Preparation (2)
“Grain, in other words, hoarding food?”
“Futures market, farmland grabs, direct purchases. Whatever works. I’d like you to acquire as much as possible, as quickly as possible.”
A decent bribe or some rare magic artifact. Or slaves, if neither of those. That’s what Luthus Soros had expected from Suhwa’s request.
What else could a fresh academy graduate turned vice warden possibly ask of a merchant?
But Suhwa’s ask looped around and landed on the exact opposite of what Luthus had imagined.
Thank the stars they’d moved to this secluded spot with no one else around, Luthus thought as he replied.
“From what I know, Utopia grows its own crops, doesn’t it?”
“They do. Big enough to call more than a vegetable patch, but not quite full-scale farming.”
“So why ask me to procure food specifically? Is there something special about it?”
“Less a favor and more a business proposition.”
Luthus’s beaming smile froze into something cold. Back in his role as vice head of the Dancing Whale Merchant Guild, he fixed Suhwa with a sharp gaze.
“When a merchant embarks on a venture, he examines the past, present, and future.”
“Is that so?”
“He checks if it’s failed before. Sees if something similar is already underway. And finally, the future—will it turn a profit?”
Suhwa popped a Moribwe magic cookie into his mouth. Spicy-sweet, with a unique kick. Perfect stimulation to loosen the tongue.
“And that profit doesn’t always mean gold coins, right?”
‘Dangerous. This man is far too dangerous.’
Watching Suhwa toy with the cookie crumbs sent chills racing up Luthus’s spine. His merchant instincts, honed across the continent, were screaming bloody murder.
The man before him was toxic waste. Touch it carelessly, and it’d bite like a rabid dog, leaving you praying to salvage even your principal.
But.
‘The real jackpots come from those junk stocks.’
High risk, high return. A timeless truth—and gamblers’ favorite excuse.
Ignoring the rational urge to bolt, Luthus’s instincts perked up his ears.
* * *
“Guildmaster election?”
“Yes. The Dancing Whale’s guildmaster retiring is basically set in stone.”
Before Suhwa’s meeting with Luthus.
In a room alive with flapping spies, Suhwa sat face-to-face with Cynthia. The pigeon that picked a safe flavor cooed meekly, while the experimental ones scattered feathers everywhere.
Cynthia’s bold choice had her wincing.
“Does this guildmaster election happen on a schedule?”
“Hardly. Only when one retires or dies.”
“Then for vice heads like Luthus Soros, this is a once-in-a-lifetime shot.”
“Pretty much their last chance at life. Imugis that don’t become dragons just cough up blood and die.”
Snap.
Cynthia’s slender fingers twisted the neck off a doll-shaped cookie.
“But Vice Warden Suhwa—or should I say former warden? Anyway, from the Round Table Meeting to Moribwe territory. What exactly have you been up to? Your name, Suhwa Romanov, is the hottest topic in high society across the continent.”
At the Round Table, he’d secured arms and horses from the elector counts.
On the road to Moribwe, he’d synced with Lady Moribwe to annihilate a bandit horde.
And he’d sailed into Manrmursk’s territory with the Split Archipelago’s lord, Francis Fraia.
Suhwa Romanov. That false name on the lips of false people.
“Oh, you know… this and that.”
“Can I look forward to how this fireplay ends?”
“I remember your conditions well, Cynthia.”
Countless men had made promises.
To Cynthia, Peggy Bartanyan, Clara, Sophie. And other Cynthias whose names he couldn’t even recall.
Someone promised Cynthia vast estates, another Peggy enough gold for a bath, Clara gleaming artifacts and maids who’d fake death at a finger snap.
But nothing lasted.
Maybe that’s why Cynthia took a liking to Suhwa.
His refusal to promise rashly was a fresh thrill to her jaded soul.
“I’ll be waiting.”
With an innocent smile hiding her hollow heart, Cynthia beamed at him.
* * *
“You are well aware that a significant force of both mercenaries and war mages is currently gathering in Petergorsk.”
“Yes. I heard it’s part of the emperor’s demobilization policy.”
“On the surface. But it’s really just elector count containment. Manpower to Manrmursk, beasts to Fraia, cold arms to Moribwe, artifacts to Sukan…”
Suhwa paused for breath.
“Huh. One elector count’s name is missing.”
“Sachsen.”
“Right. Luthus. Looks like Sachsen’s a cut above the rest. The emperor didn’t burden them with anything.”
‘And the other counts aren’t idiots—they’ve noticed.’
Nobles were childish at heart. Their precious honor? Just kids’ ego wars dressed up fancy.
You hit me, so apologize. No way in hell. Mud-slinging fights wrapped in lofty words and authority—that’s noble disputes, territory wars.
Give them homework, but skip one? They’d stew in resentment, even unspoken.
“Plus, Sachsen rakes in fortunes with their road monopoly. Them skating free? Well, I can’t read minds, but how do you think the others feel?”
“Vice Warden Suhwa.”
Like he’d met a ghost in midsummer. Luthus’s lips paled as he stared.
“I just had a terrifying thought.”
“What kind?”
“A few days ago, we received a report from our Manrmursk branch stating that the border count suddenly appeared at the abandoned port of Petergorsk accompanied by a band of mercenaries and issued a direct order for its immediate reconstruction.”
“Seemed like a whim from the impulsive count, so I shrugged it off.”
“But then mercenaries poured in via Sachsen road guards—up to three thousand now. Enough to steamroll a decent territory.”
“The situation is still manageable since they have already been disarmed, and it should remain that way until the ships finally arrive at Petergorsk.”
“Fraia duke’s ships. Horses and griffins unloaded, followed by crates of weapons. And finally, you—Suhwa Romanov—stepped off.”
“And today, you ask me to procure food, fast and plenty. Mercenaries, war mages, weapons, transport, now rations. Only one business needs all that at once.”
“And topping it off, you stoke resentment toward Sachsen. The rich slacker gets off scot-free—infuriating, right?”
“Did it come off that way? Ha, I’ve got a ways to go. Mixing personal gripes into a business pitch.”
Suhwa’s sheepish grin was so absurd Luthus couldn’t help but chuckle along.
“Before I name that business, a question, Vice Warden Suhwa.”
“Shoot.”
“What’s in it for me? For the Dancing Whale?”
“Guildmaster election.”
The merchant’s mask cracked.
“A shot at the top spot. Once in a lifetime—maybe never. From number two to one.”
“I won’t ask how you know internal guild secrets. Might not live to regret it.”
The magic cookies were gone—who’d scarfed the last one? Suhwa cracked his knuckles wistfully.
“I’m confident even without this risky deal.”
“Then why not walk out now?”
“Rude. And you’re a key decision-maker at Utopia…”
“I’m leaving soon.”
The mask cracked again.
“You know where to, right?”
“Petergorsk…”
“So if you’re only here because Suhwa Romanov’s a big Utopia player, say goodbye now.”
‘Dangerous. Beyond dangerous. He’s insane.’
Desire-fueled men waver. Like candles in the wind.
But madness-soaked ones don’t. Calm as a hurricane’s eye. Inhuman.
“You’re still here after all that. I’ll take it as a yes to considering the deal.”
“…Merchants don’t stand first.”
He slipped a hidden magic cookie into his mouth. Blood and sugar. Who dreamed up this flavor?
“My offer’s simple. Like I said: buy up food, max quantity, max speed. Soon, money won’t buy it.”
Was this right? Luthus Soros’s life had been good. Vice head of a top guild like Dancing Whale. Sharp deals and travels had amassed enough wealth to retire lavishly in any city.
‘Not enough.’
The burning thirst never quit. Gold in hand, now he craved honor, power. At the end of this man’s whispered path, Luthus Soros, guildmaster of Dancing Whale, beckoned.
“Fine.”
But not yet.
“Fine, but Vice Warden Suhwa.”
The third crack—the merchant reined himself in.
“Got the cash to buy all that food for this ‘war’ business?”
Like a kid awaiting homework grading, Suhwa grinned brightly.
“You take Gold Mountain notes?”
* * *
Pfiiiing!
“Yeah, good to see you too, you rascal.”
The makeshift stables of Petergorsk were filled to the brim with mercenaries who were joyfully reuniting with their beasts, treating the creatures as if they were long-lost extensions of their own souls.
“How the hell’d they even get these here?”
“Seized ’em by force whenever, now dumping in this backwater.”
“Higher-ups’ logic—get it, then don’t.”
Mid-gossip to fend off the chill, a war mage came sprinting up, breathless.
“What brings you here, mage sir? Thought you hated the griffin shit stink.”
Dirty laughs spread.
Ignoring them, the panting mage bellowed.
“We’re fired! Manrmursk border count sacked us!”
Flap flap!
A griffin spread its wings and bellowed from the rear.