King of the West
Karian headed to the lumberyard with Marin, the same one they'd stopped by earlier. The Border City was noisy day or night—no comparison to Marhal's pioneer village. It couldn't be helped. The sheer number of people staying there made all the difference. Crowds thickened even more near the shopping district: ruined nobles preparing to head west, laborers hauling goods, day workers taking a break from labor and drowning in booze.
Karian had gotten good enough to guess people's origins just by looking, and a few words of conversation revealed their home countries. He could even use the magic Marhal had shown him.
Though it's nothing compared to his level—embarrassing, even.
Still, seeing his own progress so clearly felt good. On the way to the lumberyard, Karian ran into an unexpected face.
"Karian? Didn't you say you were buying supplies for the warehouse?"
Hugo asked. Dressed in his usual crisp black monochrome today, he stood out sharply amid the motley crowds on the street. Even knights, mercenaries, and nobles paled in comparison to his presence.
"I asked him to. We need materials," Marin said.
"I see. I'll tag along. Might snag some small profits."
With Hugo joining, the group arrived at the lumberyard.
"Karian? Thought you were done..."
The lumber merchant greeted Karian as he entered but froze solid at the sight of Hugo following behind.
"He's a customer. No need to worry."
"This guy's an acquaintance of yours, sir?"
"Did I do something stupid?"
"No, no, of course not. I don't mess around with wood. You know that."
The merchant waved it off.
"What's the deal between you two?"
"Land," Hugo answered Bayola's question curtly.
Landlord proxy. The one who handled every right over the land, taxes included. Bayola got it instantly. Just recently, a major inn had vanished overnight. That was the extent of a landlord's influence in the West.
Anyone who learned Hugo was the Border landlord's proxy would tread carefully.
"What brings you? Need more building supplies?"
"Not me. Him."
Karian amiably introduced Marin to the merchant, who scrutinized her face closely. Sure, there might've been a bit of lecherous intent as a man, but mostly it was about not screwing up with Hugo's acquaintance.
New landlord? Proxy? The merchant's questions were answered by Marin's next words.
"I need wood for houses. About fifty ordinary buildings."
"Miss, you a landlord?"
Marin's eyes sharpened instantly.
"No offense. Messing around with Sir Hugo's friend would get me killed."
"Then what are you?"
"If you're gonna do it like that, just hire a proxy. Better if they die instead, right?"
Marin glanced at Hugo, who stayed silent, as if urging her to continue.
"Tell me more."
"Real pros don't pry like that. They ask if you have stock first."
"How?"
"What kind of wood for the houses?"
"Fir, or any well-dried lumber. Doesn't matter."
"Not total amateur then. Worked a site before?"
Bayola quietly stepped back and whispered to Hugo.
"All merchants here like that?"
"He's a bit eccentric, but big traders are all similar."
"Marhal toys with people like that?"
"They don't even qualify to meet the master."
To meet Marhal, excelling at business wasn't enough. Only those who could sway an entire city—or the West itself—earned an audience.
"What? He's basically a king."
"Think about the West's scale. What else do you call someone who holds and shakes land this vast?"
"...Nothing."
Landlord or king—the label changed, but the weight was utterly different from before. King of the West. Bayola repeated the words silently as Marin endured the merchant's lecture-disguised-as-advice.
"Miss, how many people do you think are gunning for landlord spots in the Border?"
"Hundreds, probably."
"Right. If offing one person makes you landlord, why not? Plenty have died that way."
"Can I trust you?"
"Me?"
The merchant stuck out his tongue. A snake tattoo was inked on it.
"Curse. Kidnap me to pry landlord or proxy info? I just die. And so does the bastard trying. Basic for gold-handlers. You didn't know, Karian?"
Karian swallowed hard. He'd figured sharp merchants had precautions, but nothing this extreme.
"Some stab anyone smelling like fresh landlord bait. Do business? Hire a disposable scarecrow. Or a pro. Or shadow one and learn."
"Got the gist."
Familiar way of life for Marin. Sewer rats tossed bait to die in their place—it went beyond strategy into survival. She'd never done it herself, but she knew the game.
Marin pulled a coin pouch from her bosom and dumped a handful of gold coins on the table.
"Fifty buildings. Handle it."
"That approach, huh. Not bad. Send to the sir's place?"
The merchant clocked who she was imitating right away: brutish, filthy rich, pride like life itself, kill if slighted.
"Yeah."
"With the regular caravans."
Marin felt a swell of pride at closing the deal. For a moment, she felt like a proper person—a landlord doing her role. She could even forgive the slacker's gaze from behind.
"This a sample? Weird."
"Hey, miss. Even Sir's friend can't cross that line. Gotta explain properly."
Bayola's offhand remark while browsing made the merchant lower his voice. Trust was business's foundation. Doubt in goods could crack even a tycoon.
"Ebony on display, right?"
"Yeah."
"Same stuff sold to customers?"
"...Pretty much?"
"Fake. Real has no scent. Or West-grown different?"
"Same species as East. I check premium stock myself. Scent too."
"It's real. Here."
Bayola handed a wood chunk to Hugo, who sniffed the black block.
"Faint fragrance. Too subtle for most."
Hugo eyed the merchant, whose face flushed rage-red. The merchant slammed his head on the table with a thud.
"Ebony routes tie to the Union. Help me out, sir. Please."
Hugo turned to the group.
"Your call. Tops local lumber distribution. Slight delay, but owing us a debt? Not bad. What say you?"
"What changes with our answer?" Bayola asked.
"Master said aid you. If you say yes, I follow."
"Marin?"
Marin approached the merchant.
"Know my origins? Then you know our ways."
No price for helping kin. Repay in kind. Common rule, rarely kept.
"Won't forget this grace."
The merchant bowed—to Marin, not Hugo.
Karian, who'd watched silently, sighed inwardly at his gaping friend beside him. How to forge this one into a proper Westerner?
Marhal rode until the horses tired moderately, then stopped. This wasn't a land race—no spare mounts nearby, no reason to run them to death.
While resting the horses, Marhal dismounted and filled his belly with jerky and booze.
"I know, but this wasteland's hard to get used to."
Kaban said, gazing at the barren plain.
"Demons don't discriminate—plants or animals."
The West's desolation wasn't just climate or vegetation. Demons. Their history-devouring fog spared no life. Sometimes even inanimate things got swallowed—rocks, rivers, soil all held history.
Thus, forests were rare. Wild animals scarce. Infinite land, yet resources short—that's why.
Plants and animals trickled in from the West, but human reclamation outpaced nature's recovery by miles.
"Further west, some forests and trees remain. Animals too, bit by bit. At current development, though? Long wait."
"Wasn't everything devoured by demons?"
"Exceptions always exist."
Spirit-guarded mountains enduring centuries. Hermit-protected woods, lives staked. Plants spared demonic curiosity. Inhospitable wilds even fog couldn't touch. Such places were shielded.
The West's nature neared extinction but slowly recovered with time.
Ultekan, listening, asked,
[What's the talk?]
[Why no forests in the West.]
[True. Wasteland, but unnaturally so.]
Anche had deserts. Small sands in grasslands yielded fine grains. Ultekan had visited as a kid. Deserts bloomed flowers, grew grass. But this? Truly wasted. Fewer plants than deserts.
[Demons ate the animals, right?]
[Yeah.]
[Plants too. Demon chow.]
[...Anche too?]
[Gotta see.]
Ultekan's face hardened. His memories painted home forever green. If it turned like this... Unthinkable.
Like many Westerners, Ultekan yearned for homecoming. Nation-building sped that return. But if nature itself withered beyond recognition? Victory would feel hollow.
[Serious, I get it. Focus on now.]
[Right.]
Ultekan clamped his mouth. He had family as hostages.
The southern city was two days' ride. Marhal arrived in two.
If Lugen's landlord city—called the Small Empire—aped imperial culture, this place could pass for a mini Holy Empire. Full of Holy Empire folk, culture matching. But "mini Holy Empire"? Blasphemy.
[Before full action, scout? You know better than me.]
[Got it.]
[Regroup here at dusk.]
Ultekan and his men scattered. Alone with Kaban, Marhal spoke.
"Let's game out the worst case."
"Worst case?"
"Rough situation briefed?"
"Rescuing a betrayed Holy Empire warrior's family?"
"Lie."
"...Pardon?"
Kaban blinked dumbly. Couldn't process.
"Ultekan wasn't betrayed. I made him think so. You've seen it."
"Y-Yes."
Dizzying memory. Words alone nearly turned his men, plunged his life to ruin. Marhal's devilish tongue could fool a stone-headed warrior easy.
"Best: Escape with Ultekan and family as is. Worst: Ultekan and landowner come kill us personally."
"...Big trouble?"
Kaban wanted to protest—where'd you drag me?—but Marhal's face quelled rebellion. Since then, Marhal was his sky. No arguing heaven.
"Prep ahead. You're a stone-cutting knight—can cut earth too?"
"Basically."
Stone and iron differed, earth and stone too—but as siege knight, he'd swung more at sand and soil.
"Tunnel sans supports—how far?"
"Mock battle under Duke Kalaens: Buried a village-sized camp overnight."
Marhal's mild surprise. Knight? Mage territory. No wonder the full plate.
"Then dig."
"Here?"
Spot: Just past city gate, near walls.
"Why else? Wall collapse? Major ruckus."
"Saw someone who shouldn't be—war?"
Kaban hand to sword. Marhal blocked, stepping forward.
"Marina, what brings you? Here now means you left right on arrival."
"Union business. My turn: What madness are you plotting?"
"Rescue op. Why the disbelief?"
"Reflect on your track record."
Marhal pondered his past. Nothing came up. Always gave West his all.
"Sigh."
Marina snipped some hair—fingers scissoring like blades, cut clean. Bundled it, handed to Marhal.
"Keep it. I'll visit tonight."
"This mean what I think?"
"Shut up. Hurry."
Marhal took the hair; Marina vanished toward their presumed group.
"Tunnel now?"
"...Dig after getting caught?"
"That's that. This is this."
Kaban felt doubt creep. Marhal was trustworthy. Solid. Yet faith wobbled just a bit.