Chapter 201
Chapter 201
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 201
Chapter Title: Whispers at the Port
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“You bastard! That’s a mana stone crate! If you don’t want to forfeit ten years’ worth of pay, handle it with care!”
“Milord! Milord! Come to the Dawn Moonlight Lighthouse, the pride of Bellmaron Hill! Our proprietress prides herself on being the finest chef in the harbor!”
“Make way for Sir Galapa’s procession! You lot, get out of the way and don’t dawdle!”
Dockworkers hauling cargo with sweat-slicked bare torsos gleamed under the sun, hawkers clinging to passengers disembarking from ships, a pompous noble entourage strutting about, and even foreign folk gawking endlessly in awe at the big city.
The seaside port, now tinged indigo as the sun dipped below the horizon, buzzed with noise and chaos.
But one spot was eerily quiet.
That made sense—over ten figures in hoods pulled low were mostly burly types, clad in thick robes that hid armor beneath.
They were plainly knights fresh from across the sea in Brantia.
The knights who’d set out on the Brantia expedition had all been honed by prolonged real combat, making them extraordinarily skilled.
Those same knights had returned after aiding Brantia’s new king through even more battles and killings.
Anyone who loitered too close risked having flesh ripped from bone, so the port folk steered clear.
Thud, thud, thud.
People whispered as they watched the knights lead horses down the gangplank.
“Aren’t those the knights returning from Brantia after so long?”
“Yeah. Most got knighted there and scored lands—why come back?”
“Home sweet home, right? Even if Brantia’s king has ties to our Maren, it’s still foreign soil.”
“Tsk tsk! You idiots only know half the story.”
“Huh?”
The workers turned toward the voice of the dock guildmaster overseeing the stevedores.
“Can’t you tell just by looking? They’re back because the kingdom’s a total mess right now.”
“You think?”
“Of course! Who’d they fight under in Brantia? That’s right—His Grace Duke Bartla, Sir Eugene! And what kind of man is the duke? Tournament champion! Troll Slayer and Wyvern Slayer! Our Maren’s pride—think he’ll just sit by?”
Ooh…!
The crowd erupted in admiration.
Maren had plenty of knights based there or operating in the area, but none more famous or beloved by locals than Sir Yann Eugene.
His tale of battling mountain orcs for the city was legendary by now, and his feats elsewhere dazzled like the sun.
And that wasn’t all.
As Brantia’s duke, he’d opened Mungard to trade, showering massive profits on Maren.
Rumors swirled that city coffers had doubled from the previous year—no need to say more.
In short, Duke Yann Eugene Bartla was Maren’s pride and legend.
“Damn right! If it’s Sir Eugene, he’ll send knights to help us.”
“No doubt! That’s exactly the man he is.”
As everyone heaped praise on Eugene, one worker cautiously spoke up.
“But… I heard Sir Eugene’s a vampire.”
…!
All faces snapped toward him.
Dozens of murderous glares fixed on him, and the worker waved his hands frantically.
“N-no, just rumors!”
“Hey, you punk. Even if it were true, has Sir Eugene ever sucked Maren folk’s blood? Or beaten some innocent to death?”
“Yeah! Who do you think made jobs plentiful so even trash like you can eat? And you spout that crap?”
“Ungrateful bastard.”
“You a royalist? King’s spy?”
The mood soured fast, talk turning to murder-level accusations—at least in Maren—and the worker paled.
“N-no! I didn’t mean it!”
“This punk’s done for. Daring to slander Sir Eugene?”
“Vampire, orc, whatever—if he’s done us favors and we’ve eaten well from it, shut your trap and sing his praises!”
The crowd raged.
“You, get over here!”
“Crazy bastard!”
“Me too! I’ll kick him!”
The city boomed with prosperity, yet dark war clouds bred mounting unease.
Harbor men, dead certain honorable Sir Yann Eugene would throw himself into the fire for Maren, vented their anxiety with kicks.
“Urgh!? Uwuaaack!”
Eugene slipped quietly toward his destination with the prince’s group, ignoring the worker’s pitiful wails from his needless beating.
* * *
“City quarterly revenue has hit an all-time high.”
“Good. What about fluctuations in mana crystal and monster byproduct prices? A big drop would hurt.”
“Hah! No worries, mayor. The guilds have it locked down. Down about ten percent from last year, but mana stone buy-ins are lower while mana crystal sales have nearly doubled.”
The mayor beamed at the Feilin Merchant Group owner and Maren Merchant Guildmaster, then turned to another.
“How about byproducts?”
“Merchants from the Spellren Duchy, Rubiana Kingdom, and Roman Empire snapped up over half. We’ve exported raw materials in bulk too—no price issues on our end.”
“Excellent. Very good.”
Maren’s mayor and guildmasters were thrilled.
The flood of Brantia mana stones and byproducts via Mungard had ushered in a second boom.
Sure, the glut softened prices a bit, but export surges offset it.
“But… all good, yet…”
The mayor’s tone dipped, and guildmasters’ gazes sobered, turning to one man—the one handling it all.
“Why can’t we recruit troops? Just three hundred in a month? Knights barely twenty?”
The mayor’s question was a reprimand. Trevic, Maren’s recruitment officer and Mercenary Guildmaster, scowled.
“That my fault? All decent fighters went to Brantia—what can I do?”
“Still, you’re the recruitment officer, Trevic. Tight spot or not, put more effort in.”
“Hah! I warned you back then—sending too many to Brantia could screw us. Who was it cheering to send them for Sir Eugene?”
“Ahem! Hm!”
“Tch.”
Trevic scanned the room; mayor and guildmasters averted eyes.
Even mighty Maren had finite mercenaries.
Plenty in peacetime, but after hundreds shipped overseas—and with the king openly declaring mobilization—this headache topped all.
“So, sent a request to Sir Eugene—no, Duke Bartla?”
“We did. But approval’s iffy, and marching here takes time—that’s the real issue.”
Trevic shook his head at the mayor’s sigh.
“We must resolve it this month. Duke Bartla has to come.”
“Can’t we rally nearby nobles? Evergrow Count’s sympathetic.”
“Please, mayor, guildmasters. This ain’t Mopern City or Kalsbagen Peninsula. Lords there keep standing armies, united under Marcher Earl Archibald. Evergrow’s busy defending his own—why aid our city? And if I were him, I’d side with Count Winslon over Maren.”
“Hmm.”
Fair point. Count Winslon led central nobility. Prestigious houses linked by marriage.
In outright war, joining them made sense; negotiating with the crown favored the stronger noble alliance.
Maren was just a rich, soft port city.
“Should we back Count Winslon’s house? They’ll clash with the royals first—send gold and supplies aplenty?”
“Yeah. Thousands in gold coins, food for a thousand men a couple months. Since they’re fighting anyway, ask ’em to handle it for us. That’d satisfy Winslon, right?”
Trevic, the sole military expert, sighed at the guildmasters.
“Everyone. The king and royalists aren’t idiots. If you’re them, between bloodbath-risking Winslon or gold-rich but weak Maren—who do you hit first?”
“Er…”
“Hmm.”
Guildmasters fell silent. Only fools would pick the latter.
War wasn’t just troops—money and supplies too.
Seize Maren, rearm, and even Winslon and anti-royal nobles might kneel.
“Tch. Stuck begging Duke Bartla after all?”
“We’ll push recruitment hard, but we absolutely need Duke Bartla and his men. Please prioritize it.”
“Fine. I’ll send another letter via Mungard ship, with some gesture.”
“Yes. But not a few hundred silvers or armor like before. Blind appeals to honor won’t cut it.”
“…That’s a problem.”
The young knight once easy to handle had become too big a fish.
He’d need at least tenfold—nay, more—sincerity to budge.
* * *
“Aiyoo~! Maren’s pride! Feilin Merchant Group’s pride! My pride! Has Your Grace Duke Eugene arrived?!”
“Getting overly dramatic since we last met, deputy manager.”
Eugene sidestepped Prechella’s near-tackle rush.
“Eek! Such harsh words—from you, of all people! Your Grace is here!”
Prechella couldn’t hide her surging excitement.
Eugene was Feilin’s undeniable benefactor and top client.
Monster byproducts and mana stones pouring monthly from Mungard were immense; among Maren Merchant Guild affiliates, Feilin’s share dwarfed others.
Half a year’s Mungard gains already topped last year’s total—all thanks to him. Prechella would give her liver for Eugene.
Moreover.
“Your Grace! Visiting us again at a time like this—I can’t express my gratitude enough.”
“Drop that awful ‘Your Grace’ nonsense and call me like before.”
“O-oh… can I?”
Even if Brantia was a fringe island kingdom, he was its duke. Prechella blinked big eyes, gauging Eugene.
“Hate it? Then treat me like a proper duke with full ceremony. But that’s more hassle than it’s worth. Think you can pull it off?”
“People should live naturally, right? I’ll follow your lead, sir.”
Prechella, well-versed in handling lofty nobles, bowed quickly—even if not duke-level.
“Good call. Anyway, ‘a time like this’?”
“Well, obviously the king and royalists calling our Maren rebels and marching on us. The mayor and guildmasters are dying for your arrival, Sir Eugene.”
Prechella’s fussy welcome wasn’t just for Feilin’s top customer.
What else would bring Eugene—risen from lord to supreme duke on unmatched valor—back to Maren?
She was certain he’d come to stand with Maren against royalists and king. Everyone in the city thought so.
“I see.”
Eugene answered curtly, but his sharpened mind raced.
He’d come to deal with the king and royalists, but Maren’s plight seemed graver than expected.
So?
“I’ve always had good ties with Maren city. But that’s not why I returned.”
With that, Eugene glanced back.
“Er…”
Prechella’s eyes followed naturally.
“Introduce yourself. His Highness Prince Rocaroff, inheritor of the Roman Empire’s glorious golden blood.”
…!
…!?
Not mere royalty—an imperial scion! Prechella’s eyes bulged; the prince’s entourage panicked.
Reveal the prince’s identity right upon arriving on the continent?
(To be continued in the next installment)