Chapter 65: Lion? Hyena?

Amber Street lay in the northwest corner of Blackfort Town, a narrow thoroughfare where the slums met the vassal quarter. Its residents were many and varied, and at the north end stood the Goat Inn.

Everyone on Amber Street knew that since John had taken over the Goat Inn, its business had been abysmal. Not only because he’d never hired waitresses to attract customers, but according to the old drunks who’d frequented the place, there was something strange in the air. Whenever they began to drink and raise their voices, a sudden silence would fall, and every chance glance exchanged with the old barkeeps sent a chill through their hearts. Over time, no one cared to drink there anymore, despite the cheap food and drink.

Thus, all the shopkeepers on the street waited eagerly for the day when the Goat Inn would go under, scheming to snap up the premises for a bargain price.

But now things had changed. The residents of Amber Street knew the Goat Inn had powerful backing: a knight of the York family would kill for them in broad daylight. The shopkeepers finally understood why the old boss of Amber Street had never coveted this property—only someone as reckless as Hook would dare to try, and now he paid with his life.

Portly Mr. Weich stood outside the bustling Goat Inn, caught between indecision and resolve.

Weich was a respectable figure on Amber Street, a freeman whose family had mingled in the towns of the eastern province for generations, slowly amassing a fair estate. His father had once hoped to secure a vassal’s title from the mayor with most of their wealth, but war dashed those dreams. Forced to flee to the Horseman Hills, his father died en route, and Weich bought several shops on Amber Street, currying favor with a captain of the town guard. Through shrewdness and cunning, his business prospered. Perhaps, with a few more generations, his descendants might again aspire to the vassal’s rank—if only his enterprise continued to thrive.

For a businessman, wealth demanded shrewdness, but most of all, it needed a patron and a stable environment.

Amber Street bridged the slums and the vassal quarter, with decent spending power but poor security. Thieves, beggars, and tricksters made folks wary, so order was crucial.

The shopkeepers disliked the shadowy hyenas, but relied on them nonetheless. They set the hidden rules of Amber Street, ensuring the merchants could run their businesses in peace.

But now the hyenas were gone. Since the beautiful lady knight had slain Hyena Hook, no new hyena had come to claim the territory—now, there were lions.

This would not do. In just two days, thieving jackals appeared more frequently, catching the attention of the street’s residents. They nominated Fat Weich to speak with Old John, as his business was the largest.

Weich bit his lip and pushed open the door of the Goat Inn. Before he could enter, dozens of burly men turned their gaze upon him, making his scalp tingle.

“Isn’t this Mr. Weich? What brings you to my humble inn?” Old John greeted him with a smile, recognizing the familiar face.

“Old John—no, John, Mr. John!” Weich wiped the sweat from his brow and bowed. “I’ve come to pay my respects—yes, yes, to pay my respects.”

“Come on in, then,” John beckoned him inside.

Seeing it was one of John’s acquaintances, the burly men withdrew their intimidating stares and resumed their loud chatter.

“Well, what brings you here?” John asked, seating Weich at the bar, getting straight to the point. He had no time for pleasantries—he wanted to hear more about the fresh happenings in the territory.

“Mr. John, the neighbors asked me to find out when you plan to collect our protection fees. You know the street isn’t very peaceful now. If you set some rules, everyone’s willing to pay twenty percent more than before. What do you think?” Free from the scrutiny of the burly men, Weich relaxed, quickly stating his purpose.

His words made John pause. He patted Weich’s shoulder with a smile. “Mr. Weich, go back for now. My partners and I are discussing it, and we’ll give everyone a fair answer. We’ve all been neighbors for years—fees are negotiable.”

“Yes, yes, old neighbors. Everyone’s counting on you, Mr. John.” Weich nodded obsequiously, as if John, who’d only been here a few months, was truly an old neighbor.

“Wait!”

Just as Weich was about to leave, a powerful voice stopped him. Though not loud, Weich felt his body tingle, as if struck by a great bell.

“Mr. Weich, my name’s Nelson. Allow me to buy you a drink,” said a hulking man who approached.

As he spoke, the inn’s hall fell silent, all eyes turning to Weich. He instantly knew Nelson was the true leader here.

Soon, an oak cup slid across the bar to Weich. Forcing down his anxiety, he glanced at the cup—half-filled with murky, reddish liquor, flecked with purplish sediment. It looked like cheap moonshine; Weich frowned, unimpressed.

But under the gaze of dozens, he could only down it in one gulp. To his surprise, it wasn’t sour or bitter as expected, but clear, rich, slightly sweet and tart—a rare fine vintage.

“Not enough to savor. Another cup, please.” Weich licked his thick lips, eyes shining. He sensed the business opportunity in the liquor, his reckless greed coming to the fore.

Nelson nodded to John, who reluctantly poured Weich another half cup.

This time, Weich leaned in, inhaled deeply, closed his small eyes, and took a tiny sip.

“Excellent wine!” After a moment, Weich nodded in praise.

“Mr. Weich, what price do you think this wine could fetch per cup?” Nelson pressed him.

“This wine—smooth and delicate, sweet with a hint of tartness, no bitterness—though the appearance is lacking, and it could use more aging. I’d say forty copper sol per cup. If it’s cellared for two more years, the price could easily double.” Weich shook his head, regretting its flaws.

“Sir, I own an inn and a tavern in Blackfort. If you let me sell this wine, I’ll offer exactly that price.” Weich had already recognized the noble crest on Nelson’s leather armor—his eye for value was keen.

“No rush. Go home for now. Come back tomorrow and discuss it with John,” Nelson replied coolly.

Nelson didn’t understand the price gesture Weich had made, so he simply sent him away—he still had to do the math.

“Sir, that’s a good price! And I can tell you, I have connections to sell wine in Maple Leaf Town—please, consider it!” Called out Weich, even as John ushered him out the door.

Nelson ignored the fat merchant, pacing excitedly through the inn, muttering under his breath.

“Thirty-six copper sols equals one silver sol, forty copper sols is one silver and four copper. One barrel of purple cane wine has about six hundred cups, forty-four barrels—how many cups is that?”

“No more drinking! Calculate! How much can we earn this time?” Nelson shouted, seeing his men busy drinking.

At his outburst, dozens of guards put down their cups and started counting on their fingers.

“Chief! I’ve got it!” One-eyed Gru was the first to stand.

“How much profit?” Nelson demanded.

Everyone watched Gru, whose face turned bright red. After a long moment, he shouted, “A whole lot of money!”

“Get out!”

A barrage of cups, bones, and boots sent Gru tumbling under the table. Wait—boots?

After the laughter died down, John said, “Nelson, don’t celebrate yet. How do you plan to sell this wine?”

“Sell it at the Goat Inn?” Nelson scratched his head.

“How long would that take? Our inn’s business is dead—thanks to Old John! Told him to hire some big-bottomed waitresses, but he couldn’t!” An old mercenary slammed his iron hook arm against the table in frustration.

“Right! John, how can you run an inn without waitresses? Makes us go elsewhere for fun!” Gru poked his head out from under the table, croaking, before being knocked back down.

“Is it my fault? I hired several big-bottomed women as waitresses, but after a few days, they all quit, saying the inn was too cold! I don’t get it—the hearth’s never gone out. Then I realized, others stare at their breasts and bottoms, but you old dogs keep staring at their throats—what, thinking about where to cut? Of course they’re terrified!” John protested.

Nelson shook his head and sighed. He knew the old mercenaries’ quirks—years of killing had made them cold and unfeeling, always sizing up others’ vital spots. Unlike younger mercenaries, they had little lust for women. With such a bloodthirsty bunch running a business, it was a wonder anyone came at all.

“John, once we’ve sold the purple cane wine, you’ll come back to the estate with us. Our camp’s population is growing, Lord Victor needs you to train the family’s guards,” Nelson said.

The eleven old mercenaries exchanged glances, silent, brooding as they drank.

“We failed Lord Victor’s mission. How can we shamelessly return and ask for those ten acres?” One voiced their thoughts.

“Nelson, being mercenaries, we hope one day a lord will take us in, grant us vassal status. Now we’re under Lord Victor’s command, we’ve made it—but we bungled his task! Even if the lord forgives us thanks to your reputation, will the young men respect us? How will Lord Victor see the Bear Troop after this?” John grumbled, still bitter over their humiliation at the hands of the hyenas.

“What do you plan to do?” Nelson asked coldly. “Lord Victor specifically told me not to cause trouble. After selling the wine, we need to buy salt, flour, crossbow bolts, axes, and recruit at least twenty women. If you expect me to help you get revenge on Barol, forget it!”

“We didn’t suffer losses—no need for revenge. But if we want to sell wine and recruit women, we must take Barol out!”

“Why?” Nelson asked quietly.

“Because Barol is a hyena. He’ll target our purple cane wine, and he controls most of Blackfort’s flesh trade. Only by eliminating him and taking his place can we fulfill the lord’s orders—and the secret task won’t be a failure!”

———

Shacks sat quietly in the rest room of the Security Office, circulating his battle energy—a habit he’d kept for over ten years since awakening his knightly talent.

The energy coursed through his body, resonating with eleven elemental loci. Only the last earth locus remained silent.

Shacks sighed, stopping the flow. He was thirty-four; his elemental loci were fixed. He would never advance to true knight—through no fault of effort, but because his bloodline was impure. His grandmother was a commoner, and his affinity was with the rare wind element, making advancement even harder.

He had no knight’s manor, no family stipend; thus, his role as constable was crucial. In this position, he could earn two thousand gold sols a year in side income—enough to let his family live in comfort.

The events of the past two days—I handled them perfectly. There shouldn’t be any mishaps, should there? Shacks mused, uneasy.

The sharp knocking roused him from his thoughts. “Who is it?” he called loudly.

“Sir Shacks, the lady requests your presence. Please come with me,” came a deep voice from outside.

Shacks’ heart leapt; he recognized the steward of Rose Manor.

“Very well, I’m coming!”

He stood, straightened his uniform, made sure nothing was amiss, and strode out of the room.