The residents’ bedrooms were shared with the livestock they raised. Their houses had only a single room, no chimney, a roof of untrimmed thatch, and walls made of wattle and daub or wood coated with mud. William Ford noticed from the ruts in the road that this small town still counted as a local trade center, but just how much trade actually took place here was highly questionable—almost certainly very little. Most likely, only essential goods were exchanged, such as salt, fish, and grain. However, over time, the accumulated wealth hidden here should still be considerable.

This was also the direct reason why this picturesque town was about to be caught in the flames of war brought by the evil Duke Gallipody.

William Ford walked into the town’s extremely shabby tavern and tentatively tossed a silver coin onto the bar. Then he ordered a mug of ale. Next to him, a burly man shouted loudly, “Lauren, did you strike it rich? Why not buy me a drink too?”

William Ford knew that his new identity was called Lauren. He glanced at the big man, who had pale yellow hair, a round head, large, spirited eyes, and a thick, short neck. He sported a huge goatee and looked very robust. Smiling, William Ford said, “Sure, Marcy.”

Marcy cheered, knocking the people beside him this way and that, ordered a large mug of cider, and swept back like the wind. Slapping William Ford on the shoulder, he laughed heartily, “Lauren, you’re a real friend.”

He took several big gulps, exhaled contentedly, and said:

“Did something happen to you? You look troubled.”

William Ford’s heart stirred. He immediately tried sighing and said:

“I’ve heard some very bad news. Our town is in big trouble. Do you know anything about it?”

Marcy took another big swig of cider, slapped the sturdy oak table in front of him, and boasted loudly, “Is there any trouble that Marcy’s axe can’t solve?”

“There might be.” William Ford deliberately drew out his words, his face serious.

In fact, on his way to the town, William Ford had already analyzed the situation. In the world he would face over the next few days, there should be three factions: first, the forces under the evil Duke Gallipody, who would invade this picturesque town in three days; second, the three heroes from the story—Lancelot (the one in blue with a scimitar), Pusey (the one with the axe), and Arthur (the uncle)—as well as Squad 348; and third, the residents of this invaded town, among whom he himself was now counted.

From the fact that the deceased Brian Grant had only needed to find him to be granted a request here, and that he could directly see the nightmare mark on Brian Grant, it was clear this was quite unusual. His own presence here must be of considerable value. Therefore, the difficulty of the first branching quest after entering should not be too high; it was likely just a process of getting to know and adapt to the local way of survival.

Thus, the process of killing seven masked slaves and two heavy swordsmen and earning more than 300 points should be achievable with outside help. The other two tasks, however, were clearly targeted—probably trouble caused by his excessively high mental power. After all, killing with brains is much simpler and more convenient than killing with brute force.

After hearing William Ford’s answer, Marcy stood up angrily. “Are you insulting Marcy’s strength?”

“No,” William Ford replied calmly. “It’s our town that’s about to be insulted by the army of the evil Duke Gallipody.”

As soon as he said this, though not loudly, the noisy tavern immediately fell silent. Marcy’s huge, hairy arms trembled slightly—not from fear, but from anger. It was clear that William Ford’s words had stirred up some bad memories from his past.

Marcy panted slightly, drained his mug of cider in one gulp, then slammed the mug down on the table. His voice was hoarse as he choked out, “Where did you hear this news?”

William Ford fixed his gaze on him and said:

“Where the news came from isn’t important. What matters is, do you dare to come with me to check if it’s true?”

Marcy was startled. “They’re already here?”

“Very likely,” William Ford said gravely. “But there shouldn’t be many of them yet—they’re still waiting for the arrival of the lead Retribution Knight, Scone.”

At the mention of the Retribution Knight, Marcy’s facial muscles twitched again. He shouted angrily, “Without solid news, are you, a guy with a record, trying to spout nonsense again?”

At this point, the tavern finally erupted into discussion, a sense of panic spreading under the dim glow of tallow candles. William Ford frowned slightly, as if he had sensed something important. Facing the furious glare of Marcy, he was about to speak when suddenly a young woman at the bar named Marina softly called out, “Marcy.”