Chapter 33: Beauties Stir the Village
After leaving the gambling hall, Marhal stopped by Joseph's stables on his way back to the village.
“What brings you here?”
“Get me a few horses that can pull a carriage. I've got business to the east for a bit.”
“To the East proper?”
“No, just the Border.”
In the West, mentioning the Border by name usually meant the line dividing east from west—the birthplace of the first landlords when the land race began. Now it was a cluster of towns and villages, supplying all the logistics for western pioneering. The places where the most money and people poured in.
“Understood.”
Joseph inspected the horses already tied up near the fence. Marhal leaned against it, watching.
“That black-faced guy—any idea where he's from?”
“Even you don't know, young master?”
“Probably born in the Duchy. But his sword style's weird. A grotesque blade that whips around like a lash. Only the western regions use something that practical.”
“The... west, you say.”
“Southwest. The nomadic state of Anche, now fallen. They're the best with diverse weapons.”
“Anche... Ah, a name that brings back memories.”
They were treated as a nation, but calling them a true country was a stretch—just a loose band of nomads. Their homeland lay in the continent's southwest, a place with no escape when the demons rampaged. Those who remembered the old West all said Anche had perished.
“If any survived, their descendants—if any—they'll be trouble. The plains nomads weren't knights, but they were called the manliest men in the world.”
“Manly, huh... Then he'll probably be fine.”
Manliness meant two things: a manly body and a manly spirit. What mattered to Marhal was the spirit over the flesh. If they knew no surrender, no atonement or forgiveness, then Anche's nomads could never stand in his way.
“Horses are ready. Heading out right away?”
“Dawn tomorrow. Prep a carriage too—one that can comfortably seat eight.”
“Got it.”
With everything settled, Marhal returned to the inn. The village's single inn was a vital spot even in the pioneer village. Outsiders stayed there first. During special events like the land race, it housed knights, nobles, and merchants. It was the easiest place to scout outsiders' movements—and the innkeeper was no ordinary man.
Marhal grabbed a fifteen-year-old-looking boy struggling with a heavy water bucket.
“Tony. Who's this crowd?”
“Bro? You're really back.”
“Really back—did you think I'd fake it? These people?”
“They wanna see the women you brought.”
“Ah. Them.”
Makes sense. Even in a pioneer village full of people, human talk happened. Who's handsome, who's pretty. That was baseline; add booze, and it got crass—sometimes criminal. Marhal had ruled hanging for those. Rating looks happened everywhere people lived, and the village had its beauties. Unlucky for them, they were commoners. No helping sun-damaged skin from dawn-to-dusk labor.
Bayola and Rebella were different. Born to systematic care. Bayola went without saying; Rebella, failing as a knight, would've been sent as a noble's concubine, so basic beauty care was a given. Marin had lived rougher than village girls, but she had thief-taught training methods. By Marhal's experience, simple exercises beat lavish skincare for beauty—hands down. So three stunners beyond the village's best had appeared. Idle folk gathered to gawk. Understandable. Men were like that.
But some in the crowd were women.
“Why the women though?”
“That knight.”
“Strekl?”
“Washing in the back yard now.”
Marhal headed to the inn's backyard. Strekl, who'd been wrapped tight in armor, was rinsing off at the well.
Worth the crowd.
Strekl's muscles, forged in training and battle, outclassed beer-bellied uncles. Sculpted like a statue, scarred head to toe. And the steam rising from his body. Every splash of water made him smoke. Not winter chill—this was pure Strekl cooling himself.
Before knight, you'd question if he's even human.
He had to know the crowd was there, yet he washed on calmly. His personality? Probably enjoying it subtly.
Marhal slipped back inside through the rear door. The inn's first floor was the dining hall—mostly for guests' meals, sometimes villagers' drinking. Mercenary guild has a tavern? That's for laborers. This was for villagers. No reason workers couldn't come here or villagers the guild, but shared topics were scarce.
A bearish man wiping tables looked up, greeting Marhal.
“Saw Ena and Papuran, but skipped me? I'm hurt.”
“Home's always last.”
“Always got a slick tongue. Where'd you snag those women? Thought guys losing it over looks were idiots—now I get it.”
“Land race participants, so met 'em there. Where are they?”
“Asked for cosmetics, gave 'em what noble ladies left. Probably upstairs primping.”
“Here they come.”
Right after Marhal spoke, three women descended. Western women who bothered with makeup slathered it thick—hiding rough skin. Not these three. Just enough to line the eyes, wearing high-end clothes left by nobles and merchants. Suited them perfectly.
“Did makeup too?”
“When else can we touch cosmetics?”
Bayola seemed a bit excited. In the palace, she'd collected clothes and makeup like other noble girls. Since leaving, no chance. And it suited her doll-like face perfectly—mood booster.
“Fair point. Looks good. Wear the same tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Rebella's arm included, lots to handle. Heading straight to the Border. Rest up today. And try not to leave the inn.”
“Why's that?”
“Go out and see.”
Tell them not to go out, but say they'll see if they do. Leaving that contradiction, Marhal took a key from the bearish man and passed them, heading upstairs.
“Ladies, eaten yet? Fresh ingredients in lately—can whip up something decent.”
* * *
Innkeeper Havarsan was a fine cook. Bayola eating his food without complaint proved it. Rebella sliced the meat before her. One-handed dining, but no real hassle. What puzzled her more was the crowd on the first floor.
She asked Havarsan, adding more food to the table.
“This many people at this hour normally?”
The inn was packed. Too early for dinner even.
“Nah, all for you ladies.”
“Us?”
“Work can wait till tomorrow. Chances to see beauties? Rare. Mind-melting ones especially.”
“Just for that?”
“Empire social circles swarm for rumors of hotties too, right?”
“You're... no ordinary man.”
“Small kingdom south of the Duchy—Phran. Worked the royal castle there.”
“I see.”
Not in her memory meant gone now. Tiny nation—'castle' probably a big mansion. Still, self-proclaimed king meant local power.
“Need more, say so. Eat up and head up. Stay long as you can—full house after ages.”
Excited Havarsan vanished inside; cooking sounds followed. Rebella eyed the mountain of food. Way too much for three women—or so she thought, glancing at her companions. Bayola and Marin's sides already had empty plates stacked. Marin aside, Bayola ate less than average. This was triple her norm.
History succession works this fast?
Strekl had passed on his lineage less than ten days ago, and effects showed. Neither had ordinary talent, clearly.
Where's Strekl?
She hadn't seen the man. Heard he'd washed out back—squealing girls made it obvious. But not since. Only one staircase to the second floor; she'd have seen him enter.
“Be right back.”
Outside, Rebella scanned hundreds of footprints. Strekl's were easy—biggest, most angular. Her tracker knight skills led her true. He was in a small, disused building beside the inn.
“What're you doing?”
“Armor maintenance.”
“For something that rolled rough, doesn't look like it needs much.”
True enough. Her dagger, saved for the land race, rusted after minimal use and neglect. Strekl's armor gleamed near-new after dusting.
“Looks plain, but masterwork. Wears fine even after a month straight in battle. Stinks of sweat though.”
“Far grander than I thought.”
Full plate was rare. Few could craft it; quality ore scarcer. Infused with special power? Priceless—museum or treasury piece. More so post-demon war, with treasures lost.
“Too grand to sell.”
“Buyers would line up.”
“Plenty. None paying true worth. But leaving those two alone?”
“Village knows we're no ordinary guests. No real trouble should...”
A man's scream cut her off.
“Guess not.”
Back turned, she pictured him smirking. Rebella clicked her tongue and ran toward the noise.
The main road before the inn. A man rolled on the ground, dagger in his thigh. His buddies glared at Marin and Bayola. All decently drunk.
Seeing blood, Bayola paled, on the verge of fainting. Rebella understood Marhal's warning now. Or rather, she'd forgotten briefly.
“Drunks with sound judgment? Yeah, right...”