Of course, the corruption and the creatures from the Void were real. The slumbering fiend was real. And the apocalypse that would follow its awakening was also real. The only difference was that the true architect of all this suffering was, in fact, that old bastard, the Ancestor.
To stand against such horrors, his companions would need to understand the stakes. He would have had to tell them these things sooner or later. The heroic tale he had constructed would serve as a necessary spiritual bulwark, something to prevent their minds from shattering at the first sight of true monstrosity.
The tale he had spun was merely a filter. What came next was the true heart of the matter.
"Do not be so grim. As it happens, my family did leave me with some means of fighting this evil."
Lance fixed his gaze upon one of the corpses and reached out a hand to touch it.
[Sacrifice] activated. The freshly slain body seemed to collapse in on itself, devoured by a tangible darkness, leaving behind only tattered clothing and trinkets. As the one who had performed the rite, Lance could see points of light drift from the void and enter his own body. He felt as if he were a vessel, now containing a swirl of aimless, glowing motes.
Until this moment, Lance had not understood what the "boon" in his skill description meant. Now, he finally grasped the change that Sacrifice wrought upon him. The boons—these points of light—could be understood as experience points, or an energy bar. And [Bestow] was the means by which he could consume these boons to strengthen his body—in other words, to level up. It could even be used to enhance objects.
More importantly, Bestow was not limited to himself. He could use it on others. Which meant, if he could gather enough boons, he could forge a formidable warband. Lance keenly felt that this was the key to his survival in this world.
He consumed all the boons at once. As the light within him vanished, a warm current materialized and flowed through his limbs. The exhaustion from their flight was swept away, and the heart-wrenching anxiety was driven back by a wellspring of newfound power. He could feel his body growing stronger, though the sensation vanished in an instant. Lance knew he would need more.
Dismas and Reynauld watched this display with utter astonishment. This was beyond their comprehension. Had Lance not primed them with his story, they likely would have cut him down as another monster.
Noticing their reaction, Lance waited until he had sacrificed the other two bodies before he spoke.
"That fiend is a God of Flesh and Blood. It corrupts and attracts monsters to this land for them to slaughter one another. Every creature that dies in this region feeds it with its blood and flesh. Therefore, merely killing our foes is not enough; we must also cleanse the corpses they leave behind.
"In his visions, the Ancestor was granted a mysterious and powerful ability. Through long ages of conflict, the members of our house learned to channel the power of our bloodline, performing an ancient ritual passed down by the Ancestor to utterly purify the flesh of our enemies. It is the only way to prevent the fiend from growing stronger and breaking its bonds."
Lance, of course, could not say he was "sacrificing" the bodies. "Purifying" was a far more palatable term. And in truth, the Ancestor was scheming to achieve godhood through the power of blood and flesh. By sacrificing the corpses, Lance was, in a way, truly weakening the Ancestor's power.
Fortunately, his earlier tale had done its work. Though neither man had ever witnessed such a bizarre ritual, they chose to believe him.
"Do not be surprised," Lance said. "There are many strange things in these cursed lands. You will see far more incredible sights in the days to come."
He said no more on the matter, instead picking up a piece of discarded clothing to wipe the blood from the pistol. He strapped the brute's gun and powder bag to his own belt, the act lending a grim edge to his scholarly demeanor. Returning to the wrecked carriage, he sacrificed the gunman's body, feeling a miser's satisfaction as the points of light flowed into him, a small measure of tangible security. He did not use these new boons immediately; a minor enhancement would be of little use. Better to save them as a reserve, an insurance policy.
The scattered chests mostly contained the personal effects of his former self, of little use to him now. The only thing that truly mattered was the certificate of inheritance that proved his identity, which he kept on his person. He packed a few select items into a carrying case and tossed the long-barrelled flintlock to Dismas, who was the only one among them who could use it effectively. The rest he piled into the dense undergrowth. If he could find it later, good. If not, it was no great loss.
He then resolutely put it all to the torch. As the flames roared to life, devouring the carriage that bore his family's crest, Lance felt no sentimentality. He picked up his case, turned, and beckoned to his companions.
"Let's go. To Hamlet."
He did not know how far they walked along the Old Road, but when the dawn finally broke, the sun's rays tearing through the thick clouds to banish the darkness from the land, Lance could at last make out the faint silhouette of a human settlement in the distance.
They had arrived.
The journey on foot made Lance understand why the game imposed such strict limits on one's pack. Carrying even this small amount had left him bone-weary. If not for the restorative side-effect of using Bestow to strengthen his body, he would likely still be lagging far behind. But this had also consumed his meager supply of boons. Right now, all he wanted was to find that runaway steward and put a bullet in him.
Dare to steal my horse!
Before they proceeded, Lance stopped the others, pulling two small leather pouches from his pocket and handing one to each of them. Their mission had been to escort him to the town. The total payment was one thousand copper pieces, five hundred for each man. The money had come from Lance's old teacher, the professor who had raised him.
By the currency of this world, 1 gold coin equaled 20 silver, which equaled 240 copper. One thousand coppers was just over four gold coins. It sounded like a pittance, but in this world of low productivity, the purchasing power of coin was immense. From Lance's memories, a common craftsman in a city earned about three coppers for a hard day's work. Only skilled tradesmen might earn as much as five coppers a day. His professor, a man of standing at a university, earned five gold coins a month, placing him squarely in the upper class of a major city. As for serfs, they might never even see a coin, exploited by landowners like slaves. To not starve was a blessing.
But neither man took the pouches, looking at Lance with confusion.
"Take it," Lance insisted. "It is the payment for your services."
"My lord, what is the meaning of this?" Dismas asked, a hint of anger in his voice, as if he were being insulted. "I swore an oath to you to fight this evil."
"But a man must eat, must he not? Your gear requires maintenance," Lance said with a placating smile. "You cannot be expected to fight the darkness on an empty stomach with broken weapons. Since you have sworn yourselves to my cause, I am responsible for you. This is my duty. It does not conflict with our shared goal."
He pressed the pouches into their hands. This was a time to win their hearts. Skimping on coin now could breed resentment. Hoarding gold now would be a fine joke when all that was left to guard was his own tomb.
Persuaded by Lance's words, the two men accepted their payment. Only then did they proceed toward the Hamlet.