Rabbit Foot Merchants
Rik's Rabbit Foot Merchant Company was, in a word, a lucky peddler's outfit.
In this godforsaken world where traveling equaled suicide, hauling goods to another village was an act of magnificent madness. Regular travel didn't even guarantee safety, yet here they were, lugging around valuables like they were begging for it. It was as if they were golden goblins or rolling in golden carriages. But on the flip side, if you managed to dodge bandits and monsters and reach your destination unscathed, you could rake in absurd profits and make a fortune. Goods were scarce, buyers plentiful! By hopping from village to village, multiplying your wares, you'd return home after three or four years a staggeringly wealthy magnate. Any merchant worth their salt knew this basic truth.
But the odds of it actually happening? Slim to none. First off, punching through bandits and monster packs was a pipe dream. And if by some miracle you built up real wealth as an aspiring tycoon, the nobles would weed you out. Hey, you wandering peddler? Got a lot of coin, huh? Hand it over. Nobles were bandits with swords they conveniently "forgot" to mention. Stories circulated, making them no different from common thugs. Spot a rich mark on their turf? Rob first, ask questions never.
So merchants, once business boomed, sought noble patronage for protection. They'd trade only in territories licensed by the lord, funneling a hefty cut of profits back as tribute. Nobles didn't get filthy rich lounging around for nothing—they bled merchants dry. Becoming a true magnate took forever. But conversely, it wasn't outright impossible. That's why outfits like Rabbit Foot kept loading wagons and traversing the Empire.
"So that's why there are so many people here."
The inn's bustle owed itself to the Rabbit Foot crew. Laborers from the company. And a good number of guards. Calling them warriors sounded like a wuxia tale, so mercenaries it was.
"So. You're heading north?"
"Yeah. That's the plan."
"Then come with us."
Rik proposed they join up. For perfectly rational reasons.
"That mountain up ahead? They call it Earth Drake Mountain."
"Drake Mountain?"
The Empire had plenty of "Dragon Mountains." Names slapped on spots where dragons lived—or had lived. (Fun fact: Korea has one too. Yongsan. True story.) Dragon Mountains were common enough, but actual dragon habitats? Rare as hen's teeth. Unfortunately, this one wasn't a myth.
"Earth Drakes crawl out of there."
Shouldn't it be Drake Mountain, then? The thought crossed Ian's mind. But dragons or drakes, the danger level was off the charts either way.
Drakes, huh...
Ian recalled Eredis's tales from lessons. When classes dragged, she'd liven things up with world lore. Scaled beasts were mostly hazardous, but the big three stood out as common and deadly.
First: dragons.
'Dragons are evil you shouldn't even talk to.'
Cruel, wicked dragons killed for kicks. And they were stupidly strong—armies barely scratched them. Dragon nests? Steer clear. If unavoidable, nobles rallied knights for a subjugation.
Second: wyverns.
'Safe if you don't approach. And good luck approaching.'
Called winged dragons, wyverns nested atop sheer cliffs. They loved soaring on fierce winds and hated descending. To meet one, you'd scale treacherous peaks. Ferocious carnivores, yet human kills were rare.
Last: drakes.
Grounded dragons by nickname, they lurked deep in caves. Mild compared to the others, but their body count rivaled dragons'. Proximity to trails meant frequent clashes with humans. Still, their temperament let you slip by quietly.
Ian got why Rik wanted travelers. Like old Joseon days, gathering folks before mountains teeming with tigers. Solo treks? Tiger chow. Standard was rounding up a dozen to cross together.
'Crossing Gasp Pass! (7/10 difficulty) Need crew@@'
'★LEGENDARY★ Tiger ahead!!!'
Of course, ten randos versus a house-sized tiger? Futile. But while one became bait, the rest bolted. Rik recruited for the same buffer.
"Safer in a group—better odds of escape," Ian said.
Rik nodded. "That, and it stops idiots from solo-trolling and poking drakes."
"Ah."
Plus, anti-griefing.
"Wrapping up business soon. Thinking tomorrow or the next—we cross then."
Rik eyed him like, Obviously you're in, right?
No reason to refuse.
"Sure. Count me in."
The next day, as planned, Rabbit Foot set off toward the mountain. Seven company folk. Four mercenary guards. Three travelers. Fourteen souls total, four armed—but against a drake? Zero win chance. Drakes topped the Empire's nightmare roster, monsters among monsters. True lords of the peak. Best hope: nothing happens.
"Short break."
Earth Drake Mountain felt like a neighborhood hill (Korean standards). "Mountain" by name, but underwhelming. Locals called it one; Ian, from a 70% mountainous nation, barely registered it.
"Haa. Exhausted."
Break time: Emily kicked off her boots, baring pale feet. Company guys stole glances. Mercs ogled openly.
"Legs feel broken."
"Aw, pretty thing. Sore legs? Want a rubdown?"
Of the three travelers for Drake Valley, two were women. Emily: redhead, mercenaries' camp follower. Hired last village, parting next. Prostitute.
"Mmm. Mind my calves?"
"Anytime."
Merc captain John kneaded her thighs like dough. Emily cooed, stoking his lust. Whores got paid per gig. Sensing the guys tiring of her, she aimed for one last score.
"Hey! Cassie! Massage?"
Lust gleamed in John's eyes.
Cassie was stunning. Travel hood half-hid her face, but all had seen it bare: delicate features, elegant eyes brimming with melancholy. A purity no worn-out whore like Emily could fake. Pristine innocence begging to be trampled, defiled.
"John? Harder."
John's gaze shifted; Emily purred, stroking his jaw. Inside, jealousy boiled toward the bitch, but she played cool.
Emily's wiles ignored, John's stare pinned Cassie. She bit her lip unseen.
"Thanks, but no."
Cassie rebuffed like a haughty cat. Fanning his fire.
Plays hard to get, slut.
Last night, too: John offered coin for her body. She refused. Why reject protection? Safer with mercs. Just spread once. Crazy.
Strip her before the pass.
John rose to seduce properly. But wrong timing, wrong voice.
"Huh?"
Rik. Chatting with...
Kid?
Third traveler reeked of youth. Ian Raven.
Just now, Ian and Rik bantered. Rik, loner boss, no friends. Ian, outsider, no acquaintances. Buddies by default.
"So, what do you do, wandering solo?"
Ian's look gave nothing away. No knight vibe. Noble? He'd have been haughty. Bard? Scholar?
Ian's answer jolted Rik.
"Mage."
"...Huh?"
Mage. That word hit Empire folk like thunder.
Rik, hearing it, switched to honorifics like hypnosis kicked in. Duh? Honor mages. Common sense.
"M-M-M-Mage, sir?"
Ian tilted his head at the glitching Rik. One word, and he broke? Fragile.
But ignorance of context allowed it. In the Empire, mages equaled nobles. No—were nobles. Rik's kind? Erased by a gesture.
"Problem?"
"N-No... I was so rude..."
"Talk normal. I'm a commoner. Farmer's son, Ian."
Ian softened his tone. Still adjusting to hierarchy.
Rik, meanwhile, shuddered recounting his 39 offenses against Ian.
Fuck...! What have I done...!
Daring casuals to a mage. Shitty bed. That gruel porridge!
Truth: Ian's fault for not leading with "mage." Rik wasn't a mind-reader. But Ian, medieval fantasy noob, missed that.
Honorifics or not, Rik had to defer. Mage privilege.
Plus, a fake "common knowledge" among Empire folk: 'Mages are all cranky lunatics.' Twisted further: 'Non-cranky mages are fakes.'
Absurdly, kind, polite, rational mages got dismissed.
'My mage wouldn't be this nice!'
Crazy mage antics? "Haha, proper mage!" Relief.
Image: thoroughly warped.
Real mage?
Rik eyed Ian suspiciously. Not cranky enough!
Victim of bad lore. But no idiot spilled doubts. Real mage? 100% psycho suspecting him to death.
"N-No, sir..."
"C'mon. Casual like before?"
Ian, loose on class norms, wanted buddy status.
But post-reveal? No way Rik dropped honorifics.
"Aigoo! I'd be dead!"
Nobles were campfires. Warmth, light, beast-scarer. Too close? Burned.
Line-crossers died. Always had, always would.
Rik wanted no tightrope with Ian.
"Do you. Then."
Ian quit pushing.
...Huh?
Sensing stares, Ian glanced around. Gazes shifted. Fear. Suspicion.