Chapter 5
Chapter 5
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: House Tradition
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The second son of the Gont House, a vassal house serving House Riddle.
Torsso—not Russo—had been designed from the day he was born—no, even before his birth—as Karl's childhood friend, bodyguard, and attendant.
That was the very reason for the Gont House's existence.
And.
This was also the heavenly punishment Torsso was born with.
'...My lungs are stinging.'
The dry, cold wind heralding the start of winter.
The moment that wind filled his lungs with his breath,
Torsso felt a pain as if thorns were piercing his chest.
'Winter already?'
Torsso was a premature baby.
Normally, a fetus must spend ten full months in the womb to be born as a proper 'person,'
but Torsso couldn't do that.
Because he wasn't a person—he was a tool.
Torsso had been thrown into the world after receiving just seven months of love in the womb.
Even his organs weren't fully developed,
and medically speaking, he had been born into this world nearly suffocating, his lung alveoli not yet properly formed.
'I need to prepare for Your Excellency the Count's birthday banquet.'
The reason was simple.
His master, Karl Riddle, had been born in the cold winter—
in December.
He had to be born in the same year as his master,
so even as a fetus, he had been hurriedly expelled from the womb as if chased away.
Winter had bestowed the blessing of gold upon Karl,
but for his attendant Torsso,
it had given him a worthless body that gasped for breath in the cold wind.
'Hoo. With this wretched body, even properly serving my master is difficult.
Moreover, what had awaited him after such an early birth
was not education, but something better described as harsh training or taming.
When learning swordsmanship directly from his father,
he had fainted several times at a young age.
There was no rest.
There was no leisure.
His parents' love... he wasn't sure if it even existed.
It was just a life torn apart by hail and knife-like winds.
'I need to contact the house and get some medicine in advance.'
Still, breathing became difficult every winter.
When he gasped for air, his lungs felt like they were being torn apart.
This world was harsh.
Winter was especially cruel to him.
He had never thought it unfair.
After all, that was the reason he had been 'made.'
If House Riddle hadn't needed a child,
his parents wouldn't have conceived him,
and he wouldn't have been born in the first place.
That was his life.
That was his existence.
That was his life, his fate.
'Especially since Your Excellency has been acting strangely lately... I need to stay more vigilant.'
Torsso was merely Karl's tool.
Karl, his master, held the same view.
"Your Excellency. I've notified the slave quarters of the Talant expenditure as you instructed."
"Ah. Thanks."
"...Pardon?"
So.
There was no way he would say thanks.
If this were the real Karl,
there was no way he would thank Torsso.
A master thanking a tool would be absurd.
It was as bizarre as thanking a fountain pen and paper after writing on them.
"You've had it rough, Tors."
"...My name is Torsso."
Yet, it was actually happening.
No.
Thinking about it, his master's condition had been blatantly off lately.
He had suddenly spouted nonsense about freeing slaves,
introduced this unfamiliar management method called Talant,
and often woke from sleep sweating coldly as if from a nightmare.
It was strange.
It was like a different person.
'Could some evil spirit have... possessed him?'
So, it was only natural for Torsso to harbor such suspicions.
Possession.
Body snatching.
Hypnosis, brainwashing.
Perhaps someone had seized the family head's body to steal House Riddle's infinite wealth.
"And this snack is disgustingly tasteless, so don't bring it anymore."
"...I'll inform the kitchen."
"Yeah, yeah. Thanks."
'...That's the snack Your Excellency liked most. Definitely possessed.'
Then what should he do?
As a retainer of House Riddle,
he ought to kill this fake devouring the house.
Yes.
Report it to the house,
kill this fake,
and establish a new family head.
He had to.
He must.
"Tors, Tors. Doesn't standing there all the time make your legs hurt?"
"I'm fine."
"Don't just stand there by my side—sit and rest if you're tired."
"I can't do that. I'm also Your Excellency's bodyguard."
"What kind of ambush is going to happen in the middle of the estate? Relax. Relax."
"This is comfortable."
"Tch. That's an order."
"...Understood."
This fake had to be killed.
"I feel so reassured with you around, Tors."
"My name is Torsso."
"Yeah. Tors-Torsso. You studied well, right? You must've heard 'annoying know-it-all' a lot from friends at the academy."
"I was tutored at home in mathematics."
"You received home education."
"...?"
He had to be killed.
"Thanks always, Tors."
"...It is my joy."
This fake deserved to die—but
in truth, the tradition of House Riddle since ancient times was that the one who made the most money became the family head.
As long as they made money, even the neighbor's mutt would be served as family head—that was Riddle's tradition.
So.
Even if it was an evil spirit that seized the family head's body, as long as it made money, wouldn't that be fine?
'...I should watch a bit longer.'
In the end, the blessing's mark was still on Karl's hand.
If this evil spirit only squandered or depleted Riddle's assets, it had to die,
but if it instead brought in money
and prospered House Riddle,
then truly serving this evil spirit as master would suffice.
"This chair keeps creaking—can't it be fixed?"
"Why not just buy a new one?"
"You really hit the nail on the head."
It was purely a judgment for House Riddle's sake.
Absolutely,
it had nothing to do with the strange feeling from hearing thanks for the first time in his life.
'...The slave auction is coming up soon.'
And this was merely a temporary reprieve.
If this evil spirit proved inadequate as House Riddle's head,
he would kill without hesitation.
'If this evil spirit can generate high profits from slave trading then, it would be sufficient to serve as master.'
.
.
.
"So this is the slave wholesaler."
Parkinson Comprehensive Exchange.
In simple terms,
an auction house.
Though House Riddle was a great merchant house,
it was impossible to monopolize all business and distribution.
There was more than one great merchant house like Riddle.
This Parkinson slave exchange was operated by another great merchant house, House Parkinson.
As it served as a wholesale market,
new slaves could be bought here at cheap prices.
"It's a shame we can't use Your Excellency's blessing."
"Well, can't be helped. We can't touch the auction items beforehand."
For most auctions, House Riddle's authority allowed pre-access for 'appraisal,'
but for an auction run by a fellow great merchant house, such high-handed methods were impossible.
At best, they could sneak some prior info on select items.
Thus, in such wholesale markets, relying solely on the 'blessing' made it hard to achieve great results... but
Karl, the money ghost, had a pretty good eye himself.
As evidenced by the huge profits from slave trading.
"The auction will start soon, so let's head inside."
"Yeah, yeah. Let's go."
Inside,
attendants were busily dashing between seats, shouting announcements.
"Minimum bids in silver! Standard currency is Grimold silver coins! If paying with other gold or silver coins, please check the exchange rates in the guidebook!"
"This exchange does not operate its own money changers! Beware of exchange scams! We are not responsible for issues arising from private exchangers!"
For an adult male standard,
the average retail price of a slave was about 50 gold.
Exchange rate: 10 silver per gold.
With a 40% cost ratio as appropriate pricing,
buying under 200 silver at the exchange meant breaking even.
But,
actual trading didn't work that way.
Slaves weren't factory-stamped identical products.
Some slaves traded for thousands of gold,
while others, even listed at 10 gold, wouldn't sell and just accrued maintenance costs.
Thus, slave trading was a fierce game of reading the room.
Would this slave make money?
If so, how much could it sell for?
Would maintenance costs be high?
Would its limited uses make it hard to find a buyer quickly?
Merchants had to weigh all these factors to price their goods.
And.
Spotting money-making slaves was a merchant's talent.
"This'll be fun."
"...I hope for good results."
"Yeah. Thanks."
With that, the slave auction began.
.
.
.
"300 silver."
With one man's voice, silence fell over the exchange.
The gavel sounded for the fall of the hammer,
and some merchants murmured.
"...That's the twentieth already."
"They're really sweeping up all the slaves..."
Twentieth.
Out of the slaves up for auction, one person had bid highest on all twenty so far.
"Must have money rotting away..."
"It's the Riddles. Great merchant house."
And the protagonist was none other than Karl Riddle.
Golden Ear.
Nightmare of orphans and debtors.
Head of the great merchant house.
He was personally at the auction, buying up every slave.
"Next item—"
After that, the auction continued,
but the early heat was gone.
No one except that one person raised a bid paddle.
They understood these were goods they couldn't have anyway.
"...Sold for 50 silver!"
Authority.
The golden power of the great merchant house Riddle.
It was crushing all the other merchants present.
In the previous twenty auctions,
Karl had shown it.
All the 'goods' in this exchange today were Riddle's.
Unless you planned to outbid with money to crush Riddle,
don't dare overbid—a warning.
"...Sold for 50 silver!"
Expressing intent so blatantly
might provoke losing merchants to false bids out of spite, inflating prices... but
dare to against Riddle?
Could a mere merchant handle the aftermath?
"...Sold for 50 silver!"
That day, the slave auction ended an hour earlier than scheduled.