Chapter 18: The General Store
Ena was a robust woman. And she was a romantic who had raced from the Empire all the way to the West just to see the land where her husband died.
The Empire had officially sent no troops against the demon incursion. But unofficially, that wasn't the case.
Ena's husband had been one of the Empire's top search knights. Tracking knights and search knights seemed similar, but they weren't. A tracking knight pursued a confirmed target. A search knight scoured the scene to identify the culprit. The usual flow was for the search knight to find the culprit, then the tracking knight to hunt them down.
Her husband had ranked among the Empire's top ten search knights. He'd been dispatched to the West to uncover the demons' origins—and then contact was lost.
He must have known something from the start.
Her husband had never wanted to marry. Ena had pushed for it anyway. After the wedding, she'd half-forced him to teach her his skills: basic self-defense and knightly conditioning, how to spot a criminal, how to distinguish the quality and origin of tobacco, tea, and other indulgences, even how to gauge a person's height and physical prowess from their footprints.
These weren't skills for an ordinary housewife. They were near-secret arts that even knights paid dearly to learn.
Her husband had taught them to her with paranoid intensity. He'd even threatened to end the marriage if she didn't learn. He wasn't the type to waste effort on nonsense. Still, no wife could enjoy her husband laying out pipes during their private time and making her sniff them all.
Then came word of his death. The knight who delivered the news had given her a bit of money and stated the fact calmly. An ignorant woman might have believed it outright. But not Ena.
She had her husband's arsenal of skills and knowledge.
The timelines didn't add up. She knew how long it took a dispatched search knight to report back to superiors—and how long for a reply. No matter how she turned it over, something about his death felt off.
So she'd come to the West. To uncover the secret behind it, using the knowledge he'd passed on.
Finally showing your tail, huh.
In her hand at the general store was a single sheet of paper.
Empire Knight Order Commander. Reason for coming West: unknown. With search and tracking knights available, why would a commander-level bigshot move personally?
Marhal was landlord of three lands. Few knew he was a landlord at all; fewer still knew he held three. Those three plots were prime cuts even by Western standards: one at the West's gateway, one at the logistical heart of its center, and this village at its edge.
The three pioneer villages were secretly linked. If anyone special showed up, word reached her. The network wasn't flawless—trying to track every VIP entering the West with such a makeshift info web was greedy. But anyone who openly declared themselves? They were caught for sure.
An Empire knight certified by the emperor himself. Faster on foot than a horse, a monster who could slice iron with a sword once he drew it. The West might be lawless, but there was no need for someone like that. The Union existed precisely to handle Western incidents.
If an Empire knight bypassed them, it could spark conflict between Empire and Union. For a commander to risk that, it had to be big.
"I thought it'd be impossible in my lifetime, but looks like I'll grasp the truth before I die. Cheer me on, will you?"
"Auntie, I finished what you asked."
"Yeah, good."
Karian poked his head out from behind the store. The kid Marhal had sent—the one heading to the land race. Lucky enough to snag a landlord spot, but otherwise an illiterate lump. Even she, an Empire native, had to teach him basic numbers from the duchy.
Building a warehouse and starting a business took time anyway, so she'd taken him in for odd jobs till then.
"Something up?"
"A bit of a pesky customer incoming. You done sorting the cargo? What about the ledger?"
"Heh heh. Well, about that..."
"A punk like you would be buried in debt inside a year as a landlord! Hell, half a year! Get in there and do the ledger! Forgot how to count? Want me to reteach you like last time?"
"N-no! Going now!"
Karian bolted. The workload Ena piled on him was murderous. Once, he'd faked forgetting the numbers she'd taught. Ena had grinned darkly at his excuse. Then she'd sat him on her knee and taught him like a five-year-old, counting out each digit.
Shop regulars saw it. Within an hour, he'd earned the nickname "Baby." Just thinking about it made her dizzy even now.
Confirming Karian's flight, Ena opened the birdcage in the corner.
"You haven't gone far yet, right?"
Not flying to a spot, but homing on a person—a carrier pigeon worth ten warhorses to knights.
Ena tied a note to its ankle and released it into the sky outside.
Rebella and Marhal had spent the day non-stop riding to the city outskirts, convincing flag holders, and were heading back.
"Yawn."
"You feel fatigue too, huh."
"What do you take me for? Unlike those beyond human bounds, I'm just a person."
"Merc from the Union wars, fallen nobles, knights like Strekl who lost everything in the fighting—you talked them down in under a day. Hardly seems ordinary."
Haribal had taken longest; the rest, time for a cup of tea. Marhal had waded into land-race fanatics ready to attack kids and elders, and talked them around like breathing.
"They wanted land. I offered more. Not hard."
"If you ever head east, don't breathe a word."
"Isn't that the opposite? I should lean into my talent."
"Scholars' envy defies imagination. Pull off what they can't, and you'll fight assassins nightly."
"Guess I'll stick to honest labor."
As they bantered, the horses pressed on. Soon they reached where Marin had planted her flag.
"What's that?"
"...Beats me."
Bayola Muesilrigo and Marin. Empire princess and homeless wanderer, eyeing each other over a pot. The obvious culprit, Strekl, hung back.
By the time Rebella and Marhal's horses approached, the staring contest continued. Hoofbeats turned both heads sharply.
"What is this?"
"Training."
"And that lava from hell?"
"Food."
The pot between Bayola and Marin bubbled with something blood-red. Bubbles burst, revealing bug heads or animal guts floating up, sinking down.
Marhal wasn't picky—had eaten bugs on the Demon King hunt. Even he wanted no part of that. Bugs sounded better.
"As I said yesterday, my training's the madman's method born from a madman's hands. Core is eating and digesting anything edible."
"Right! Anything edible! So you can eat this!"
Bayola crowed like a scholar solving a decade's puzzle. Strekl met her triumphant gaze with boredom.
"That true?"
"But if you eat it, we'll eat too."
"Disrespectful pupils ignoring their master. You agree?"
Marin nodded timidly.
"Stake your name. Then I'll eat."
"Won't back down. I swear on Bayola Muesilrigo's name."
"You?"
"Got no name worth staking."
"Stake your hometown. My dead comrades always pledged their western homes. None who did came back alive..."
Marin's eyes hardened at "hometown," then dropped at the rest.
While Rebella and Marhal were gone, the trio hadn't idled. They'd shared backgrounds, situations. Strekl might be in worse straits than her.
Marin could settle somewhere if she dropped her stubborn land grab. Her heart would never rest, but her body could live easy. Not Strekl. Even fleeing meant abandoning status—and countless blades in his back.
Marin murmured timidly.
"If you eat, I will. I swear on Vestalora."
"I'll trust my pupils keep their pride."
Strekl drew a spoon from his cloak, scooped hell-lava, and brought it to his mouth. Casual as ever. Bayola and Marin's eyes shook like in an earthquake.
Pop—something burst in his mouth. Both women flinched.
Marin ate anything human-edible without complaint. But could you call food something made inedible with malice?
"Not that bad. Your turn."
Names and hometowns staked. No backing down. They dipped spoons into what they'd believe held the world's condensed evil.
Eyes locked, spoons to mouths.
Then yesterday's meals came up.
"Urk...!"
"Blergh!"
Hands first, but not enough against gut-wrenching reflex. Only after spewing and dry-heaving did they calm. Washing tear- and snot-smeared faces, Bayola whimpered.
"Fishy smell won't go. What is it...?"
"Making that fuss over this? Long road ahead."
"You're... not human? Avatar of apocalypse? Hell's lord?"
"Lacking respect. Special menu next time, Bay."
"Eek...!"
"Repent, and I might let it slide."
Marin whispered.
"Hey."
Her glare burned hotter than her mad rages. Bayola's shoulders twitched. She clenched teeth, trembling.
"My wrong, Master."
"Good. Let it pass this once. No next time. Etch respect in your heart. Last: I'm teacher, not master. Fine if I call myself master, but you calling me that? Makes me look like your concubine."
"T-tea... teacherrr."
"You?"
"Got it, Teacher."
"Training's fine, master-pupil bonds good, but we've only one pot for meals? Washing kill the smell?"
"Grab another."
Strekl mounted, whipped reins toward crumbled walls.
Sun set, night fell. Marhal cooked dinner in Strekl's new pot. After, Strekl dragged Bayola and Marin for bizarre drills. Rebella swung her sword aside. Marhal checked gear by firelight.
His crude dagger for horsehide and meat was dulling, rust spots forming.
Grab one tomorrow.
Among his things were specials like the leather cord, but this was plain. Cooking knives were easy from abandoned packs—pick one up tomorrow.
"Came."
Strekl's voice. Midway through drills, he'd come to Marhal's side, eyeing the city direction.
"Sorting inside in two days? Impressive."
"What now?"
"Talk. Expression?"
Marhal still fire-gazed.
"Like a rookie knight pulling double night watch for mouthing off to seniors."
"Hmm... Needs a threat. Go easy."
"Leave it to me."
Hoofbeats. A voice more arrogant than Bayola's first meeting—like he was emperor.
"Who's the boss here?"
Marhal rose leisurely.