Chapter 28
Chapter 28
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 28
Chapter Title: Zenbe's Food Cart
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[Zenbe's Food Cart.]
Inside the office. I was lying on the sofa, dozing off, while a few flies buzzed noisily around me. It was annoying, but I didn't even bother opening my eyes.
The reason was simple. Too much hassle.
Armida, who was sitting at the wooden table across from me, grumbled.
"Little bro. Catch those flies."
I barely cracked open one eye.
"Why me?"
"They're bothering me."
"Come on, sis. You're talking like I'm some errand boy. You expect a Master swordsman like me to swat flies?"
Armida narrowed her eyes.
"Then should this Valkyrie sister do it?"
I shot up.
"Argh, seriously. Even flies know their lives are precious—why push it?"
"Feels like I'm the only one dodging them."
She glanced at the sign hanging on the office pillar.
Kaoyan Detective Agency.
My current business was taking on odd jobs and solving them. Basically an errand service, but contrary to expectations, business was slow.
"Wrong business choice? This is all for you, sis. You said you were looking for friends, right? Who finds runaways? Detectives do. Networking and experience will build up, and boom—friends found. It's all for you."
"I know. But we need customers first. Honestly, at those rates, anyone who shows up will leave."
Armida's gaze dropped to the price list below the sign. Basic fee: 80 gold leaves. Even she, with no head for money, knew it was steep.
But I pushed back.
"We gotta charge something. You want a party with a Master swordsman, wielder of Dalahan, and a Valkyrie chasing lost cats?"
"Fair point."
"Exactly. If business stays dead, we head outside the city, hunt some monsters, sell the byproducts."
Kara's great desert had vast land per capita. Monsters were plentiful, making Chaos Pieces and other drops easy to farm. Sure, mercenaries from Prosia Continent and beyond took city jobs, but limits existed.
"True enough. Alright, let's swat those flies~"
Back to square one. Armida clearly hated the flies. Flies were a nickname for Valkyries.
'Tch. Black flies live up to the name...'
I stood, gripped Yojjo's hilt, and took stance. I eyed the fluttering flies, then slashed them all in one go.
Dead flies rained down. I clasped my hands in prayer toward the pieces.
"All the world's turds escape with their reasons, but end up swirling in the shithouse. So don't hate me too much."
"Well, well. What're you doing, little bro?"
"Praying."
"Why bring up shithouses?"
"Why not? Dung flies' heaven is the shithouse."
"What's that mean?"
"Don't look down on shithouses. They hold the laws of all things and profound philosophy."
I donned my mask and headed out.
"Where to?"
"Gonna drum up business. Watch the shop."
"Sure. Good luck~"
I left to Armida's gentle send-off. Guess men get respect when they bring home money.
Kara's main streets overflowed with caravans from across the desert. Camel turds lurked like landmines here and there, and date palms lined the central square for landscaping.
Passing the trade market, voices called out.
"Hey! Got any Tivven herbs?"
"Healing potions? Sell to me—top price!"
Prosia goods were hot in Kara. Eastern Continent and Azenka Continent traders dropped cargo here and bought Prosia items to take back. No supply meant they'd risk the trip to Prosia, cutting relay profits.
I scanned around and stopped before a middle-aged relay trader.
"Hey, mister. Any cocky punks or thugs around?"
"Not really..."
"No bandit mercenary bands hitting Kara outskirts?"
"Nope. Plenty of work here—shortage of mercs, not troublemakers."
I scratched my head awkwardly. No jobs for me.
"Mister, anyone you don't like?"
"Yeah."
"Who?"
"Some fresh-faced kid in a half-mask who's been half-assing his way here, bantering rudely and bothering my business. I'm swamped."
I rolled my eyes.
"Ah~"
"Yeah."
"Carry on."
I hurried off. Mortifying.
Walking, I checked my wallet and sighed deeply. Total assets: a few silver coins and dozens of coppers. Penniless.
Shura's 100-leaf temple donation. 82 gold leaves for two portal fares to Kara. Office rent 45 gold leaves yearly, interior 3 gold leaves. Total 230 leaves spent—should have 7 left, but greed struck.
Days ago, botched camel race bet wiped it out.
'Argh, number five camel could've won.'
I'd fixated on number five—stronger, nimbler, first race. Huge payout.
All-in. It raced neck-and-neck with first, then rider fell near finish.
Worse: it might've won. As it vied for first, I "helpfully" chucked a coin at the leader. But five surged, blocked, and flipped out.
"Ugh... my hard-earned cash..."
Life doesn't go as planned. Five had the strategy and stamina; my coin was precise. Yet it all twisted, and poof—fortune gone. Infuriating.
But that's life. Good days, bad days.
'Eh, earn more.'
I stopped. Savory meat scent wafted. Sun high—noon. Lunchtime. I followed the aroma.
Near Kara Castle's west gate: source. Food cart.
"You're a disgrace to orc kind. Snort."
"Our mighty orc running a street cart? Shameful? Gruk."
Green-skinned orcs encircled the cart. Armored heavies—not thugs, orc mercenaries.
Neutral Kara had plenty orc mercs.
'What kinda scene is this?'
Inside: graying orc, head bowed, grilling amid taunts. Shadowed face creased with worldly woes, defeated soldier vibe.
But presence immense. Head two sizes bigger, muscles like plate armor, rugged. Mood screamed the taunters' doom.
'One hit, and their skulls crack.'
Yet cart orc ignored, silently enduring.
Not fear. Flipping meat over flames, his giant hands steady.
I approached. Not for orc mercs. Hunger.
"Hey. Not eating? Beat it."
Orc mercs glared. Who interrupts?
"Human. Who're you?"
"Can't see? Customer."
One snorted.
"Scram. Don't like humans. Gruk."
"Oh? I like mercs."
"You a merc?"
"Nah. I hunt mercs. Good loot. So pick a fight—world's laws tie my hands otherwise."
I smirked, half-drawing Yojjo. Orcs raged, surging forward. Orcs don't back down—fight to decision, mercy or death.
Then a kitchen knife hand shot out, blocking. Cart orc.
"He's dangerous. Rush him, you all die."
Deep orc voice boomed. Intimidating, but mercs charged—insult taken.
'Tsk tsk. Orcs... You're the ones in trouble...'
I closed eyes. Obvious end.
Dull thuds echoed. Opening eyes: blue-faced orc mercs sprawled.
Done. I plopped on cart stool.
"Orc bro. Got moves?"
Cart orc wiped hands on rag, stood opposite.
"Move along."
"Said customer."
"Why provoke them?"
"Side gig. Broke lately."
"All things are brothers! Don't kill lightly!"
Roar unleashed aura. Minimum Master—expected. His vibe screamed it from first sight.
"Heh. Hand over purse, no killing."
"Wolfish fiend."
"Humans turn wolf when hungry. Food first. What? Serve."
Orc sighed, deflated.
"What'll it be?"
"Meat, bread, veggie stew."
I ordered everything. He sizzled thin-sliced meat on hot plate, saucing up.
"Orc bro? Name?"
"Zenbe."
My eyelid twitched.
Sacred Oil's Zenbe. Past life fame. Wielder of 3rd-tier relic Giant Sword Titanian, Blue Earth Tribe chief. Top-three orc Master berserker.
Rumor: died 10 years ago to Gromog's Red Fang Tribe war. Yet here, slumming in Kara.
[Zenbe's Food Cart.] End