Henwell is indeed scared, but having lived two lives gives him a perspective that surpasses that of his inexperienced mother and younger siblings.

  For their survival, Henwell has no choice but to muster the courage to undertake these dangerous tasks.

  His feelings towards his parents are complex; he can't forget his parents from his previous life, yet he can't ignore the love from his current parents either. Humans are emotional beings, incapable of being completely cold-hearted.

  The upbringing in this life, combined with his previous life's values, compel Henwell to act when his loved ones are in danger, rather than cowering in fear.

  Perhaps if he did nothing, he could survive in hiding, but his conscience would torment him every day. It's this inner conflict that drives Henwell to take risks and stay behind.

  He sees it as repaying the debt of gratitude for their care and upbringing.

  Henwell comforts himself with these thoughts.

  As the fmes in the small town grow more intense, Henwell knows he needs to move quickly.

  It won't be long before a rge contingent of enemy infantry arrives to set up camp, and the looting will begin. It's foolish to overestimate the discipline of peasant soldiers or expect professionalism from trained troops.

  While Henwell cautiously sweeps away their tracks, he suddenly hears a strange sound. His body reacts faster than his mind, rolling away just as he recognizes the whistling of an arrow.

  "Huh?!"

  A voice excims in surprise, clearly puzzled that Henwell managed to dodge the shot. While the attacker is surprised, Henwell is filled with fear—he hadn't noticed anyone approaching so close.

  Landing on the ground, Henwell quickly grabs the bow from his back, trying to locate the enemy. "Heh, just a little guy, huh? So alert, that's rare! Want to know where I am?" the voice taunts.

  Before Henwell can react, a sharp pain hits the back of his neck, and everything goes bck. Just before losing consciousness, he glimpses a figure in bck, carrying a bow, standing where he had been moments before, curiously looking down at him.

  "Damn it! I better get a good start in the next life..."

  Contrary to what Henwell had feared, he wasn't killed. When he wakes up, he feels an intense pain in the back of his neck. Holding his neck, he surveys his surroundings—a dark, cold dungeon.

  Clearly, this isn't the afterlife. The dungeon is filled with many people, most of whom Henwell recognizes as residents of Diversion Bay.

  Some of the captured townsfolk are quietly sobbing, others stare bnkly, while most pretend to sleep. They're all desperately trying to convince themselves that this is just a nightmare, hoping to wake up in their peaceful town.

  Because of this, no one pays any attention to Henwell as he stirs. The fear of the unknown future far outweighs any curiosity they might have.

  Henwell spends three whole days in the dungeon. Initially filled with fear, he soon becomes nauseated and eventually numb.

  No one brings them food or water, and some people have already died, their bodies left in the cell.

  Some prisoners call out to the soldiers to remove the bodies, but the response is brutal. A soldier approaches the cell, draws a sword, and stabs the person who made the request through the bars. Blood sptters as the soldier also kills two more who scream in terror.

  After this, no one dares to make any further requests. From that moment, Henwell understands that even if everyone here dies, the enemy soldiers outside won't care.

  Henwell becomes resourceful, starting to catch rats in the cell and hiding them in a corner.

  He's unsure how long this situation will st, so he knows he must do everything possible to survive.

  Over the next two days, everyone grows dizzy with hunger as they stare at the bloody corpses, but no one resorts to cannibalism. It's not that the townspeople have high moral standards; they simply ck the concept of eating humans to survive.

  Henwell keeps quiet about this, knowing full well that no one knows how long they'll be imprisoned.

  What if the three corpses aren't enough?

  As a child, he's particurly vulnerable—fresh meat is always more tempting than something that's already dead.

  In the following days, more people die. When Henwell eats a rat for the first time, he tries hard to imagine it as delicious food from his past life.

  But after a couple of bites, he can't help but vomit. He dry heaves, his stomach empty, bringing up only bile.

  Determined, Henwell bites down hard on his arm, using the pain to fight his nausea. He knows he must conserve as much of his body's water as possible; he refuses to die here, especially not from starvation.

  By midday on the fourth day, the enemy finally remembers the prisoners. A few soldiers descend into the dungeon, covering their noses and mouths, clearly disgusted by the stench that could easily ignite from the gases.

  "Everyone out!" they bark, before quickly retreating from the foul-smelling dungeon.

  Henwell, though weak, forces himself to stand and shakily makes his way to the door. As he moves, he tries to rouse those too weak to move by nudging them with his foot. But few respond.

  Nearing the door, Henwell can't help but turn back, his voice hoarse as he calls out, "Get up! We're leaving this pce!"

  Seeing no one else following, Henwell reluctantly turns away and steps into the light outside the dungeon.

  The survivors are herded by soldiers into a line. Two more soldiers descend into the dungeon, and after a moment, they nod to their comrades outside.

  Then, piles of wood soaked in tung oil are tossed into the dungeon. The soldiers throw in torches, and before the fmes can fully engulf the pce, they lock the door with chains.

  Henwell knows this outcome is inevitable; the enemy has no use for those who cannot contribute. The army here is locked in a life-or-death struggle with the Kingdom of Ika. They're not here to save the people.

  They won't take on burdens that can't keep up, nor will they leave behind any popution or nd for the enemy. This is a war between nations, indifferent to notions of good and evil, focused solely on survival—either the enemy dies, or they do.

  In many ways, war is an unspeakable atrocity, devoid of justice. Concepts of right and wrong are merely retive. Henwell tries hard not to look at the surrounding horrors—the bodies impaled on stakes, the women vioted and left exposed, the children carelessly thrown to their deaths.

  Just days ago, these were living people, folks Henwell knew—helpful neighbors, kind townsfolk, innocent pymates. Now, they're cold, broken corpses.

  Despite telling himself otherwise, Henwell can't help but feel a surge of anger rising within him.