“What is the meaning of this?!” Norgalle shouted at the top of his lungs. He had seized a nearby soup kitchen worker and was unleashing a torrent of complaints. “Not even one recruit?! How could this happen?!”
I’m not surprised, Patausche thought.
The porridge had turned out well, thanks to Norgalle’s skilled hands and Xylo’s recipe, and the penal heroes’ cauldron had proved surprisingly popular among the refugees. But that was it. Despite their efforts in handing out flyers and persuading people to join, all their attempts had failed.
Norgalle’s high-handed attitude was simply too much for the refugees, and Patausche—though she hated to admit it—had no experience in charming people into doing things. In fact, the whole plan had gone so poorly that she was on the verge of shooting herself.
Their mission had ended in total failure, and now that the line of refugees had dispersed, only the soup kitchen workers and the park’s usual inhabitants remained. The latter seemed to be gathering at a distance, hoping for leftovers.
“What a disgraceful display! Is patriotism dead? This shall not be tolerated! Prepare an assembly at once. I shall head to the castle and make an address.”
“O-oh, um…what, now? An ‘assembly’?”
The soup kitchen worker whom Norgalle had grabbed looked visibly confused. Patausche had no choice but to intervene. Sighing, she reached out and jerked Norgalle away, startling the volunteer.
“Relax, Norgalle… Personally, I think the problem is how you were recruiting people. You were being a little pushy.”
“Excuse me? What insolence! And that is very rich, coming from you! Who would volunteer when you’re glaring at them like that! You look like you’re shaking them down!”
“What are you talking about? I was nice to everyone.”
“You almost made a child cry! You had the eyes of a man-eating lion tamarin!”
“N-Norgalle! How did you know that was my nickname back in school?”
Just as Patausche was about to explode, someone interrupted them.
“Ahem… Hey, uh…”
Patausche and Norgalle had both turned to look, their gazes downright terrifying.
“Eek!”
The man shrieked and stumbled backward. He was with a group of about twenty others. They all looked a bit disheveled but were otherwise healthy—a far cry from the refugees from earlier.
“My apologies!” cried a man who seemed to be their leader. “We didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not angry.” Patausche meant that from the bottom of her heart. “Do you need something?”
“Oh, uh… You’re penal heroes, right? Oh yes… You, there!” The man pointed at Norgalle, excitement in his voice. “We met in the mine, remember? You were one of the heroes who saved us back in the Zewan Gan Tunnels! You were with that man with the scary eyes!”
Patausche’s thought back to the reckless rescue mission undertaken by the penal heroes back at that mine. Xylo and Norgalle had led the effort. She and her companions had been caught up in the chaos as well, but in the end, they’d managed to save a few of the miners. And now these people…
“They ended up shutting down the mine, so I lost my job… Wound up getting some of the other guys together to look for work as soldiers! And if we’re going to work for anyone, it might as well be you all, right?” The man scratched his head. “I mean, we know you guys won’t just abandon people like trash… So we figured we’d have a better chance of surviving under you. Will you have us?”
Patausche was astonished.
“Hmph.” Norgalle nodded, seeming satisfied. “Your dedication is truly admirable, men. It is thanks to loyal subjects like you that my kingdom thrives!”
The sight made Patausche’s head spin. Memories of the Zewan Gan Tunnels came flooding back. She was almost certain that some of the men in the group were miners she’d met back then. And now they’d made it all the way here, to the First Capital.
“Do you see that, Patausche Kivia?” Norgalle boasted, his mood instantly improved. “This is proof that my influence has truly reached the hearts of my people! My judgment was sound!”
“But we still don’t have nearly enough…”
“Excuse me. Could I have a word with you? You’re from the penal hero unit, right?”
Someone else had called out to them, apart from the miners. The new arrivals were clearly armed, though their equipment was makeshift at best—clubs, spears, and the like. At a glance, they looked like mercenaries; perhaps they’d fallen on hard times and were desperate.
“What now? Mercenaries? Sorry, but we can’t pay much.”
“No, uh… You might call us ex-adventurers… I’m Madritz. I was the leader of the Resistance back in the Second Capital. We worked with Master Xylo.”
“Wh-what…?”
This had Patausche even more perplexed. They were claiming to have fought alongside Xylo and were even calling him “master.” This was the first she’d heard of any of it.
“And, well, there was no work left for us in the Second Capital… We didn’t have anywhere to call home, so we figured we might as well fight for a living. After that, we teamed up with some like-minded adventurers from Ioff who’d lost their jobs, too.” With a forced smile, Madritz held up a piece of paper—a recruitment poster that Patausche had printed. “And we figured we could all work for you guys.”
“…This isn’t everybody, though, right? How many of you are there in total?”
“A little over twenty, I’d say. Do you have any work for us? Because if not, we might have to become bandits…”
“Good work coming to us, men!” Norgalle nodded once more, clearly delighted. “Your dedication is truly commendable. I hereby grant you permission to serve in the royal guard!”
The crowd went wild with excitement.
“Thank you, Your Majesty!”
“You’re so kind! I’m so relieved to have food and shelter.”
“Where’s Old Man Ordo? Tell him that drinks are on me tonight!”
“Ha! Do you see that, Patausche?” Norgalle spread his arms wide. “This is the power of my authority. See how the soldiers are lining up to join?”
Patausche had begun to feel dizzy. But one way or another, the penal hero unit had found their fifty guards. Now the question was, would Venetim’s efforts bring them the other fifty?
Despite their success, however, Patausche felt somewhat discontent. Everything had unfolded exactly as Norgalle had claimed it would.
This is ridiculous. I can’t believe this is happening.
Their task was now complete. Venetim’s success was yet to be seen, but they now had half the guards they needed. The rest would be up to Xylo and the others.
Just then, something broke her train of thought.
“Offering jobs in addition to donating food to the poor?” asked a man, his tone somewhat hostile. “Hmph. Is this your idea of charity work?”
Patausche turned around to find a man in a white robe with the Great Sacred Seal around his neck. He was clearly a priest. He was carrying a big pot in both hands—it seemed he was one of the soup kitchen’s volunteers.
It was unusual to see a member of the clergy in a place like this, especially so close to the divine election. At this time, everyone was supposed to be campaigning for their chosen candidate in the hopes of securing a more advantageous position once the new archpriest was selected. This man, his robe worn and frayed, was almost certainly a low-ranking official at best.
“You’re penal heroes, yes?” he asked, as if he already knew the answer. “Giving food to the hungry is commendable, as is offering them jobs in the military. But what will happen to them after that? You expect them to fight to the death on some hellish battlefield alongside you penal heroes?”
“…Yes,” replied Patausche. “This isn’t charity.”
The sky was covered in clouds as the sun began to set. It looked like it would snow again that night.
“But it’s far better than doing nothing,” she concluded.
“Are you suggesting that false virtue is better than good unacted upon? Perhaps you are right. But would you then argue that temporary salvation is justified, even if it eventually leads to hell?” The priest narrowed his eyes.
Patausche, unable to shamelessly nod, countered with a question of her own.
“Do you really believe these men have no idea what they’re getting themselves into? That they lined up to volunteer, oblivious of the hell that awaits?”
“…That’s a good question, and where the problem lies.”
“You shouldn’t underestimate people. That’s a lesson I’ve learned recently myself.” A rather irritating man she’d gotten to know had taught her as much. But she kept that fact to herself. “Just like the goddesses, some choose to walk straight into hell of their own accord.”
“Are you the same, penal hero Patausche Kivia?”
“At the very least, I want to be.”
He knew her name. This surprised her somewhat, and she tried to get a better look at the man’s face. But he quickly turned around and began to walk away.
“Good. Then allow me to thank you, and that man as well. He’s quite remarkable.”
He was referring to Norgalle. He was currently reheating the pot in order to make something else with their remaining ingredients.
“At the very least, you two are worthy of my trust.”
It was only later that Patausche learned who the priest was, and the truth left her stunned.
It had been Nicold Ibuton himself. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined a high priest would be serving food to the needy all alone, so close to the divine election.