Page 38 of The Dark Lord Awakens
“There’s only one bathhouse?” I interrupted, unable to hide my incredulity.
“For this district, yes, my lord,” Sir Formalitee explained. “The Noble Quarter has private baths, of course.”
Of course. While the common people fought over puddles, the nobles maintained their luxuries. Three centuries of unchecked power had only widened the gap between the haves and have-nots.
“And how many people live in this district?”
Sir Formalitee consulted his clipboard. “Approximately two thousand, my lord.”
Two thousand people sharing one puddle that wouldn’t qualify as a kiddie pool. No wonder everyone smelled like they’d been marinated in gym socks. This wasn’t just medieval—this was a humanitarian crisis.
“Is there a natural water source nearby?” I asked, desperate for some solution, some way to start fixing this mess.
“The Sulfurous Springs lie just beyond the eastern wall,” Azrael supplied. “The water is heated by underground magma flows.”
A hot spring. They had a hot spring and people were fighting over a puddle. The absurdity of it would have been comical if it weren’t so heartbreaking.
“Why isn’t the spring being used for public baths?”
“The Noble Houses claimed the springs for their private use centuries ago,” Sir Formalitee explained. “It’s all very properly documented in the?—”
“Right,” I cut him off, unable to bear another word about proper documentation of suffering. “And where do people get drinking water?”
“The Well of Sorrows in the central market provides water for the common folk,” Azrael said. “Though the supply has been… inconsistent in recent years.”
One well. For an entire city. Medieval Europe had better infrastructure than this place. Whatever systems I’d designed in the game had clearly fallen apart during Lucien’s long absence.
We continued our tour, and with each step, I cataloged more problems that needed fixing, more suffering that needed to end. No schools. No hospitals. No public services of any kind. The only government function that seemed to be working efficiently was tax collection, courtesy of Lord Taxman’s Auditors of Doom.
Because of course the tax system would remain perfectly functional while everything else fell apart. The priorities of this kingdom had become severely warped in Lucien’s absence.
As we approached what Sir Formalitee called the “Residential Quarter”—which was just a slightly less terrible slum—I noticed a commotion ahead. A group of demons was gathered around something on the ground, their voices raised in distress.
I quickened my pace, pushing through the crowd. In the center lay a small demon child, unconscious, with skin so pale it was almost translucent. A larger demon, presumably the parent, cradled the child, rocking back and forth.
My heart seemed to stop in my chest. This wasn’t just abstract suffering anymore—this was a child, a real child, dying in front of me.
“What happened?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.
The parent looked up, then immediately prostrated himself, still clutching the child. “Forgive me, Dark Lord! Citizen 1698 meant no disruption to your tour! He merely—he hasn’t eaten in three days, and I—I gave him my portion, but it wasn’t enough, and he just collapsed, and?—”
“Three days without food?” I turned to Sir Formalitee, who suddenly found his clipboard fascinating. The rage that surged through me then was unlike anything I’d ever felt. This child was starving to death, and the parent was apologizing to me for the inconvenience.
“There have been… supply issues, my lord,” he mumbled. “The latest shipment from the farmlands was delayed due to bandit activity, and the ration system prioritizes productive workers and?—”
I’d heard enough. I knelt beside the parent and child, ignoring Azrael’s sharp intake of breath. This moment, right here, was the culmination of three centuries of neglect and mismanagement.
“What’s your name?” I asked the parent, my voice gentle despite the storm of emotions raging inside me.
“Printer 7, my lord,” he replied, trembling.
Printer 7. Another placeholder name from the game that had become someone’s actual identity. Another reminder of how this world had evolved in ways I’d never intended.
“Your child needs food and medical attention,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. I looked up at the crowd. “Is there a healer nearby?”
The demons exchanged confused glances. Apparently, the Dark Lord asking for a healer rather than causing the injuries was outside their experience.
“Potion Mixer 15 has some skill with remedies,” someone volunteered hesitantly.
