Hacking the Game Didn't Go as Intended [Part Two]

CHAPTER 233: The Truth Behind the Veil

Daisuke—currently disguised as Sophia—approached the grounds of the charity event with Reneal and Neville in tow. The young prince wore his usual expression of nervous uncertainty, occasionally tugging at the hem of his sleeves or glancing around anxiously.

Neville, older and ever composed, kept his eyes sharp.

Daisuke's gaze shifted to the sides, catching sight of something odd. Several wagons were parked inconspicuously beyond the event's border. At first glance, they appeared mundane, but upon closer inspection, he noticed the edges of stone blocks and wooden frames peeking through the canvas coverings.

"Construction materials?" he muttered under his breath.

"For additional cooking stoves, perhaps," Neville said, following his gaze. "Though it's curious they're hidden."

They hadn't gone much further when a pair of adventurers passed by, speaking in hushed yet venomous tones.

"Should've just dumped the slaves and slum rats at Myst Mountain," one said, sneering. "Let the monsters feast. That would've saved us all the trouble and taxes."

The other laughed. "Right? This whole charity thing is a bloody joke. Inflation's kicking us in the teeth and they're feeding beggars? Might as well just burn gold in the streets."

Daisuke's jaw tightened.

Reneal looked down, visibly uncomfortable. "I... I don't think that's funny at all," he mumbled quietly.

Neville placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and frowned. "Keep your head up, Your Highness. We must remain composed."

Around them, the whispers caught fire. Grumbling voices grew louder. Citizens bemoaned the taxes, the war preparations, and the poor timing of such a bizarre, misplaced display of generosity. Their complaints clashed with the festive appearance of the event, twisting the mood into a volatile blend of suspicion and resentment.

Then a voice rang out.

"My dear friends," said Father Alvian, stepping up onto a high platform flanked by two acolytes, "thank you for coming."

He raised his hands and the crowd quieted. "The goddess loves all people," he continued, "regardless of social class or race. Her blessings are mysterious, but never undeserved. Many among us here today—slaves, the homeless, the impoverished—were once like you and me. Misfortune struck. Loss followed. And now they suffer."

The crowd shifted.

"For the demihumans here... they did not choose their race. And yet, they too contribute. They clean our streets. They serve in silence. They do the jobs others scorn. As for the slaves, their presence attracts the rich who do trade with our city. They are part of the lifeblood of our capital."

He paused, voice dropping into something gentler.

"Shouldn't their work be honored? Shouldn't their presence be acknowledged? These are trying times, yes... but perhaps our compassion might invoke the goddess's mercy. Perhaps she will bless us with abundance if we show grace in scarcity."

For a moment, the crowd was silent. Then Father Alvian stepped aside and gestured. "In place of the Grand Chancellor, who was unfortunately detained, we have here Baron Aurelius, assistant to the Master of Coin."

With a grand flourish, the priest raised his arms, his smile glowing with charm. "In Her breath, we are made pure. May goddess Zepharion bless you all."

The baron—a man with a sharp face and well-trimmed mustache—stepped forward. He cleared his throat before speaking, voice clipped and businesslike.

"Thank you, Father Alvian. Today, we gather in accordance with a divine decree to honor the less fortunate among us—our slaves, the slum dwellers, and some of our less fortunate citizens in need.