Chapter 91
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 91
Chapter Title: The Scent of Money (1)
Whiiiiiing―
The Northern Region's blizzards rage 365 days a year, 24 hours a day, without rest.
Frozen white shadows and permafrost that has hardened eternally.
The northernmost edge of the Rikeion Empire is this barren and harsh.
The sky hangs low, as if to crush humanity, while towering mountains make everything around them seem insignificant.
Nights are so pitch-black that even the most sharp-eyed guide can't spot the starlight.
Thus, the faces of Northerners bear marks beyond mere frostbite.
These are the scars of being crushed by the weight of life.
Only those who withstand the cold winds survive.
Only the hardy who overcome brutal winter nights can live to see tomorrow's sun—and to do so, they must band together and rely on one another.
To Northerners, winter is fear, fate, life, and home.
...But outsiders not born in the North see things differently.
Merchants.
They come from distant lands to buy and sell goods in this Northern Region.
In their eyes, the North is nothing short of a nightmare.
Any merchant who has amassed great wealth usually has at least one tale of venturing north in their youth.
And with it, regrets and fears over lost noses, ears, fingers, or toes.
Is that why?
They never speak of their northern trading expeditions while sober.
Only when thoroughly drunk and ready to face those memories, or when they need to prove their bravery to family or friends.
Then they recount their northern journeys.
Grimacing, sweating coldly, reminiscing about ice-slick roads blanketed in snow, frozen tundras, and the white monsters prowling atop them.
The goods these merchants brave the extreme cold and gray blizzards to trade are mostly salt, grains, and warm spices grown in the south.
Common in lands with normal weather, terrain, and vegetation, but priceless treasures once they reach the North.
Indeed, herbs that southern slums sprinkle liberally to mask the stench of cheap meat fetch higher prices than gold of equal weight in the North.
A single successful trade could amass enough wealth to sustain generations.
That is the allure of the northern journey.
...But nothing in this world comes free.
Great opportunity brings great risk.
They say transporting 1kg of goods north demands an equal weight in blood, flesh, and bone.
To avoid freezing in the North's merciless climate, merchants cling to charcoal fires like second skins.
To survive the treacherous terrain, they forge bodies as tough as seasoned warriors.
They train to swim out of broken thin ice and don thick, heavy fur armor to fend off monster fangs.
...Yet the survival rate for northern merchant caravans remains far below 1%.
Only a precious few triumph in this game of guts, claiming vast fortunes, while the vast majority are buried in raging blizzards, becoming another layer in the eternal permafrost.
And here, gamblers wagering their lives have arrived.
Merchants from the south, after a grueling journey, have finally reached the Northern Region.
They endured untold hardships to reach this point en route to Meursault Castle.
"Meursault territory should come into view soon. Brace yourselves—that's where the real ordeal begins."
"Everything so far was a cakewalk. From here on, most of us will drop dead."
"Bittersweet cold, sheer mountain slopes, and swarming monsters. Eight out of ten of us will end up corpses."
Veteran merchants lead the rookies.
But even the "rookies" here have over a decade of experience.
The merchants climb the hill, packs on their backs.
Once over this hill, Meursault Castle would appear on the horizon.
They crested it, steeled for death, solitude, regret, and lingering attachments amid the frozen wastes...
"Huh?"
...or so they thought?
"What the hell is this?"
The merchants gaped, dumbfounded, eyes wide.
How to even describe this sight.
"What in the world is this madhouse...?"
The road to Meursault Castle was flawlessly leveled, without a single bump or rut.
And it was jammed solid with countless merchants and wagons.
Conifers lining both sides perfectly blocked the blizzards, while the straight new road gleamed without a single pebble.
So many had passed that the ground was packed firm and glossy.
"Don't push!"
"Hey! Cutting in line!?"
"Get out! I've been stuck here for three days!"
"Damn it! At this rate, we'll barely glimpse the gatekeeper's shadow by month's end!"
"Gentlemen, no fighting—roasted sweet potatoes! Roasted corn here while you wait!"
"Let us in already! We'll eat through our supplies right at the gates! I'm starving!"
"For those who've eaten all their rations, roasted sweet potatoes and corn—roasting chestnuts now too~"
A sea of people lined up before Meursault's gates, desperate to trade.
Exaggeration aside, as many as snowflakes carried by the blizzard.
The newly arrived merchants exchanged stunned glances.
"The new forest must be blocking it—zero wind."
"Yeah. Mountains carved down flat—road's a breeze."
"Soldiers patrolling there. Not a frost wolf in sight."
Even the grizzled veterans stood slack-jawed.
Younger ones scanned about restlessly.
A youth in a deep hood set down his apple crate and spoke.
"This is nothing like the stories. Bustling beyond belief. Can't believe it's a northern city—looks like a balmy central hub."
Right then.
A thunderous cheer erupted from midway in the line.
"Woooaaah!"
"The Young Lord's here!"
"Long live Duke Blood Lily! Long live!"
New arrivals craned their necks to see.
The apple-fidgeting youth did too.
"What's that? Who's Blood Lily?"
"Shh."
A nearby old merchant hushed him.
"Blood Lily means Meursault's Young Lord. Don't know it here, and you're in trouble."
"Why Blood Lily?"
"Heard he rounded up every corrupt criminal in Meursault territory overnight and lopped off their heads. Lilies around the execution ground all turned red."
"Sounds exaggerated. Flowers don't turn red from a few show executions..."
"Dunno. I've counted the heads on those pikes myself. Doesn't feel like hyperbole. And you think this transformation is for show?"
"..."
The youth stroked his chin, pondering the elder's words.
Soon, the crowd parted, revealing a single boy.
Snow-white hair, ruby-gleaming eyes.
White sword and shield dangling from his white horse's flank, white cape fluttering.
The old merchant nodded at the boy.
"That's Meursault's Young Lord, Federback. Memorize him. All northern trade will happen under his name from now on."
"..."
The youth gazed at the distant boy.
Just then, the boy named Federback shouted.
"Let all these waiting merchants inside the castle!"
The queued merchants erupted in cheers.
Days of camping outside due to strict inspections had worn them down.
A few knights voiced concerns to Federback.
"Let them in without checks?"
"Scanned them on the way. No suspicious auras."
Federback dismissed the worries.
Absolute confidence in his tone.
"Heave-ho!"
The young merchant hoisted his apple crate.
A smile tugged at his lips as he watched Federback.
'Saves a whole week for crowds with one word. Charming.'
That instant.
Federback's and the young merchant's eyes met across the throng.
The boy's piercing gaze pierced the youth's pupils dead-on.
'Gah!?'
The youth averted his eyes.
No fifteen-year-old's stare.
If he truly was fifteen, he was a different species.
Like a fifteen-year hound versus tiger—their gazes, strength, and mind after fifteen years occupy wholly different realms.
Feeling it, the youth looked down.
Then.
"You there."
Federback pointed.
As his finger extended, the crowd split like the sea before a hero's mythic gesture.
At the end stood the apple-laden young merchant.
"Gulp!"
He'd bragged of seeing it all on the way here, but now he choked.
The old merchant tugged his hem, but he froze solid.
"Hey! Step aside quick! He's pointing here!"
"H-he's p-pointing at m-me, r-right?"
"Why would he point at you? Hurry over!"
As they bickered, Federback turned his mount.
Onlookers held their breath, hunching.
Soon, Federback faced the youth directly.
Thud―
The youth collapsed as Federback neared.
A red apple rolled from his crate across the ground.
Federback dismounted.
Picked up the fallen apple.
"How much?"
"...Y-yes?"
The youth stammered.
Federback bit into the ruby apple matching his eyes.
Crunch―
Juice dripped from snow-dusted red skin.
Federback chewed, asking again.
"How much per apple."
"Ah. Bought for one silver, aiming to sell for seven!"
Avoiding haggling over the dropped one, quoting his intended price.
The merchant's art of asking without asking.
Federback nodded calmly.
"Fell on the ground—five silver."
Bargaining even now.
The youth bowed ninety degrees.
"How dare I offer Meursault's Young Lord a dirty apple! Let me pick a cleaner, tastier one!"
"Can't swap what's eaten. Take five silver."
Federback flicked something at the youth.
A hefty gold coin.
"Whoa!?"
The youth caught it, staring at Federback in shock.
Federback said curtly.
"Find me when you have change, Portia."
With that, the white-haired boy on the white horse rode toward the gates.
The youth stood dazed, clutching the gold.
Old merchants swarmed him.
"A whole gold coin!"
"Mythic-era ancient gold at that!"
"That's not gold value—antique price!"
"You've already hit your northern goal, right?"
"More importantly, Portia—how does Federback know your name?"
Bombarded by questions.
"How should I know..."
Young merchant Portia just stood there, utterly baffled.