A 60,000 Gold Illness
Today was the 26th of November by the Ailene calendar—a Sunday. It was supposed to be the day the logging wrapped up on the five moliti of forest—roughly three soccer fields' worth—that the emperor had graciously bestowed upon me.
“You filthy humans! How dare you defile the bountiful nature passed down by Lady Ailene!”
“Ow, that hurts! Stop hitting us! We're just laborers!”
“Damn it, you guys are orc-sized brutes! Get out! Get off our land!”
No, it should have been the day the logging ended. But when Jason's urgent crystal orb call came in, Walter and I rushed to the site, only to find Jason and his crew getting “attacked” by people barely the size of their palms.
“Ow, that stings! Cut it out—we're harmless workers!”
“Shut up! You talk and look just like orcs!”
To call it an attack was a bit of a stretch, really. Sure, Jason's group was taking hits, but their armor-like writhing muscles made the idea of them getting hurt absurd.
What the hell... elves?
And the ones jabbing at Jason's crew with wooden sticks and hurling stones to threaten them? They had ears even longer and pointier than Tommy, Celly, and Ellie's.
“They seem to be pureblood elves illegally squatting in Gold Territory. There's a saying: the only good elf is a dead elf. Shall I go and cut them down in one stroke—?”
“Whoa, easy there. Let's talk first.”
“Understood, Director.”
Walter, who always drew his sword before his words, let out a metallic rasp as he gripped his hilt. I hurriedly calmed him down and approached the elves.
“I'm Minor Gold, lord of Gold Territory. What's going on here?”
“Whoa, Director! The Director's here!”
“Help us, Director! The elves are attacking!”
“We didn't do anything wrong! We just worked like oxen!”
Like chicks scurrying to a mother hen, twenty-two burly half-orcs—with the beautiful faces I'd bestowed upon them—came waddling behind me, faces scrunched in distress.
Impeccable... as expected from my work. Perfect beauty.
Jason had only gotten jaw slimming, cheekbone reduction, and square jaw surgery. But the other half-orcs? Depending on their needs, I'd thrown in zygoma reduction, rhinoplasty, and double-eyelid procedures too. The result? Beastly, bulging muscles paired with boyish idol faces. Masterpieces I'd sculpted myself. I was beaming with pride when—
“Lord? That's rich. This is our elves' ancestral homeland! Who decided it's your territory?”
The plump-faced elf who'd been poking Jason with a long wooden stick the most sneered and stepped forward.
His face screamed “pointless to negotiate.” I rummaged in my subspace pouch and handed him the land deed stamped with the Initiium imperial seal.
“This land was granted by His Majesty the Emperor. I wasn't informed of any elves living here. Are you the original inhabitants?”
I kept it concise yet polite. The elf leader scoffed, barely glancing at the deed before tossing it aside.
Thud—
“Ha... humans are insane. Stealing land our elves have lived on for generations with a scrap of paper.”
The half-orcs reacted first to the elf's words.
“Liar! There were no elf dwellings up to the construction boundary! We measured every inch before logging—no margin for error!”
“Yeah! Jason's right! We don't half-ass our work! Take it back! Apologize!”
“Hmph, you measured everything? What about that?”
“...?”
The elf pointed with a smug grin to a massive tree spanning the horizontal line of Gold Territory banners.
“I'm Travan, head of the elf village deeper in the forest. That hackberry tree? My great-great-grandfather planted and raised it himself. And these lumps were about to chop it down! Everything up to that tree is our land!”
Travan puffed up proudly with his explanation. But something felt off.
Deciduous trees should be bare in winter, right?
Maybe because elves tended it, or maybe this isekai thing, but the huge hackberry was lush with vibrant green leaves. Branches and foliage spilled over my gold-bar-stacked crest design—that was clearly why they were pissed.
His micro-expressions screamed “squatter angling for compensation.” Roads or land disputes were always worse in rural areas than cities, and seeing it in the Initiium Empire's frontier made me think Earth or isekai, some places were just petty as hell.
“If that hackberry's the issue, we'll transplant it for you. Problem solved, right? Or—”
“Don't be ridiculous! Uproot a tree that's stood there over a century? How'd you like being forced out of your home? Trees can get sick and die from transplanting!”
Images of half-elf Tommy, Celly, and Ellie flashing their sweet smiles flickered in my mind. But pureblood elf Travan was already frowning and raising his voice before I finished.
Not all, but orcs and elves—purebloods seemed to have more personality issues than half-breeds.
Or maybe bad parenting.
Either way, this couldn't drag on. Walter was gripping his sheath so hard veins bulged, ready to behead Travan or cleave the tree. One more word from that fool, and my imagination would become reality. Tempting, honestly. But who knew how many elves lurked deeper in my vast rear forest?
Best to find a compromise.
“Trees getting sick... hadn't considered that. But I can't just yield imperial land. Ideally, we'd find a fair middle ground?”
“Yeah, me too.”
Travan smirked with his chubby cheeks, like he'd been waiting.
“I don't wanna beef with humans. Good for you, good for me, right?”
“If you have a compromise in mind, lay it out.”
“60,000 gold should do it.”
“...What did you say?”
“The land with the hackberry branches hanging over. Sell it for 60,000 gold.”
“...”
Walter's “the only good elf is a dead elf” echoed. Even up close, the overhanging branches covered maybe 10 pyeong. And 60,000 gold? Local rates made that 6 billion won.
Myeongdong's priciest land is just over 600 million per pyeong. Frontier forest at 600 million? Needs psychiatric help.
Seeing Travan's leer stirred a primal urge to sic Walter on him. But I'm a doctor—saving lives, not taking them. Elves weren't human, so maybe... Nah, curiosity won. What nonsense would this squatter spew next?
“...If I pay 60,000 gold, what about the hackberry? The branches stay on my land regardless.”
“Oh, that? Our village elves will team up and transplant it.”
Transplant? After whining about sickness?
“Not easy, sure. But if we all gather, pay respects to nature, and move it carefully? Possible. If you're in a rush, chop it. Past's the past—future matters more, right?”
Not just Travan—all the elves aiming crude wooden spears at us wore winter grass-woven clothes, looking the most natural folk around. Yet his words were the most mercenary. The gap—and my boiling rage—hit hard.
This guy's a riot. Great-great-grandpa sob story, then offers to chop if we're busy?
Confucian remnants in my veins, maybe. As my face soured at Travan's “custom service” smirk—
“Just so you know—if you damage the hackberry without permission or hurt us, this goes straight to the elf kingdom in Squinoa Mountains. Eyes are watching.”
Travan pointed skyward with a sneer. Tiny bluebirds circled overhead.
...Messengers?
Elves were nature lovers, apparently. They used sparrow-like bluebirds as familiars. Walter could pulverize these elves and birds in a flash, of course. But with logging done and major construction ahead?
Apartment renos meant notices, apologies to neighbors, elevator signs—minimizing hassle was rule one. Beefing with local elves now could mean endless sabotage from the forest depths. Not deadline stress, but fly-swatting annoyance with every bite.
And I need to avoid conflict with Squinoa subhumans...
Initiium Empire was in ceasefire with Squinoa's subhuman alliance. One spark could ignite war. So, optimal elf-handling was weighing heavy when—
“That hackberry's no ordinary tree! Stop stalling and pay the 60,000 gold... Urk, guaaah!”
“T-Travan!”
“You okay, chief?”
...What? Why's he suddenly writhing, clutching his gut?