconvenient truths? You're digging a grave for your own father!'
Onil: 'I thought elves were famous for their blunt honesty. This one's as sly as a goblin! I wonder if he has some goblin blood in him?'
Michael: 'So, you look honest and noble, but you're actually a cunning old fox! Try that again and I'll take back the damned tricycle!'
Rowena: '...Those floral shorts are rather striking. They'd make a lovely skirt if I could rework the material...'
And so, though the path was more winding than anticipated, the second-rank Richard became a member of the Territory of Meili. Harry Potter had acquired another powerful enforcer, and the archery skills of the town's guard were poised for a significant leap forward.