CHAPTER 178: CHAPTER 176: MASTER CRAFTSMAN_1

A few thugs surrounded a mother and daughter. One was trying to forcibly kidnap the little girl, while another dragged the woman by her hair, attempting to pull her away.

"Mom! Mom!"

"What are you doing? Let go of my daughter!"

"Fuck off, bitch!"

"Damn, so fair-skinned and we didn’t notice."

"She’s worth at least a Gold Coin!"

"Hahaha!"

No matter how much the woman struggled, how could she fight off several grown men? The bystanders, somewhat numb to the scene, only wanted to avoid getting involved and didn’t dare say anything, let alone help.

Lance wasn’t too surprised to see such a thing happening in broad daylight; he had seen too much of it in the refugee camp over the past two days.

But being calm didn’t mean he was going to stand by and watch.

"Go, chop them into pieces for me."

Lance raised his hand to point, and the listless Boudica grew excited. She snatched up her War Halberd and, with a war cry, charged forward.

"WAAAGH!"

With one strike of her War Halberd, she split a man in two, the blood splattering onto the woman’s face and causing her to scream.

The thugs hadn’t expected a madwoman to suddenly appear. Before they could react further, they were slaughtered like vegetables being chopped, leaving behind only the woman, half-covered in blood and stunned, and the bewildered girl.

"Boss, these little shrimps aren’t even enough for one swing of my blade," Boudica said, grinning foolishly as she held up her bloodied War Halberd.

"Alright, alright. Just try not to make such a mess next time." Lance walked over, his words tinged with a hint of helplessness. He then turned to the woman and asked, "Are you alright?"

The woman, recovering from her terror, looked up at the smiling man before her.

"Hmm?" Seeing her dazed state, Lance thought she was still in shock.

That sound snapped the woman back to attention. She quickly got up and pulled the child beside her close.

"Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir!"

The little girl’s face was still streaked with tears, her small eyes red. Her skinny appearance was indeed pitiful.

Yet, perhaps due to her environment or something else, she showed little reaction to the bloody scene. It just went to show that one’s surroundings are the truest crucible for tempering a person.

"It’s okay, don’t cry." Lance squatted to meet her eyes and gently wiped the tears from her face.

"Sir, please take her with you. She’s still young, but she’s very smart and can do anything. In a couple of years, she’ll be able to serve you."

Seeing Lance’s gesture, the woman steeled her resolve. No matter what, she couldn’t let her daughter stay here. They might not be so lucky next time. Even being a Maid for a wealthy family was better than rotting here.

"What’s your name?"

Lance looked at the girl. He had to admit, he was interested, as she possessed an Extraordinary Talent. When she had been emotionally agitated just now, she had emitted intense spiritual fluctuations—the strongest talent he had ever seen.

"Joan," the girl said, her voice choked with tears.

"A very nice name." Lance ruffled the girl’s hair, stood up, and said, "Both of you, come with me."

The two were brought back to the camp. What was initially barren land was now utilized, with at least two thousand people living there. Lance boldly employed the newly arrived refugees, seeing it as an excellent opportunity to test their capabilities.

The woman, holding her daughter’s hand, surveyed the camp. The expressions of the people around them didn’t convey madness; instead, they were all diligently engaged in their tasks. This sense of returning order temporarily settled her heart.

Even more importantly, the aroma of food reached them. The mother and daughter had not eaten properly for days.

"Take them to bathe first, change into new clothes, and then get them something to eat."

Lance waved over a woman. Everyone entering here had to go through a set process.

He had no experience in slave transport, but he understood that illness would be a disaster in such a crowded environment aboard a ship, so sanitation was the first priority.

Fortunately, the weather wasn’t cold, and they could clean themselves with river water. For this, he had a rudimentary bathhouse built for privacy and provided each person with a set of simple clothes.

Tiffany didn’t understand why Lance was wasting resources here. Couldn’t the refugees just bathe by the riverbank? Not to mention the new clothes.

Tiffany wasn’t the only one who thought this way, but she was the only one bold enough to voice it.

Lance did not explain their doubts. It could only be said that he treated the refugees as human beings, hoping they could live with dignity—not like livestock, dragged into the water and washed under the gaze of others.

When the filth was washed from her body and she changed into plain but refreshing new clothes that carried the scent of the sun, the woman felt the long-standing, accumulated pressure lift from her.

Moreover, cradling the salty, meaty porridge in her hands filled her with boundless admiration for this camp and the man before her, bringing with it a profound sense of security.

I’m alive!

Because of Joan’s talent, Lance didn’t mind spending some time on her. Sitting beside them, he understood their backstory after a few simple sentences.

It was a common tale: disaster struck, and they fled to this place. However, their family had lived in the city, where she was a teacher and her husband was a painter. Their life hadn’t been luxurious, but it had been comfortable and stable. They had never expected to fall to their current state.