Kays Translations

Chapter 25: The Gods’ Beloved Child

Marlon’s judgment had not been wrong.

In the end, the massive procession—swelling to nearly twenty thousand souls—arrived safely at the orphanage, where construction work had only just begun. Dust clung to boots, the air buzzed with the murmur of countless voices, and the sheer scale of the crowd made the modest orphanage grounds feel like a swelling sea of humanity.

Among them, a small detachment of the Loring National Defense Force had discreetly blended into the caravan. Halfway along the journey, they had received orders to catch up and escort Marlon, not only to protect him but also to deliver a storage magic crystal—charged with a staggering six thousand Lisente units of energy.

Because they had long sent word ahead to avoid misunderstandings, when the vast procession reached the outskirts of the orphanage, they found the old Holy Paladin, Carnegie, waiting. At his back stood the three hundred sturdy young men he oversaw in the construction brigade. They had been waiting for quite some time, steel in their posture though fatigue lingered in their eyes.

“Master Lister,” Carnegie addressed solemnly, his grizzled features lit by torchlight, “how are we to handle the tide of people who follow you?”

At the very front, Trist Rem, his brows slightly furrowed, turned his gaze upon the endless line trailing behind Marlon—a grand and unwieldy host of nearly twenty thousand souls.

Marlon, however, had already considered this long before their arrival. His tone was brisk, firm, the voice of someone forcing himself to shoulder a burden:

“Divide them according to the squads already organized. Let each squad, with their families, settle into designated areas. Once they’re properly settled, the men should remain outside under the leadership of our retired veterans to guard the perimeter. I expect the situation in the city will stabilize tomorrow. Then, we can send these people back to begin rebuilding their homes…”

There was no hesitation in his words.

“Understood, I’ll see to it immediately.”

Trist Rem responded without further question. He was a man of action, quick and decisive—traits he had carried over from his days serving in the Loring National Defense Force. Without delay, he turned to go.

“Ah—wait!” Marlon called after him. His voice carried urgency. “This here is Old Andrew. Along the road, it was thanks to his coordination with Uncle Bernard that we avoided chaos. The squad leaders in charge of smaller groups were also appointed by him. So I suggest, Sir Carnegie, that you take the lead in these settlement matters, with Old Andrew and Uncle Bernard assisting you. Would that be acceptable?”

Marlon’s introduction was swift but respectful, his words framed as a suggestion rather than a command. Yet beneath his humility was the truth: without Old Andrew and Bernard, the march might have devolved into madness. Marlon’s head brimmed with theories of modern management, yes—but theory alone would never have been enough to control a river of twenty thousand lives. Without their help, the caravan might have shattered, scattering like frightened birds.

Carnegie, Old Andrew, and Sheriff Bernard exchanged nods. None of them voiced objection. After a brief exchange of courtesies, the three hurried off to wrestle with the sprawling challenge ahead. Nearly twenty thousand souls needed to be fed, sheltered, and pacified. To do so without sparking disaster was anything but simple.

Small problems?

With such a mass of people, if no strange or troublesome “little problems” arose, that would be the real miracle.

“Where is Master Bowden?” Carnegie asked almost in passing before striding away. “A druid of his caliber would do much to steady hearts in times like these.”

“I sent Old Kang to the northwest district to rescue Ester,” Marlon answered honestly. His words trailed as he turned his gaze toward White Sand City’s northwest, where for nearly half an hour now, gunfire had echoed relentlessly, punctuated by flares of light. “I only hope…”

He did not finish the thought.

“The Minotaur god will watch over that boy,” the old paladin said gravely. His heavy hand came down on Marlon’s shoulder, a gesture of reassurance and brotherhood. “Now, Master Lister, steady yourself. Bring your companions inside and rest. There is still much to be done.”

The orphanage grounds, though only at the beginning stages of reconstruction, had already been enclosed with a stout wooden palisade. It was less for protection than for preventing thieves from pilfering building materials. That was why Carnegie had spoken of “going inside to rest.”

Marlon gave a silent nod. A flicker of comfort crossed his face as he remembered—resurrection. Even if Ester fell, priests could restore him. This was another world, one where death was not always final.

If coin could solve a problem, then truly, it was no problem at all.

With this thought steadying his heart, Marlon gathered the young fox-girl and his companions, leading them into the enclosure of the orphanage grounds. Inside, the earth had already been stripped bare, prepared for future construction.

A line of makeshift barracks, hastily raised by the construction youths, now served their purpose well. They became shelter.

After settling the fox-girl and the others, and filling their bellies with whatever food could be scavenged, Marlon pulled Musa-Meyn aside for a hushed conversation.

“Musa,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “how long would it take you to transform a scrying crystal orb into a planar projection shard?”

“Half a day,” Musa answered without pause.

“Any chance you could do it faster?” Marlon pressed, handing him both the storage ring given by the three-ringed mind-sorcerer Delft, and the crystal brimming with six thousand Lisente energy. “This might greatly accelerate our money-making plans. The sooner we have funds, the sooner you can pursue your vengeance. You understand?”

Musa’s lips tightened. The logic was sound, painfully simple. He accepted the ring and crystal, weighing them in his palm. After a breath, he said, “At best, I’ll need most of the night. I’ll do everything I can to finish before dawn.”

He lifted his gaze, adding firmly: “But I’ll need a sealed room. Until I’m done, no one may disturb me.”

“Done. I’ll arrange it right away.”

The orphanage, at this stage, was practically Marlon’s to command. It took little effort to secure a room—Carnegie’s own quarters, temporarily reassigned to Musa under Marlon’s word.

Once the arrangements were in place, Marlon returned to the bustling grounds, standing once more beside Carnegie and the others.

“Brat,” Sheriff Bernard barked when he saw him, “stop dawdling around here and go sleep! Don’t come stirring up trouble!”

Marlon gave a rueful smile. “Uncle Bernard, with so many people needing help, how could I possibly sleep soundly?”

Yes, he longed for rest—but how could he lie down peacefully after having used these poor souls from the slums? His conscience demanded he give something back, even if only his energy and presence.

Bernard locked eyes with him for half a minute, testing his resolve. In the end, it was the youth’s steady, unflinching gaze that forced the sheriff to yield. With a frustrated growl, he stepped aside. “Fine, you stubborn brat. Have it your way.”

Thus, Marlon threw himself into the work.

Though his talent for large-scale organization was limited, he had long volunteered in orphanages back in his old world. He knew how to approach children with warmth. With just a few words and a gentle smile, he could draw laughter from tear-streaked faces. The slum-born children here were even easier to soothe—perhaps because hardship had forced them to grow up too soon. Here, there were no pampered little tyrants used to ruling their parents’ world.

Soon Marlon’s efforts expanded. After calming frightened children, he turned his words to mothers and widows, offering comfort in simple, plain terms. He explained where to go, whom to follow, how to settle. His presence became a quiet beacon in the night, a steadying hand in the chaos.

To Marlon, it felt like little more than common sense. But to those who watched, it was nothing short of extraordinary. He was only fourteen. And yet he accomplished tasks that even seasoned men often failed at.

“Our little Marlon,” people whispered, “must surely be blessed by the gods themselves. A prodigy born wise beyond his years!”

Skepticism melted. Even those who had doubted before now saw with their own eyes—and spread the word with fervor. Marlon’s reputation soared, his image reshaped into that of a brilliant, compassionate youth. It was a reputation that would serve him well in days to come, though in this moment, exhausted and focused on his work, Marlon himself had no idea.

The near twenty thousand refugees were countless, but fortune favored them. Andrew’s military-style organization of the men kept order on the outskirts. Carnegie’s three hundred youths, motivated by generous pay and promises of better futures, provided a backbone of discipline. And Marlon himself—like a lantern of hope in a night of despair—brought calm to women and children.

Thus no great disaster erupted.

Small mishaps, of course, were everywhere. Outside the orphanage gates, the ground was littered with dropped belongings, torn clothing, broken sandals—the silent proof of chaos barely kept at bay.

Even after the main body had entered, scattered refugees continued to arrive in twos and threes. Compared to the great flood, these stragglers were far easier to arrange.

And Marlon remained by the gate, his gaze heavy, fixed on the northwest of White Sand City. The fire there climbed higher, the gunfire relentless. Flames licked at the edge of the slums, swelling with the wind.

No one knew what filled Marlon’s mind as the inferno burned within his dark eyes.

Finally—at last—the massive form of Conchita Bowden, the druid master in bear-shape, emerged. Upon his broad back lay the unconscious form of Ester, the young minotaur boy, limp and pale.

Marlon had been waiting for this moment all along.

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