Rosinante sat on the ground, his weary body dragging as he held a bowl of hot porridge—his reward from earlier that day.
After a full day's labor, unlimited meals were provided in the evening.
The porridge was delicious, filled with meat and potatoes, its flavor just right—though a bit bland to Rosinante's taste.
He knew, however, that for everyone else, the seasoning was perfect.
A bonfire crackled nearby, the aroma of food and the murmur of conversation blending into the night.
Despite their efforts, the ruins of Flevance remained vast.
A whole day's work hadn't even cleared half a street.
No one had slacked off—everyone had worked tirelessly.
But progress was slow because the destruction was simply too thorough.
Soldiers from other nations, determined to eradicate every trace of Amber Lead Disease, had burned and bombed every building at least twice.
As a result, the task of rebuilding this nation would be unimaginably immense.
But it was understandable.
Those who had set the fires likely never imagined Flevance could ever be restored.
After all, who would want to live in a place ravaged by disease?
This had been the prevailing sentiment among Flevance's survivors.
To them, the nation was beyond salvation.
The nobility had fled on ships, taking nearly the entire country's wealth with them, leaving ordinary citizens to face the enemy's merciless artillery and gunfire.
While commoners bled in the streets, the nobles spent their bloodstained riches abroad, living in extravagance as always.
While workers faced death from prolonged exposure to Amber Lead Disease, the nobles remained aloof, skimming wages from those laborers.
Everything they did was for profit—never for the nation, and certainly never for its people.
Rosinante gazed at the slightly tattered teddy bear in his hand.
Embroidered on its back was a small message.
"To our dear little Princess Natalisa, happy sixth birthday. Love, Mom and Dad."
Half of the bear's head was gone, leaving only its battered body, its stuffing spilling out in clumps.
Rosinante found the doll in the ruins of a burned-down house, but alongside it, they had also unearthed the body of a child who appeared to be only five or six years old.
The corpse was charred beyond recognition.
On the first floor of the house, they had discovered the bodies of two adults who had been trying to reach the second floor.
Their bodies lay sprawled on the ground, their hands and necks stretched desperately toward the upper floor.
Rosinante could almost imagine the agony they must have endured before death—forced to watch helplessly as their child perished, as the ones they loved most died before their eyes, as they themselves were consumed by the flames and turned to ash.
Just the thought of such suffering was enough to make Rosinante feel as though he couldn't breathe.
He took a deep breath and stared down at the bowl of hot porridge in his hands, trying to shake the image of those three charred corpses from his mind.
But the harder he tried, the clearer the memory became—until he could even recall the twisted expression on the small child's face.
Exhaling sharply, Rosinante set the porridge aside, his stomach churning.
Why did the world always do this to people who just wanted to live normal lives?
His thoughts turned inward, to himself—and to his father, who had been far too naive.
Truth be told, there had been a time when Rosinante had resented his father.
It was probably around the time his mother had died.
Back then, he truly couldn't forgive him.
If his father hadn't insisted on moving down from the Holy Land, his mother would never have died here.
When their family had lived in the Holy Land, they hadn't mistreated slaves—on the contrary, they had taken in many who were on the verge of being abused to death.
They had also frequently donated large sums of money to the Marines and other organizations, doing whatever good they could.
Yet despite being what could only be described as an exceptionally kind family, their fate had been this: his father beaten to death, his mother dead from illness, his brother lost to darkness.
What had once been a happy family of four was now just him, alone.
And worse still, he might one day have to betray his brother—his only remaining family—all over again.
At this thought, the bitterness in Rosinante's mouth threatened to overflow.
He didn't know how to dispel it.
He could only stare blankly at the ground, at the food still steaming with rich aroma, unable to take even a single bite.
Just then, a gentle voice reached his ears.
"Not eating? Does it not suit your taste? It's mass-cooked food, so the flavor's hard to get right. Plus, the surrounding countries have blockaded all food supply routes here. This is what I managed to get from a Marine ship. Once the relief supplies I requested from headquarters arrive in a few days, we'll be able to eat a little better."
Hearing Jake's words, Rosinante quickly forced a smile and explained.
"No, no, it's not what you think. I just… I was thinking about something I saw earlier today, and it left me feeling a little unsettled."
"It's about the case of the charred bodies of the family of three, right? I went to the scene today and can basically confirm that the parents were shot by imperial soldiers on the first floor. Both tried to save their child in their final moments, which explains their positions. The child's cause of death has also been determined—burned in the fire after inhaling large amounts of toxic gas."
Hearing this, Rosinante's fist slammed violently onto the ground as he let out an involuntary roar.
"Those bastards are truly despicable creatures!"
Jake looked at Rosinante and gently patted his shoulder before saying.
"Adjust your mindset. Those scum are indeed hateful, but what we need to do now is ensure more people survive. That's all that matters."