A Highly Suspicious Company Clerk (7): Sanitary Pads and Magic Scrolls
A rather suspicious company clerk (7). Sanitary pads. It was about a two-day journey, so Leana must have packed them just in case they were needed urgently along the way.
She could've just said they were sanitary pads, or if that was embarrassing, made up some vague excuse. No need to scream like that. But why was she pulling them out every few minutes to check? Celestine, clutching her bag close, covered her chest with her arms and edged away from me. She shot me these blatantly contemptuous glances.
I could practically read her mind. Obvious, so obvious.
"No, it's not that."
"I didn't say anything."
"Yeah, yeah."
As we ate the bread, Patrick pulled two small bottles from his bag this time.
"What's this?"
"You need something to wash down the bread. Apple wine."
The guy had a pursuit squad on his tail, but anyone would think he was out on a leisurely picnic. That relaxed attitude, his refined features, posture, and speech—he really did seem like nobility.
This Chaotic Empire was basically modeled after the medieval era. Most NPCs were ignorant, filthy, and rough around the edges. To meet someone with that kind of elegance, you'd have to head to the imperial capital or the palace at least.
Well, there's no law saying nobles can't do this kind of work. Take Carla at the ranch—she runs her family's Velasco estate herself.
This Dremont company might belong to some noble house too.
"Mr. Patrick. So what exactly does the Dremont company do?"
"Ah, our firm? A trading house. We move goods from here to there, skimming a fee off the top—a perfectly legal band of highway robbers."
His phrasing cracked me up, and I smiled. But Celestine, who'd been gulping down the apple wine, went wide-eyed.
"Robbers?!"
"Pardon?"
"You said robbers!"
Even the ever-composed Patrick looked a bit flustered this time and glanced at me. His eyes practically screamed, What's with this girl?
"Celestine, it's not literal. It's just a figure of speech."
"Really? If you're not robbers, why call yourselves that…?"
"You called me a demon even though I'm not."
Celestine shut her mouth instantly. I smiled at her, then turned back to Patrick.
"So what are your main products?"
"Nothing fixed—we deal in whatever turns a profit. Lately, though, we've been trading weapons and armor made from Lussillon steel."
"Lussillon steel? Isn't that crazy expensive?"
"That's why I said we do whatever makes money. The quality's top-notch, so demand's high everywhere. It pays well."
Patrick unstrapped the greatsword from his waist and offered it to me.
"A premium greatsword, alloyed with Gambri-nite and Lussillon steel. Take a look."
"Gambri-nite? How the hell…? I thought only dwarves could smelt that stuff."
"You're quite knowledgeable. Well, makes sense for a Demon Hunter. Spot on—we've got a deal with the dwarves' mines."
Patrick's greatsword was stunning. I'd gotten something similar from a dwarf quest chain, but seeing it on a monitor versus up close in person? Night and day.
A normal blade gleams smooth silver or raw iron, but this one, laced with Gambri-nite, rippled like fine wood grain. Like a Damascus steel sword. But beyond durability and looks, it wasn't anything special—most players sold them off.
"It's beautiful, Mr. Patrick. So the carriage is loaded with swords and armor too?"
"Haha, not packed full, but we've got a few samples to sell in the duchy. Trading houses don't haul goods like peddlers. Actual shipments go via paperwork. Anyway…"
He took back the Gambri-nite greatsword and eyed the hilt of Nightrend dangling from my saddle.
"That sword of yours looks pretty suspicious too, Mr. Leonar."
"The clerk said he went through hell to get it for the boss. It's not stolen."
Celestine jumped in again. Patrick, who'd been burned by her once already, chuckled and clarified.
"Not suspicious in a bad way—I meant it doesn't look ordinary. It looks exceptional."
I drew Nightrend and showed it to him. His eyes lit up.
"That's… way more impressive than I thought."
Nightrend's overall shape was a longsword. About 1.3 meters long, weighing under 2kg—super light. Built for two hands but flexible enough for one if needed. Up to here, just your standard longsword. But the blade?
It was forged from pitch-black iron, like a black hole sucking in all light—utterly dark and deep, instilling an inexplicable dread in anyone who gazed upon it. And across that black iron surface flowed starlight. Faint, pale blue veins, like blood pulsing through vessels, endlessly circling from base to tip.
A demon-hunting weapon crafted through ten linked quests and multiple enhancements.
"Want to hold it?"
The moment it touched Patrick's hand, Nightrend's starlight faded.
It was a bound item. Only in my hands did it work its magic; otherwise, just a hunk of metal.
"The sword knows its master. So light, perfectly balanced… I've never seen anything like it."
Patrick swung it around, admiring it nonstop.
"Where'd you get it?"
"Lucky find."
"I see."
He didn't pry further and handed it back. As my hand closed around it, the starlight flowed once more. Patrick let out another sigh of awe.
Perfect. The mood was good, conversation flowing—time to ask what'd been bugging me.
"Mr. Patrick, you handle that greatsword like a pro. Any formal training? Those calluses too."
"Oh, nothing much."
He smiled, rubbing his palm.
"Trading means lots of travel. Sometimes dispatched abroad for years. Gotta protect yourself, right? So the company runs basic sword training for employees."
Basic, my ass. Beating a scarecrow and slitting throats were worlds apart. Hell, this might not have been Patrick's first rodeo.
The Chaotic Empire was a brutal dark fantasy world. The Nant Duchy was unusually peaceful where I lived, but step outside and shit like today was routine. As branch chief abroad, Patrick had years of experience—plenty of brushes with death, no doubt.
"Clerk sir!"
Celestine called urgently then.
"Look over there."
She pointed ahead. Low hills flanked both sides of the road.
"Hmm. Shady terrain… Mr. Patrick."
"Yes."
"Think there might be more pursuers?"
"Hard to say. If they really wanted me dead, would they send just eight?"
Right. Charge in blind and hit an ambush? Headache waiting to happen. I could handle myself, but Patrick was the priority. In tight quarters with a melee, even with Celestine, I couldn't guarantee his safety.
Detour around? We'd trudge through open fields forever. The carriage slowed us down, and a busted wheel would screw us completely.
"Here's the plan, Mr. Patrick. I'll drive the carriage in first, posing as you."
"You sure?"
"Protecting you comes first. Hop on."
I moved to the driver's seat, set Nightrend beside me, pulled up my cloak's hood, and overtook Celestine and Patrick.
"Be careful, clerk sir!"
"Keep Mr. Patrick safe."
With four horses pulling, the carriage picked up speed and plunged between the hills. I scanned around—no signs yet.
Blind Vision would spot it instantly, but sacrificing sight here was suicide.
Hmm, seems clear. Safe to—
A flash erupted from the right hill. I snatched Nightrend, kicked off the seat, and dove forward.
The carriage, hit dead-on by a blue attack spell, exploded in a shower of debris, soaring skyward.
A mage? They pulled a mage just to off one clerk?
This was getting interesting.
The cargo hold, blasted high, shattered—papers, ledgers, books, tools, household goods rained down. Cold weapons, suits of armor. And what the hell was that?
Scrolls? Hundreds of them, rolled and sealed, tumbling across the ground.
Seals and style screamed magic scrolls.
Magic scrolls let anyone cast spells—mages inscribed chants on paper, infused mana, sealed 'em, and sold high. Rip the seal and tear to trigger.
That many? Worth a fortune.
Another flash—sharp attack spell lanced my way. I rolled, snagged a few fallen scrolls, and stuffed them inside my shirt.