Our Family Has Fallen-Chapter 837 - 482: The Purity of a Hero_2

At this moment, the children all looked terrified, with some of the younger ones hiding behind the older kids. Those older ones lowered their heads in front of Lance, not daring to meet his gaze, their actions revealing intense unease.

Only the one speaking to Lance seemed slightly normal, yet you could still feel his unease, as he had no idea what this Noble Lord in front of him intended to do.

Last night, Lance had already demonstrated his strong deterrent by expelling the trouble-making refugees. It would be odd not to fear him; probably only the heretics would dare.

Lance's silence made them even more uneasy because, after wandering for so long, they had never encountered a situation like this before, prompting an impulse for self-saving.

"Sir, we can work; please don't drive us away."

Refugees are burdens, and children are the burden among burdens.

Since at least adults can do some hard labor, while minors are weak and prone to dying young, which family would be willing to raise them for free?

Thus, the few who looked fine had long been picked, and the ordinary children left were not welcomed by anyone.

But Hamlet differed from those places, and Lance was an eccentric.

"Don't be afraid, in Hamlet, you can survive."

Lance gestured for the staff to come.

"Find a separate place for these children and arrange for those who lost their parents among the refugees..."

Lance made arrangements in front of everyone, and only then did the children realize that this Lord had no intention of driving them away; instead, he was providing them with convenience, engendering disbelief.

"Child, you are a real hero." Lance nodded approvingly.

"I... how could I be a hero; only you, sir, are the hero." The child, unable to bear such praise, appeared utterly uneasy.

"Being a hero has nothing to do with being a big figure. It is among us ordinary people; you have the heart of a hero, you achieved what many adults could not."

Lance raised his fist and gently touched it to the boy's heart, "Remember your heroic heart, the journey might be filled with suffering, but I wish you not to be corrupted and fallen."

An inexplicable warmth surged from the boy's heart, awakening unprecedented potential in his frail body.

By the time he realized it, Lance had already walked away, leaving only his back in view.

The boy watched that figure, determination gradually firming in his mind.

Meanwhile, Lance finally emerged from the refugees' quarters, yet his mood did not seem good.

So he walked directly toward the sanatorium, not knowing who would be unlucky next.

Those captives, once their injuries healed or if they were not serious, could directly be thrown to work like beasts of burden; escaping wouldn't matter.

However, Alvin and Lawrence, the two big catches, couldn't afford any slip-ups, and the captured Flame Warlock couldn't be held by ordinary means, so they were always detained at the sanatorium.

After all, they still had some value. It's fortunate Paracelsus hadn't used them for experiments, given that there were plenty of test subjects.

"We've met again." Lance pushed open the steel gate connected by large rivets, entering the room or rather prison, focusing his gaze on Baron Lawrence.

After all, people aren't made of iron; half a month of imprisonment had made Lawrence haggard, and he was dull to the commotion outside.

Yet, he still lifted his face, covered with anxiety, seemingly awaiting his judgment.

He seemed to know that walking out of here alive was unlikely.

"People from Bastia have arrived."

Lance didn't care about his reaction, speaking self-servingly about their journey, nearly reciting Laura's words, as if from a firsthand perspective.

Lawrence quickly realized; this was not right, how did you know so much?

Such a situation could only mean there was a traitor in the team, but being trapped himself, the anxiety in his heart was of no use.

"You seem to have no feelings about the Earl deliberately inciting refugee riots and then massacres?" Lance suddenly halted his words, shifting to ask.

Lawrence didn't understand what this meant, but even in captivity, the arrogance stemming from nobility was hard to change.

"We are not children; refugees, such unstable factors, are a disaster wherever they are. If they riot, the soldiers suppressing them is entirely appropriate."

"But what if your daughter was among those refugees?"

Lance threw out a remark, his grin growing, even becoming a little sinister.

Upon hearing this, Lawrence suddenly lifted his head to look at Lance's eerie smile, initially stunned, but then deeply furrowed his brows without saying a word.

"Her name is Margaret, isn't it?" Lance knew he wouldn't believe it, nor was he in a hurry, casually detailing his daughter's characteristics, "Loves playing with guns, red-haired, looks..."

The more detailed Lance described, the more panic Lawrence felt, even though he was reluctant to believe it, but maintaining a father's composure was difficult under such circumstances.

The anger from a father erupted with considerable strength from the long-quiet body.

"What exactly did you do!"

Roaring, he suddenly leaped forward, his figure like a black bear pouncing, arms swinging and pushing a fist with terrifying force.

But before the fist could reach Lance, a palm appeared in front, completely bearing the force in an instant.

Lance stood unwavering, while Lawrence was instead rebounded by the impact, falling backward onto the bed, dazed, seemingly not expecting it.

"Didn't you say all refugees are a disaster and should be eliminated?" Lance's face was full of mocking expression as he jested, "Why the righteous demeanor just now, now so agitated?"

Lance's sarcastic tone was sharp, breaking Lawrence's composure.

"What happened to her? If there's anything, come at me; bullying a child is meaningless?" Lawrence, coming back to his senses, stared and shouted, losing the usual calmness; it seemed his daughter was truly important to him.

"Hey, hey, hey! I need to correct you." Lance interrupted, adding a line.

"Don't confuse me with your kind. Your daughter's matter has nothing to do with me; nor do I know how she ended up among the refugees.

Also, the cavalry charging at your daughter was done by Bruce, and the one who orchestrated this massacre was the Earl; I did nothing, don't blame the good man."

Lawrence's complex feelings were inexplicable, seemingly realizing his daughter had fallen beneath the iron hooves, engulfed in boundless sorrow.

At this time, Lance finally unveiled the mystery with a laugh, "Your daughter is still alive; otherwise, I wouldn't even know she was your daughter."

"What's with her now!" Lawrence's emotions were completely driven by Lance, yet he hadn't realized it, but right now, he couldn't care less.

"I know you're anxious, but hold on a bit."

In contrast, Lance was relaxed, but did not disclose his daughter's situation; instead, he continued narrating the refugees' massacre situation.

Eating roots, drinking stream water, and following the refugees on a 'pilgrimage' towards Hamlet.

This time, Lawrence could no longer maintain the disinterested facade; every word from Lance stirred his emotions.

As the saying goes, 'A child traveling thousands of miles worries the mother,' Lawrence's arrogance towards refugees now entirely rebounded onto him.

Meanwhile, resentment towards Lance accumulated unabatingly, barely hidden. If he could win a fight, if weapons were available, actions might have been taken long ago.

What restrained Lawrence's emotions wasn't these words but the insurmountable strength disparity forcing him to calm down.

"You came here presumably not just to tell me these things, right?"

From the tone of this question, Lance knew Lawrence assumed his daughter's incidents were caused by him, prompting an explanation. "Hey, hey, hey! Don't look at me like that, I already said it's not my business; your daughter becoming a refugee has nothing to do with me."

On this matter, you should thank me, for if not for my people looking after her all the way, she might not even be alive now, crushed into pulp under iron hooves, or seized by mobs with unspeakable outcomes."

Lance couldn't care less about his hostility; even standing still with one hand given, Lawrence couldn't defeat him, no help for it, the confidence of the strong burns bright.