Free Web NovelChapter 8: Chapter 8: Fromm Town
"So that’s the situation. We were robbed of everything, and it would only get more dangerous if we stayed," the old man said, his voice low. "So this morning, after collecting today’s relief supplies, my wife and I hurried away from the area outside Fromm and started for home."
"We’re too old. We don’t eat much or drink much. We can gather some dew, catch some bugs, pick some bark and grass stems... Even if life is harder, it’s still better than being beaten and cursed from morning till night over there."
The old man’s words were bleak, but it was a choice born of desperation. Who wouldn’t want a slightly better life? They simply had no other choice.
"I’m sorry to hear that," Ron said, sighing at the elderly couple’s plight. "But I’m afraid the supplies we have on hand aren’t exactly to your liking. Even if we wanted to help, we’re willing but unable."
Raw blood plasma and chunks of roasted meat weren’t suitable for ordinary elderly people, let alone those in such dire straits. freewёbnoνel.com
"It’s alright, it’s alright," the old man said, waving his hands repeatedly. "We didn’t expect to meet anyone when we came back. We just wanted to live out the rest of our days in the village. Just letting us get a proper night’s sleep in our own home is thanks enough!"
The two elderly villagers shuffled off to the house next door. Ron then had Delaford take over his watch, as he also needed to go back and get some sleep.
In his past life, a young man like him staying up until one or two in the morning was no big deal. But since they had to get an early start tomorrow, it was better to rest up—unless they planned on spending the next night in the wilderness.
Aive, who was inside the house, had woken up. The effects of the ointment had worn off, and the noise outside had made her too anxious to sleep soundly. It wasn’t until Ron came back inside that she relaxed and drifted off again.
Early the next morning, Ron knocked on the elderly couple’s door. After getting the exact location of Fromm, he set out with Delaford and Aive.
The wilderness in this world was fraught with danger, so settlements were usually not too far apart; a half-day or a full day’s walk was typically enough to get from one to the next. Fromm, however, had taken the old couple from dawn until nightfall to reach. With the travel speed of Ron’s group of three, the journey would naturally be much faster.
The sun had just passed its zenith when Ron climbed a hill and looked down at the town of Fromm below.
From a distance, it sat on the banks of the Levin River, surrounded by verdant hills. Tidy stone walls, three meters high, enclosed it on all four sides. An impressive two-story manor stood at the town’s center, at the intersection of its streets. The red tiles on its roof gleamed in the sunlight.
Looking down from the hill, he could also see shops, taverns, and numerous pedestrians on the streets. Although it wasn’t as bustling as the cities from Ron’s past life, it was still a scene brimming with vitality.
However, when Ron’s gaze fell upon the area outside the walls, he saw a completely different picture.
It was a refugee camp, separated from Fromm by a crude fence and makeshift tents. Countless people from different villages and regions, all fleeing disaster, were gathered there, waiting for the town’s daily aid.
As Ron’s group approached the camp, they saw it was crammed with homeless people in ragged clothes, their faces gaunt. This temporary settlement lacked basic amenities and sanitation, forcing its inhabitants to survive on the limited resources provided by the town.
All sorts of smells wafted from the refugee camp, a mixture of filth and foul odors. Water was scarce and sanitation facilities were inadequate, leading to the spread of sickness and disease. With limited medical resources, people faced the risk of illness and injury without any hope of timely treatment or care.
In this environment, a suffocating atmosphere pervaded the camp. The people’s eyes were filled with helplessness and despair. Some wandered aimlessly, searching for a glimmer of hope or assistance. Others sat quietly to the side, silently enduring their suffering. And then there was another group: those who barged from tent to tent, cursing as they took nearly all the supplies within, ignoring the cries and pleas of their victims.
"This is just like our warren," Delaford said, wrinkling his nose. He was a goblin, yes, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed such crowded, filthy, and chaotic environments. If possible, he hoped to at least have a private room like the boss, with underlings and servants to provide his three daily meals and see to all his needs.
"Keep your voice down," Aive warned in a low tone. "If they find out you’re a goblin, we’ll be in trouble."
For once, Delaford didn’t argue with the Half-Elf. This was no longer goblin territory, and he was on his own.
"Well, well! Look what we have here!"
Despite the camp’s chaos and disorder, the arrival of Ron’s group had clearly attracted some attention. Just as they were looking around, four or five burly men blocked their path.
These people were slightly different from the other refugees in both appearance and physique. Men and women alike, they were all over 1.8 meters tall, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, with bodies full of corded muscle. Most wore nothing more than simple leather clothes hastily stitched together from thick animal hides.
In addition, their hair and beards were tied into all sorts of small braids with leather strips.
The group blocking their way looked like they had just looted a tent. Their hands were full of various daily necessities and food, and they were glaring menacingly at Ron’s party of three.
They came from the north.
Ron caught the scent of cold clinging to them. Even after fleeing so far from that frozen hell, the smell had not faded.
No wonder they dared to run roughshod over everyone here. This was a group of the strongest, most ruthless, and most ferocious people, survivors of the most extreme environment. Even with everyone in a weakened state, the ordinary farmers stood no chance against them.
"You new here?" The leader, a middle-aged man who stood at least two meters tall, looked down at Ron and spoke in extremely broken Common Language. "You know the rules?"
"Rules?" Ron took a wary half-step back. "If we’re going to talk about rules, I’d rather speak with the person in charge here."
"Person in charge?" The man from the north burst out laughing, as if Ron’s request was utterly ridiculous. "There’s no person in charge here! I, Harlek of the Horror Wolf Tribe from the north, call the shots!"
"Now, hand over everything you have. Then go find this town’s relief officer and give me your share of the food and water, too! Otherwise, as long as you’re here, we’ll beat you three times a day!"
"Morning, noon, and night!" one of Harlek’s tribesmen growled in agreement, making all sorts of strange and menacing faces and gestures.
The other tribesmen grew even more agitated, looking like they were ready to use Ron as a chew toy.
Ron: "...Damn it, we’ve run into real Barbarians!"
