A man pushed through the funeral gathering, his face was pale and streaked with dirt; his eyes red-rimmed from tears. He was a broad-shouldered farmer, but bent now beneath grief. His voice broke as he shouted, “You call yourself a saviour? A fallen god among men?” He spat on the ground at William’s feet. “Where was your holy blade when my son needed you?”

  The murmurs spread through the crowd like a ripple on water. The man jabbed a trembling finger at Will. “You could’ve saved him. You have power beyond us, power you hoard while we bleed and die. My boy is ash now because, because you chose not to save him!”

  Fredric bristled, stepping forward, but Will held him back with a raised hand. The Holy Paladin took a slow step closer, meeting the farmer’s burning eyes.

  William wanted to tell the grieving father the truth, that he wasn’t a fallen god and his power had been nerfed. Instead, he said, “Yes, I have power, but not as much as you might think. Every strike I made, every spell I cast… it was all I had.” He looked at the man’s clenched fists. “If I could’ve saved your son, I would have.” In truth, he hadn’t even seen the man’s boy during the goblin raid. He was too busy fighting to stay alive. “His death is no less bitter to me. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Will went to place his hand on the grieving farmer’s shoulder, but the man’s face twisted as he pulled away, torn between grief and rage. His voice cracked. “Liar! You breathe while my boy burns.” Then his fist came swinging.

  William reacted without thought. His hand shot up, blocking the blow with ease. He’s mad from grief. Poor guy. He couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to lose a son. He wasn’t angry and didn’t strike back; he simply caught the man’s flailing wrist, then released it at once, letting the villagers rush in to restrain him.

  The farmer thrashed, veins standing in his neck. “You let my boy die!” Spittle flecked his cracked lips as he rocked on his heels and spat a torrent of curses and venom. “I will see you hang for this!” Strong hands seized around the grieving father’s arms and hauled him back into the press of bodies, yet his voice didn’t quiet; it tore through the crowd like a blade. “You are no saviour, you damned thing, you devil!”

  Around him, faces hardened and then softened, anger colliding with pity, while another man gripped the farmer harder until the struggling gave way to exhausted sobs. An old woman reached forward and clutched his sleeve, her voice low, “We’ve lost enough already, Garrick. Live for them, son.” The farmer’s fury broke then into a ragged shudder, tears mixing with the dirt on his cheeks, and the crowd parted to let them pass, the echo of his accusation lingering long after his chest fell still.

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  Silence hung heavy in the aftermath. The villagers glanced between Will and the retreating father, their gratitude shadowed now by unease.

  William stood tall, but inside his chest felt heavy. This is all I need. These people had begun to see him as something more than a man. A fallen god, a saviour, a holy weapon to wield. But gods were expected to deliver miracles, not apologies.

  And if he couldn’t live up to that? Then sooner or later, the same voices that praised him would turn against him. He watched the smoke rising from the pyres and muttered under his breath, “This world has problems.” He clenched his fists in determination. “I need to get strong again.”

  The funeral left a heavy silence over the village, broken only by the sobbing of mothers and the subdued conversations of those worried about future goblin attacks. William stood apart from the crowd of mourners. He’d given his words of condolence, but words felt hollow.

  He fidgeted with one of the dead goblin’s talismans in his pocket. What was that questline about again? He recalled an early threat in the game related to goblins, but, like many players, he didn’t participate in every event. This was one he’d skipped in favour of rushing to be one of the first players to raid the final dungeon in the opening game content.

  If only I had the Internet or my AI. Will mused. A quick search and he’d have the entire history of what happened next, or he could get his personal AI assistant to summarise important events. I know it was something big. What the hell was it? These weren’t random goblin raiders; he remembered that much.

  “Fred,” William broke the quiet. His squire was nearby; he was talking with a small group of other teenagers. The boy jogged over, sweat plastering his mousy brown hair to his forehead. “We’re done here. We’re going to take a walk.” He gestured towards where the goblins had come from.

  Fredric hesitated. “Outside the village? Won’t it be dangerous?”

  “Just to the edge of the fields.” Will was already moving. “I want to see where those goblins came from. If there are more, we need to know.”

  The boy swallowed but nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

  William looked back at what Fredric was wearing. He looked like a peasant farmer with a cheap sword. “Do you have any armour or other gear?”

  The boy looked confused. “No, my lord.” He paused before adding, “My pa owns a shovel and an axe.”

  Will stopped and scratched his chin. “Okay, where can we buy you some armour?”

  Fredric’s eyes lit up. “Armour, my lord? For me?”

  William chuckled. “Well, I don’t believe I need any more.” He patted the boy on the shoulder. “So where can we get you geared up?”

  Fredric scratched the back of his neck. “Master Grukk makes the best armour in Brindlecross, my lord.” He looked worried. “But, it’s not cheap.”

  “Master Grukk, it is then.” Will walked towards where the half-orc’s forge was located.

  Chapter 015 [Quest Updated: A Squire That’s Dressed to Kill]