My Family in the Novel?

"Is this really all you have, brat?" A man wearing a red bandana sneered at a young kid, his gaze dripping with disdain as he examined the meager contents of the basket before him. Inside lay only a loaf of bread and three apples, hardly enough to satisfy even the most modest appetite.

"Y-yes…" the kid stammered nervously, bowing his head deeply to the ground, the old woman behind him mirroring his gesture of deference.

"Tsk… what the hell did I expect from a brat anyway?" The man's voice dripped with contempt as he turned to leave, dismissing the child and his meager offerings with a derisive snort.

"Peter… you know you shouldn't lie like that…." Despite her weakened legs, the old woman hurried over to Peter's side, her concern evident in the lines etched upon her weathered face.

"This is for the best, Grandma. And besides, these guys are a bunch of idiots anyway," Peter retorted, his voice tinged with defiance as he rose to his feet, extending a helping hand to the frail figure beside him.

"Here!"

With a swift motion, he produced a single apple, carefully concealed beneath his clothing, and pressed it into her trembling hands.

"Seriously, you…" The old woman's protest trailed off into a resigned sigh as she shook her head, her heart heavy with both gratitude for her grandson's selflessness and frustration at his recklessness.

It had been a harrowing two weeks since their once peaceful village had fallen prey to the merciless onslaught of bandits. Life had been upturned, twisted into a nightmare where danger lurked around every corner, and the specter of death loomed ominously overhead.

The villagers found themselves teetering on the brink of oblivion, living each day in constant fear, their existence fraught with uncertainty and despair.

The bandits held sway over their lives, dictating their every move with a callous disregard for their well-being.

Any semblance of defiance was swiftly met with brutal reprisal, leaving the villagers cowering in submission, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of oppression.

"You know what happened to Laim yesterday, right…?" The grandmother's voice trembled with sorrow as she recounted the tragic fate that had befallen their village leader.

Laim had been paraded through the streets, a helpless victim at the mercy of his captors, subjected to unspeakable torment before meeting his untimely end.

His crime? A mere slip of the tongue, a single word spoken out of turn, sealing his fate in a gruesome display of power and cruelty.

As the grandmother spoke, the memory of Laim's agonizing demise cast a pall of dread over the villagers, serving as a chilling reminder of the consequences of defiance in the face of their oppressors.

And lurking beneath their collective dread was the gnawing fear of what might befall them should the bandits discover the truth about Peter's act of defiance, no matter how small it may seem.

For in the eyes of these merciless marauders, even a child posed a threat, a nuisance to be eradicated without hesitation or remorse. And as long as the bandits still thirsted for their twisted brand of entertainment, the villagers remained trapped in a nightmarish existence, their lives hanging by a thread, at the mercy of forces beyond their control.

"Don't worry, Grandma. Like I said, those guys are idiots. All they've got are muscles. They can't even notice my stomach bulging most of the time, hehehe. And besides, the paladins should be coming here soon for their usual routine visits, so we must make sure we can hold out, especially you, Grandma," Peter reassured his grandmother, his voice tinged with a mixture of determination and forced confidence.

"Peter… Even still, I think you should stop now. If anything, you should save food for yourself," his grandmother implored, her wrinkled face etched with concern.

"What are you talking about, Grandma? I don't need no food. You need it. And besides, I can live with a few rotten scraps," Peter insisted, his tone firm as he guided his grandmother back to their dilapidated home.

Once, it had been a sanctuary, a place of warmth and love despite its humble appearance.

But now, it lay in ruins, a stark reminder of the devastation wrought by the bandits who had laid waste to their village.

Peter's heart clenched with grief and anger as he recalled the horrors inflicted upon his family.

His father and older brother, once pillars of strength, had fallen victim to the savagery of their attackers.

He could still hear their screams echoing in his mind, see the blood-soaked ground where their decapitated heads had rolled, a macabre spectacle witnessed through the trembling hands of his grandmother, who had sought to shield him from the brutality of their fate.

Despite the trauma that haunted him, Peter remained steadfast in his resolve to protect his grandmother, to ensure her survival at any cost.

"I better go now, Grandma," Peter said, his voice tinged with reluctance as he gathered his belongings, preparing to embark on another grueling day of forced labor.

Hearing her grandson's words, the old woman's grip tightened on his arms, her eyes pleading. "Do you really have to go, Peter?"

"You know that's the only choice we have, right, Grandma? Don't worry too much. I'm really going to be careful this time, hehe," Peter reassured her, offering a weak smile before gently extricating himself from her grasp and darting off towards the town center.

As he traversed the desolate streets, Peter's mind raced with trepidation, knowing full well the horrors that awaited him at the village chief's house.

There, he would be subjected to the degrading task of cleaning the foul-smelling toilets, scrubbing away the remnants of the bandits' debauchery from their nightly revelries, and, on occasion, disposing of the lifeless bodies left in their wake.

Despite the indignity of his labor, Peter endured it stoically, recognizing that it was a small price to pay for the meager scraps of food and fleeting moments of respite it afforded him and his grandmother in their struggle for survival.

As the days stretched on, Peter found himself clinging to the hope that salvation would soon arrive in the form of the Holy Kingdom's paladins.

Their periodic visits offered a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness that engulfed their village, a beacon of deliverance that Peter prayed would come to their aid before it was too late.

…

In a dimly lit room, suffused with the pungent scent of liquor and lust, two figures engaged in a depraved spectacle of domination and submission.

"Aghn~ Aghn~!"

The woman beneath Ransolph cried out in agony, her voice a tortured melody to his ears.

"Scream more, bitch!"

Ransolph's voice dripped with sadistic pleasure as he continued his relentless assault, his movements fueled by a perverse ecstasy that twisted his features into a grotesque mask of satisfaction.

He reveled in her suffering, feeding off the defiance in her eyes as he forced her to submit to his will.

"Ah! That's right, keep looking at me that way, hah! I can never get tired of you, woman. To think that old man didn't use you like this... I was very lucky to take your first, huh!" Ransolph taunted, his words laced with contempt as he seized her breasts, squeezing them cruelly before resuming his relentless assault.

"AH~! AH~!"

As he thrust harder, his mind raced with a twisted notion of leaving his mark upon her, a perverse desire to assert his dominance and ensure that his legacy endured long after they departed from this wretched place.

He licked her neck from behind, his grip tightening as he clung to her like a koala, his movements fueled by an insatiable hunger for power and control.

In his depraved mind, Ransolph saw her as nothing more than a vessel, a means to an end.

He would leave her with a parting gift, ensuring that she carried his seed within her, a reminder of his conquest long after they had departed.

By the time the paladins arrived, it would be too late for her.

Ransolph basked in the afterglow of his perverse conquest, a twisted smile curling upon his lips as he relished the depravity of his actions.

'Ah, truly I'm blessed by the gods' he mused, his ego inflated by his own delusions of grandeur.

"Pl—ease stop… n-not inside please no more…." The woman's weak plea barely registered in his ears, drowned out by the cacophony of his own twisted desires.

"Hmm, what was that?" Ransolph feigned ignorance, reveling in the power he held over his victim.

Without a moment's hesitation, he unleashed his final act of domination, unleashing his seed within her without warning, filling her womb to the brim with his vile essence.

"You really are the best, hahaha," he chuckled callously, his laughter echoing through the room as he gazed down at her trembling form.

She lay before him, broken and defeated, her body a canvas of his cruelty, her cries of anguish a symphony to his ears.

But his moment of triumph was shattered by an incessant knocking at the door.

Knock! Knock!

Annoyance flashed across Ransolph's features as he cursed under his breath, his satisfaction tainted by the intrusion.

"Tsk, what is it? I'm busy here!" he barked, his voice dripping with irritation as he struggled to tear his attention away from his victim.

"I'm sorry, boss, but someone is calling for you," a trembling voice called out from the other side of the door, interrupting his reverie.

"Who's calling who?" Ransolph snapped, his patience wearing thin as he demanded answers.

"I-I think you should better go yourself, b-boss! The man in front of the house is waiting for you," the voice stammered, the fear evident in its tone.

With a frustrated sigh, Ransolph tore himself away from his conquered victim, his mind already consumed with thoughts of his next vile indulgence.

As he strode towards the door, his naked form a testament to his brazen arrogance, his gaze fell upon his subordinate with disdain.

"What the fuck are you talking about now? A man? And why do you look like you've seen a ghost?" Ransolph's voice was laced with contempt as he interrogated the trembling figure before him.

"N-no, boss, it's—" Before the subordinate could finish his explanation, Ransolph's fist collided with his face in a vicious blow, sending him reeling backward with blood splattering across the wall from the impact.

"Tsk… this is why I don't let cowardly idiots into the group! Hoy! Somebody take care of this body and make sure we screen all the guys in the group!" Ransolph's voice reverberated through the room, his frustration palpable as he barked orders to his servants and subordinates.

With a dismissive snort, Ransolph hastily donned his cloak and trousers, his upper body left bare in a display of his contempt for societal norms.

For a bandit like him, class was never a concern; power and dominance were all that mattered.

With a nonchalant yawn, he retrieved his cigar, igniting it with a flick of his lighter as he prepared to face whatever awaited him beyond the confines of his twisted domain.

"Now let's see who the fuck is calling for me"

….

In the desolate streets of Agbad, where despair clung to the air like a suffocating fog, a lone figure darted through the rubble and detritus, his footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. This was Peter, a young boy navigating the grim reality of his shattered world.

The once vibrant community had been reduced to a shadow of its former self, its inhabitants mere shells of the lively souls they once were.

As Peter surveyed the haggard faces that lined the streets, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow.

Their emaciated bodies spoke volumes of the suffering they endured, and though his heart ached to help, he knew his efforts would be futile.

Survival was his sole concern now, for himself and his beloved grandmother.

Closing his eyes for a fleeting moment, Peter attempted to block out the despair that surrounded him, to shield himself from the overwhelming hopelessness that threatened to consume him. But fate had other plans, as evidenced by the sudden collision that jolted him from his reverie.

"I-I'm sorry!" Peter stammered, his heart racing as he braced himself for the wrath of one of the merciless bandits who ruled over Agbad with an iron fist.

But to his astonishment, the figure before him was not one of his oppressors.

Instead, a hooded stranger stood before him, their cloak resembling the night sky itself, the deep dark color it had was like staring into the abyss.

Their presence exuded an aura of strength and resilience, a stark contrast to the despair that pervaded the streets of Agbad.

For a moment, Peter found himself entranced by the enigmatic stranger, a glimmer of hope igniting within his soul.

He doesn't even know the reason why but he had a feeling he could trust this person for some reason.

Under the comforting embrace of the bright sky, the mysterious figure's ashen gray eyes radiated a sense of calmness that enveloped Peter like a warm embrace.

"Are you alright?" the man's voice, though unfamiliar, carried a soothing tone that eased Peter's troubled mind.

"Y-yes," Peter replied hesitantly, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he took in the presence of the enigmatic stranger before him.

Before he could process the encounter, another voice broke the silence, a soft melody that seemed to dance upon the night breeze.

A figure cloaked in pristine white emerged, her face obscured by a delicate veil that added to her ethereal allure.

"Ian, this place…" her voice trailed off, her concern evident as she addressed the mysterious man.

"Yeah, it's worse than I thought," Ian responded solemnly, his gaze shifting to Peter as he sought to offer comfort amidst the chaos.

"Kid, may I know your name?" Ian inquired; his tone gentle yet firm as he regarded Peter with a sense of empathy.

"P-Peter," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper as he struggled to comprehend the surreal encounter unfolding before him.

"Peter, huh? That's a very nice name. Back from where I come from, it's a very honorable name for a person who serves God," Ian remarked, his words imbued with a sense of reverence as he knelt before Peter, offering a reassuring pat on the head.

"You're safe now, Peter," he assured him, his voice a beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounded them.

In that moment, as Ian's words washed over him like a soothing balm, Peter felt a surge of emotion welling up within him.

Tears cascaded down his cheeks.

For some reason he felt absolutely safe right now….