038. Competition Between Brothers 1
Soon, the Bascon ducal family's banquet would begin. But this wasn't for entertaining other noble houses. It was exclusively for the serfs within Plentel Castle. And by the serfs' decision, only two of the three candidates for chief steward would advance.
The three candidates hustled frantically, each staking their claim to the position.
In Keron's mansion, two burly men sat at an ornate table: Willie with his silver long hair, and the knight who followed him. In the quiet atmosphere, they glanced warily left and right before exchanging secretive words.
Willie spoke first. "Have you found out what the other two candidates are preparing?"
At his question, the facing knight began to report. "First, Young Master Silva took tools and headed outside the castle."
"Tools, huh... Just as I expected. He's probably going to hunt a monster."
Willie nodded, then subtly tilted his chin. The knight continued. "And Young Master Bin... aside from a brief visit to blacksmith Itos, he's been gazing at the sea from the east side."
Willie cocked his head at the knight's words. "The sea...?"
His expression brimmed with doubt. Time was of the essence, yet Bin was sightseeing at the beach? Willie rubbed his chin, deep in thought over Bin's unpredictable move.
"The sea..."
As Willie pondered, the knight offered his own speculation. "Maybe he's already given up?"
Willie frowned at the suggestion. "Given up...?"
His mind filled with questions. Having clashed with Bin before, it didn't make sense. It clashed with the personality he'd gauged in that guy.
Suddenly, Willie's eyes narrowed. 'You bastard. What scheme are you plotting?'
* * *
To the right of the Forest of Death, emerald waves crashed with the cries of seagulls echoing.
Kiruk. Kiruk.
A massive rock drew the eye—one that looked like an elephant dipping its trunk into the sea. It was the Bascon family's premier banquet venue: the limestone formation known as Etrta, the Elephant Rock.
Gana Continent folk often said that if you had to show a friend the ocean for the first time, you'd bring them straight here without hesitation. Pebbled shores unfurled gracefully beneath dramatic cliffs, blue waves painting a scene straight out of a masterpiece.
Then, lively organ music rang out from atop Etrta. At its source, tables groaned under a buffet of dishes. Serfs gawked, eyes wide, taking it all in.
"What is all this...?"
"Grains, meats of every kind—can we really eat all this?"
It was a rare sight for the hunger-worn serfs. The only gripe? No seafood. But even without it, this was a feast beyond their wildest dreams—better than their usual one meal a day.
Men sipped wine and nibbled pastries; women chattered away. Watching them quietly stood white-haired Herion, who suddenly boomed, "Attention."
His voice carried the weight of years—respectful toward others, yet laced with the edge of a hidden blade.
At Herion's call, the lively buzz died down. The organist stopped pumping, serfs paused mid-bite or sip, all ears on him. With one word, he commanded the crowd, exuding the dignity of the current chief steward.
All eyes turned to where the three candidates stood: Silva, Willie, and Bin.
Herion's retainer spoke up beside him. "Everyone, please pay attention. The candidates have something to present, so let's focus."
Murmurs rippled through the seated serfs.
"Wonder what the young masters have prepared."
"One of them gets cut based on votes for chief steward... This is gonna be good."
The serfs eyed the trio in a tense triangle, faces grim and guarded. Beside each loomed something draped in cloth, sparking imaginations. What treasures hid beneath? Could they really improve their lives?
One serf tilted his head, puzzled. 'Huh?'
Unlike Silva and Willie's imposing covers, Bin's was a pitifully small tent. Others noticed and whispered.
"Why's Bin's the only tiny one?"
"He must've given up."
"Makes sense against those heavy hitters."
"At his age, swaying hearts ain't easy. Long road ahead."
"Guess the loser's already decided."
The serfs nodded in agreement. But the murmurs hushed as Willie gripped his tent's cloth. The reveal was imminent; the crowd held its breath.
......
In the silence, throats bobbed. Gulps echoed.
The serfs' faces lit with anticipation for the first unveiling. Willie smirked, brimming with confidence. 'Then let's show them.'
Whoosh!
Willie yanked the cloth, sending the massive drape fluttering into the air. Amid focused stares, a pile of gray rocks emerged.
The serfs buzzed in confusion. "Rocks?"
Most puzzled over the stones, but Bin's eyes narrowed. 'Etrta rocks, huh...'
Willie scanned the crowd with smug assurance and spoke. "Some of you might've guessed, but these aren't ordinary rocks. They're from Etrta."
Serfs nodded in realization. Thud. Thud.
Willie approached the pile, continuing. "Plentel Castle sits beside the monster-infested Forest of Death. Raids happen day and night."
"......"
"Serfs suffer the brunt. But embed these sea-scented stones into the castle walls, and invasions drop sharply."
Etrta's rocks, weathered over a millennium by the ocean, repelled monsters with their briny tang. That kept the area relatively monster-free.
Herion nodded approvingly. 'Thinking of the serfs' safety...'
He gauged reactions: broad satisfaction among the crowd.
"Beast howls kept me up nights—this'll help."
"Better sleep means better work. I was running on fumes. Willie gets my vote, locked in."
Support swung toward Willie. Yet Silva, unfazed by the cheers, wore a relaxed grin. 'Not bad, Willie Bascon.'
As murmurs faded, the short-haired, muscle-bound Silva prepped his reveal. Like before, his huge drape billowed skyward.
"Don't freak out, now!"
As serfs' eyes widened, something astonishing wriggled free.
"Shraaaaek!"
A giant larva thrashed and wailed. Silkworm-like monster: cylindrical body in three segments—head, thorax, abdomen. Six pairs of eyes, blind. It twisted, countless legs on thorax and abdomen writhing.
Shocked serfs cried out. "Bigger than a man?!"
"Eugh, gross..."
Silva addressed the panicked crowd. "Easy now. This'll help you big time."
"Help?"
"Plentel Castle's high up—winters kill kids from the cold, mostly serf young'uns. But with this..."
Silva prodded the larva.
"Shiiiiiik."
Thick silk sprayed endlessly from its maw, arcing like a fountain.
"...!"
Serfs gaped as Silva pressed on. "Make thick clothes from this? Problem solved."
He pulled a small, finished garment from his uniform: snowy, plush coat, fluffy at cuffs and collar like packed snow. Cute and tiny.
Women serfs' hearts tilted toward him—visions of lost children, no doubt.
"Status aside, no parent's grief over a dead child is the same."
Tears welled; women resolved to vote for him. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Willie ground his teeth watching. 'Damn...'
He'd been surging moments ago. Now eyes turned to Silva, shifting the tide.
But it wasn't over. 'One drops out this round. Bin's shabby tent can't beat mine.'
Willie eyed Bin, as did the serfs for the finale.
Bin gripped his cloth with a knowing glint. 'Won't be easy.'
He lifted the small cover. Serfs met the sight with indifference.
"That's it...?"
"Why firewood?"
Just a few scrawny, worn logs. What could they do?
Ignoring stares, Bin lit them with a prepared torch. White smoke billowed soon after.
Serfs scowled at the oddity, whispering. "Burning his own prep? What the hell?"
"Quitting in style."
"No wonder—at his age, no killer ideas. Too green."
Minds hardened against him. But Bin's eyes burned with certainty. 'Time to shatter those biases.'
As smoke rose high, he pointed seaward. "Over there."
"The sea?!"
Serfs whipped around, jaws dropping in shock.
"Wh-what is that...!"
"How...!"
"Young Master Bin prepared that?!"
Horror and awe filled their eyes. At that moment, a massive ship emerged.