All Affairs Concluded
Having wrapped up every last matter, Marhal casually booked a room at a nearby inn.
“You don’t have to keep it from others?”
Marhal had never once shared his destinations with anyone else. From the way the innkeeper treated him, it was clear this wasn’t even an establishment connected to Marhal.
“Lord Azenman will take good care of it.”
“What exactly is your relationship with the lord?”
“A matter of mutual benefit. Landlords banding together for profit.”
“It didn’t look that way.”
It had only been a few hours ago. The image was still vivid in Rebela’s mind: Azenman bowing his head and pleading with Marhal.
“Things happen when you work together—mistakes, fallings-out. This time, the lord made a big one.”
“A big mistake?”
“He nearly blew up an entire village. Lucky we stopped it in time, or the losses would’ve been astronomical.”
It wasn’t a lie. Ena handled everything from managing Pioneer Village’s supplies to reining in the merchants there—she was indispensable. Without her, money wouldn’t flow in the village. There were plenty of people to deal with criminals: Dagon, Papuran, Joseph, or even Marhal himself. But if logistics ground to a halt, no one could step in. Marhal could manage ledgers and shipments well enough, but he couldn’t replicate Ena’s network of connections. And crucially, he couldn’t stay rooted in one place.
“Even the lord makes mistakes, huh.”
“He’s human, after all.”
Not a mistake—a masterful strategy. But explaining that would drag on too long and force him to reveal things he shouldn’t.
“Rest up and shake off the fatigue. Things’ll get busy again starting tomorrow.”
“Busy? More work?”
“Something involving you too, Bay. Don’t make that face—it’s good news.”
With that, Marhal headed to his room first. Bayola swallowed hard.
“Rebel a. How long since we left?”
“If they’re quick on their feet, it’s about time they’d move.”
At this point, there was only one matter tied to Bayola: the imperial throne succession.
The outside world was starting to darken. Bayola came down to the first floor briefly to order food brought to her room.
Marhal was drinking alone downstairs. Several empty bottles littered the table—unclear how long he’d been at it.
“Hm? Not Rebela.”
“She had business. Probably heading back to the Empire—her family’s all there.”
“If Rebela leaves, what about you, Bay?”
“I’d be on my own.”
Bayola glanced at the ceiling. It’d been nearly five years since Rebela became her guard. Before that, Bayola had been alone. She had dedicated maids in the palace, loyal ones who kept her hemophobia secret despite knowing it. But their loyalty was too absolute for friendship. Her blood phobia had kept her from mingling with other royals too. Rebela had been her first real friend.
“Makes you realize just how incredible she was, hearing she’s leaving.”
“Rebel a’s pretty amazing, yeah.”
With ordinary talent, you wouldn’t even make knight by her age. If she’d served knights from childhood and trained relentlessly, she might just be scraping the edge of superhuman. Yet Rebela could hold her own against two knights, had the knowledge to serve a royal like Bayola, and the guts to stake her life on it. She wasn’t common stock. That’s why she’d become a royal guard.
“Place is empty, huh?”
“Rented it out for the day. A bit extra and they all left happy.”
“How much money do you have?”
Bayola was stunned by Marhal’s spending habits. It was a big inn—dozens of rooms, and from what she’d seen coming in during the day, plenty of guests. Clearing them all out to rent the whole place? Even she, an imperial, wouldn’t dream of it.
“Landlord perks. Got a fair bit. One of the richest in the West, probably.”
“And you still do mercenary work?”
Even she, far from ordinary, could read basic human desires: shelter, food, no worries. Marhal had all that. She couldn’t fathom why he threw himself into danger anyway.
“I can afford to. People want different things.”
“What do you want?”
“To meet someone. Two people I really want to see.”
“You could meet anyone if you wanted. Just reveal who you are.”
Marhal was the Hero Party’s guide. His existence had been erased from history under the Hero’s orders, but not the fact he’d traveled with them. Prove that, and no one in the world would refuse him. If Marhal wanted an audience, even the emperor would grant it.
“Sure, I could meet them that way. But it wouldn’t mean anything. Plus, the powers that want the Hero dead—think they’d let me live?”
“Yeah, not if you wanna stay breathing.”
The emperor wanted the Hero and his party dead. Nobles from other nations too, no doubt. Reveal himself, and Marhal faced death—or a lifetime on the run.
Bayola sat across from him. She filled an empty glass with liquor.
“You drink too?”
“I’m an adult.”
Bayola took a sip and immediately coughed, spitting it out. She stared at the glass in her hand with the same shock as when she’d first tasted Strekl’s cooking.
“What is this?”
“Liquor.”
“This? All the stuff I’ve had before…”
“Probably just ordinary grape wine. Western booze is either poison or murky—one or the other. No time or ingredients to refine fancy stuff over years.”
Marhal filled his empty glass to the brim and downed more than half in one go. Her pride stung, so Bayola brought her glass to her lips too. It was pain more than flavor. Her tongue and mouth burned, the liquor searing down her throat. Even in her stomach, it scorched. She’d just learned where her gut was located.
“Drink like that and you’ll get wasted.”
“My body’s superhuman, at least knight-level.”
One glass down, then two. After three in quick succession, Bayola slumped face-first onto the table.
“Why’s my life such a mess?”
“You’re getting drunk way too fast.”
“I’m not drunk!”
“That’s what drunk people say most.”
“It was back when I was a kid. Woke up, looked beside me—my pet cat was hanging from a tree, mangled horribly. After that, I barely went outside.”
She’d fought hemophobia her whole life. The battle with herself had no end.
“Sick of it.”
“Don’t ever say that in front of Marin. Or prepare to get slapped.”
“Whyyy?”
“Over half the world lives like that. Farmers lose a year’s harvest to one storm. Merchants walk on thin ice—partner skips town at night, and it’s the noose for one or both. Artisans have it better, but if their work fails, they get blamed for crimes they didn’t commit. Make it to your age without starving? That’s a successful life.”
Marin’s was especially brutal. Lost her home young to demons, and her berserker symptoms suggested no normal life after. Three days trained by a thief and a relic she’d luckily acquired—that must’ve been her lifeline.
“Strekl’s got his work cut out.”
No Rebela either. How long to turn this greenhouse flower into a weed? Or could he even manage that?
If Marhal were honest about his feelings, he wanted Bayola to become a weed. A tough, resilient one that bulldozed through her siblings’ interference to become a top contender for the throne. It’d raise his chances of meeting the emperor.
Bayola’s complaints continued—petty to Marhal’s ears, the kind that’d earn curses or a hair-pull from Marin. Then Strekl walked into the inn.
“Having fun without me.”
“You found us quick.”
“Wasn’t hard walking around. One of Azenman’s men tracked me down.”
“As expected of the lord—thorough. Drink?”
“Not a bad idea. Innkeep! Ten more bottles here!”
The liquor Marhal drank wasn’t cheap. They’d already hit over a month’s sales, and ten more bottles made the innkeeper’s face bloom with smiles.
Strekl dragged two chairs together and sat in the middle. With his bulk and full plate armor, one chair always felt small.
“Changed the money yet?”
“You remembered?”
Surprising. He’d shown interest in the checkbook just once, then betrayals, rogue knights, demons—events piled up. Marhal honestly hadn’t expected him to recall it.
“Reading people’s desires is basic.”
Not a special skill for those dealing with folks. Grasp desires, and deals tilt your way tenfold.
But to Strekl, who knew Marhal’s origins, the words carried deeper weight: a ruler of all must read desires to govern.
Strekl flicked the bottle neck off with a snap and chugged straight from it.
“Tough luck. Amount too low?”
“Merchant house went bust. No one to pay up—checks turned to scrap paper.”
“Wasn’t it a big firm?”
“Tied to the throne succession, apparently.”
“Shame. But you’re not hurting for cash anyway, right? Wandering knight, duel proxy, a few domain skirmishes—you’d rake it in.”
Strekl’s strength matched only iron-cutting knights. Demand for muscle was endless, and his price was whatever he named.
“Don’t wanna pile up more grudges. Already on thin ice.”
“Fair point.”
Violence bred resentment. Strekl had already pissed off the duchy royals—more enemies, and poison in his meal wasn’t out of the question. The full plate might be because stabs could come anytime.
“Need cash? Got a big score. Interested?”
“How much?”
“Good luck? A relic at least. Worth your rates.”
Even minor relics drove nobles mad with collecting fever. Mages too. Plenty for quick cash. Easy sell.
But Strekl didn’t bite.
He knew the peril of a too-lavish feast—or one that looked too lavish.
“What exactly?”
“Soon, a carriage—likely owned by imperial royals—passing the Border. Loaded with cash, treasures. Probably relics too, they say.”
“Gulp… imperial?”
Half-asleep Bayola jolted awake at “imperial.” Marhal scanned nearby. Three in the kitchen, but too far to overhear. Outside, three familiar footsteps.
“Perfect—everyone’s here.”
The inn door opened. Hugo, Karian, and Marin entered. Karian, who’d been downcast at Azenman’s mansion, now had spark in his eyes.
“Karian, looking better.”
Karian turned with a dry laugh.
“Haha… realized I’m tougher than I thought.”
“See? Told you you’re solid.”
“Knew the world’s full of trash, but not this much.”
Thinking back to the proxy market, Marin grumbled again in disbelief.
The two had followed Hugo to the proxy market. And, exaggerating a bit, they’d seen the dregs of humanity.
Plenty of talent there. But equal madmen. Swindlers with rap sheets were tame. Marin recognized names from notorious lords’ tax collectors. One boasted kills collecting debts—“best at it”—a criminal who begged the question why he wasn’t jailed. Competent normals existed, but their fees were beyond Marin and Karian.
“Those kinds can be proxies?”
“Rare to find someone who reads, keeps books, manages resources.”
Funniest part: swindlers and thugs fit best. Scholars existed, but employed, picky with pride and pay. Mess up hiring, and they’d scam or undermine—stripping a landlord of all land rights, even.
“Ena could run a village solo. Learn direct from her—Karian handling it himself ain’t bad. I’ll help hide your identity.”
“I got nothing to offer…”
“Discount our village storage fees—that’s plenty. Builds ties with local landlords too. Drink?”
Karian took the glass from Marhal and knocked it back. Years rolling in the West made harsh liquor familiar. After grueling work when sleep wouldn’t come, cheap rotgut forced it—that’d been routine once.
“Kuh… this stuff exists.”
“Things go well, you could drink it daily. Hey, Karian—mind stepping out a bit? Private talk.”
“Can I take this bottle up?”
“As many as you want. Sorry—not your scene.”
“I get it.”
His inferiority lingered, but Karian felt more himself than midday. He’d always known his limits. No point eavesdropping on business—he wouldn’t contribute. Worse, it might be bad news. He vaguely knew Marhal dabbled in danger.
Karian headed upstairs; door shut. Marhal spoke.
“We’re robbing a carriage full of imperial royal assets.”