Chapter 24

Chapter 24: An Eye for People

Should anyone inquire about the most influential merchant operating within the Arken Empire, the vast majority would inevitably direct their attention to a single figure: Herman Pascal.

Herman Pascal.

He was the architect behind the Pascal Trading Company, a colossal commercial enterprise he had constructed from nothing and christened with his own lineage. Driven by unyielding ambition, he had cast his reach far beyond the borders of his homeland, spanning the breadth of the Serdes Continent.

He had fathered three heirs—two sons alongside a single daughter—each hailed from their earliest years as brilliant minds. Nevertheless, the individual who showcased the sharpest commercial instincts happened to be his middle child, Stephan Pascal.

Yet at this very moment, that gifted son found himself cornered by a single, harrowing realization:

If this trajectory continues, my life is forfeit!

The cause was glaringly obvious: the brutal contest for succession had officially erupted.

Stephan commanded an innate business acumen that easily matched his father’s keen sense. He was relentless; the moment he caught the scent of wealth, he committed capital without the slightest hesitation, and he never wasted time agonizing over regret, even should an enterprise crumble. His sole ambition had been to validate his claim through the sheer weight of his mercantile triumphs.

To that end, Stephan had dedicated himself entirely to refining his financial craft under his father’s direct supervision. Yet when Herman finally threw open the arena for the inheritance war, Stephan came to a bitter realization: his father had neglected to impart the most critical weapon of all.

Charisma—the supreme authority to sway and command the will of others!

Stephan was entirely devoid of that magnetic, dominating aura demanded of an undisputed ruler.

When measured against the overwhelming personal gravity displayed by his elder brother, Murchit Pascal, and his younger sister, Tilda Pascal, Stephan appeared as nothing more than a nameless background figure. Stripped of a dedicated faction to back him, he was steadily being cast aside in the struggle for supreme control.

It was during this desperate hour that Murchit had approached him with an arrangement.

—”I will assume the mantle of official heir, yet since your talents lie in handling practical administration, you will oversee the everyday dealings of our enterprise. My focus will rest strictly on governing our mercenary divisions. By doing so, we can successfully prevent the catastrophe of our sister claiming the entirety of our legacy. What say you?”

Murchit Pascal had amassed immense wealth and influence by establishing a formidable mercenary enterprise under the convenient banner of securing trade paths. He possessed a sharp mind backed by terrifying combat prowess, having honed his martial craft under the instruction of celebrated veterans.

Though Stephan might have been deficient in personal charisma, he was certainly no idiot.

He seizes the armed forces while tossing me the ledger? What an utter farce.

No matter how effectively gold could sway ordinary men, it meant nothing when confronted with the cold, unyielding edge of drawn steel. Murchit was already consolidating his martial dominance; what fate awaited Stephan once his brother formally claimed the inheritance?

The hound that runs down the prey is inevitably thrown into the cauldron once the hunt concludes.

Forming an alliance with Murchit Pascal was a trap he could never entertain.

Should I consider joining forces with my sister instead?

A dry, bitter chuckle slipped from Stephan’s lips at the sheer absurdity of the notion. He would sooner loop a rope around his own neck.

That woman’s sole method is to charm wealthy fools, absorb their family fortunes, and discard the husks.

His younger sister, Tilda Pascal, was already pledged to the scion of a rival merchant empire. Having inherited their mother’s breathtaking beauty, she wielded her allure as a lethal instrument to weave an intricate web of elite connections. She presented the facade of an innocent, naive maiden, yet she constantly concealed a dagger behind her back. Her cold, manipulative nature meant she would slit anyone’s throat the instant their usefulness expired.

If his siblings shared even a single mutual understanding, it was the absolute rule that two suns could never share the same sky.

If I wish to see tomorrow, I must crush them both.

Yet by what means?

Stephan possessed no meaningful allies. Even the governing directors within the Pascal Trading Company spoke exclusively of Murchit and Tilda. It was as if Stephan did not even exist within the grand halls.

“Ugh…”

Letting out a heavy groan, Stephan collapsed forward against his desk. Mountains of paperwork lay stacked before him, yet his mind refused to engage. The old saying claimed that an escape route always revealed itself even if the heavens collapsed, so why was there not a single path forward for him?

While he remained wallowing in his despair, the door creaked open, and his assistant stepped into the room.

“Pardon me, Director? Are you occupied?”

Stephan straightened his posture in an instant, plastering on a bright, composed facade as though nothing were amiss.

“What has occurred?”

“An urgent dispatch has arrived. A sudden, massive surge in demand for an unusual commodity has erupted across the Empire. We must secure immediate reserves.”

“Reserves? Has a specific commodity entered its peak season?”

“That is precisely why the notice is labeled urgent, sir. The circumstance is entirely unprecedented.”

“A reasonable point. What commodity are we discussing?”

“Well… wandering sellswords across the land are frantically attempting to buy beast carcasses.”

“What? Monster corpses?”

The report was baffling, even considering the strange requests they occasionally handled. Common superstition dictated that harboring such remains invited horrific misfortune, meaning whole monster carcasses were seldom preserved unless meant for specific alchemical components.

“Do we not maintain a fair number of those within our storage facilities?”

Stephan was naturally a man whose practical sensibilities parted ways with the common herd. He was the sort to stockpile any oddity so long as he anticipated a future profit. He had previously deduced that intact beast remains could eventually be peddled as curiosities to eccentric aristocrats.

“Indeed. We have confirmed approximately 150 specimens in our storage.”

“Then simply release those onto the market. What reason is there to frantically gather more?”

“The issue is… the incoming requests surpass our stock several times over.”

“What? What possible purpose could they have for such a staggering number?”

Under ordinary circumstances, presenting ten slain beasts was sufficient for a roving warrior to secure praise for a job well handled. It fell short of securing an official decoration, but it easily drew the favorable notice of a local lord.

“Assuming you would want the context, I investigated the origin. I managed to uncover this.”

The assistant presented a transcript of an official decree.

“It states that an appointment is being made in the Far East, and they are seeking formidable warriors capable of battling monsters. The declaration promises that anyone who presents thirty beast carcasses will be granted the domain and noble title previously held by the recently condemned Thesalos Wolcher… Because of this, sellswords across the continent are desperately competing to purchase them.”

“It is undeniably an alluring prize.”

For those landless drifters desperate to carve out a name for themselves, the prospect of securing an actual title and estate was enough to whip them into an absolute frenzy. The territory sat within the Far East, resting against the borders of the Land of Demons, but did such danger matter to men who possessed nothing to lose?

“Hmm…”

Stephan rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, his gaze fixated on the parchment.

There is no chance this matter is as simple as what is written on the surface…

Stephan pushed his mind to unravel the true intent concealed beneath the proclamation.

Demanding that these sellswords supply beast remains… is the goal to filter out individuals who possess the martial capability to hunt them?

Could the thirty-carcass requirement merely serve as an initial benchmark to weed out the weak, with the real trial following afterward?

That represents one possibility, yet let us examine it through a different lens.

Stephan evaluated the puzzle through his sharp mercantile intuition. Relinquishing an entire noble estate in exchange for a mere thirty beast corpses…

The terms of this trade are absurdly unbalanced.

While slaying thirty beasts was no simple undertaking, it hardly constituted an epoch-making triumph worthy of granting a hereditary fief. Extravagant bounties universally pointed to one of two realities: either the author of the decree was remarkably incompetent, or…

It is nothing more than bait.

Wandering sellswords from every corner of the continent would descend upon the region to seize their chance at nobility. And what would they bring in tow? Their retainers and an abundance of beast remains.

Which indicates that the Archduchy of Valdrova is in desperate need of monster corpses.

At this juncture, Stephan reached an impasse. Why would a land where demonic beasts were as plentiful as gravel go out of its way to import them from the outside? It was akin to hauling sand straight into an endless desert.

Are they attempting to falsify records? Orchestrating a black-market enterprise? Trying to manipulate regional pricing through engineered chaos?

Among the myriad possibilities, if they were openly publishing a decree demanding an overwhelming mountain of remains, only a single logical motive remained.

Academic inquiry.

They were conducting extensive experimentation requiring an immense volume of subjects, using prestigious administrative seats as the lure to haul them in.

Could it be…

A massive fortune might be waiting here. An undeniable windfall.

The sheer thrill reignited the fire within his eyes, which had grown dim from the suffocating pressure of the succession war.

“Are our branches actively trading these beast remains?”

“Yes, sir. Sellswords are flooding the local offices, even coming to blows with one another over the available inventory.”

“Understood. First, instruct all satellite branches to purchase every monster corpse they can lay their hands on. Securing those supplies takes absolute priority. Is that clear?”

“Uh… is that truly wise, sir? The market rates are skyrocketing.”

“Simply follow my instructions.”

“Understood, sir.”

“In that case!”

Stephan bolted upright from his chair, seizing his overcoat in a single motion.

“A moment, where do you plan to go, Director?”

“I am departing on an official expedition. You mentioned there were sellswords gathered on the ground floor, correct?”

“Yes, but… Director?!”

He dashed forward, moving as though every passing second held the value of pure gold.

“Gwahaha! You ought to consider it an immense privilege to travel under the escort of a renowned champion such as myself, Robellus.”

The roving sellsword named Robellus delivered the boast with an oily, self-satisfied grin. Every syllable and motion oozed unearned arrogance.

Stephan managed an uneasy, strained smile.

“Ah, naturally, it is a true honor. Haha…”

“So long as you travel beside Robellus, you shall rest as securely as if you were shielded by the Imperial Ramparts themselves. Speaking of my legendary exploits…”

As the sellsword launched into his grand tale for the hundredth time, Stephan let out a quiet sigh within the confines of his mind.

My ability to judge character is truly abysmal.

Of the ten wandering sellswords who had presented themselves at the trading post, he had mistakenly judged this loudmouth to be the most capable of the group. Throughout their entire two-day carriage ride toward the territory, the warrior had done nothing but shower himself in boastful praise. He recycled his grand anecdotes endlessly, yet the specifics altered with every retelling. It proved he could not even be bothered to keep his own fabrications straight.

This is precisely why I detest roving sellswords.

Roving sellswords! Four out of every five ballads sung by tavern minstrels were dedicated to their daring adventures. Their grand quests and triumphs thrilled young hearts, offering an exhilarating escape from the monotonous drudgery of common life. Yet such romanticism was a delusion reserved strictly for children.

Stephan was intimately familiar with their true colors.

They masquerade under the noble title of wandering knights, yet they are nothing more than brigands with polished titles…

They were bands equipped with standard military training, yet devoid of any true allegiance or established roots. They were armed rabble capable of degenerating into highwaymen at the slightest shift in fortune.

In truth, several of them arrive at our doors every week demanding patronage.

There existed a endless stream of shameless braggarts who demanded funding and official guarantees of their identity without ever offering proof of their martial prowess. While extending patronage was a necessary evil for weaving an expansive web of contacts, he had no desire to sully his name by mingling with such disreputable thugs.

And what value is there in forging ties with such individuals anyway?

They boasted endlessly about being willing to braving any peril for the sake of a title to escape their aimless lives, yet the second real danger presented itself, they were always the first to flee in total disarray. There was always a valid reason why they spent their lives “wandering.”

Neigh!

“Whoa there! What has gotten into these beasts?”

The team of horses hauling the carriage suddenly began to rear and struggle in their harnesses. They had caught the scent of an apex predator. The local mounts within the Archduchy were long accustomed to the dragon’s presence, but to foreign horses, the scent was as terrifying as staring into the maw of an active furnace.

Stephan offered steady guidance to the panicked driver.

“Fasten the scent-dampening muzzles we prepared onto their heads, and they will calm down. Retrieve the pouch resting over there and secure it over their nostrils.”

“Ah, those items? Understood at once!”

Once the headstalls lined with aromatic herbs were strapped firmly into place, the beasts ceased their thrashing, staring forward with dulled, vacant gazes as their senses were muffled. The carriage lurched ahead once more.

Stephan turned his gaze toward the sky above. The Lonely Mountain stood as the final stronghold guarding the Far East. Resting upon its peak was Valdrova Castle itself. A fortress established atop the very den of an ancient dragon whose savage nature could never be truly tamed.

The Red Dragon Valdrova.

He swallowed dryly. A sovereign so ruthless she would tear an Imperial Prince to shreds without hesitation. The Demonic Dragon who sought dominion over the realm by consuming all ambient malefic energy!

Just what sort of lunatic would willingly enter into a betrothal with such a terrifying creature?

Yet simultaneously, a deeper curiosity stirred within him: What sort of opportunity could such a lunatic offer to a merchant like himself?

Upon crossing into the grounds of Valdrova Castle, Stephan cast his gaze across the inner courtyard. Because the decree had been targeted directly at roving sellswords, a substantial crowd had already formed within the perimeter.

“Hey, no shoving into the queue!”

“You there! You are staring at our haul. Lay a finger on them and you won’t leave here breathing!”

“Are you looking for a fight, bastard?!”

Heavily armed men stood guard beside their transport wagons, trading hostile glares in a tense standoff. Observing them closely, their armor was an mismatched assortment of ill-fitting plates, maintained with glaring negligence.

Their retinues look like nothing more than common street thugs…

By contrast, the wandering sellswords themselves were adorned in blindingly extravagant gear. Several donned pristine equipment forged by celebrated armorers purely to draw the eye, while one had gone so far as to hire a personal minstrel to loudly proclaim his accolades to the surrounding onlookers. Another had carefully etched synthetic battle scars across his plating to project the aura of a grizzled campaign veteran.

Wait, is that not the fellow who purchased our stock from the trade post?

Stephan recalled the man purchasing thirty carcasses. And indeed, precisely thirty remains were neatly arranged across the back of his cart.

Every one of them strode down the grand corridor, attempting to mimic the refined, stately poise of highborn nobility.

Every single one of these fools is consumed by shallow vanity…

They went without washing their bodies, opting instead to drench themselves in overpowering fragrances; the resulting stench was thoroughly nauseating.

Eventually, the gathering made its way into the grand banquet hall. With the dining furniture cleared away and the floor opened up, there was ample room for roughly fifty sellswords to stand apart from one another.

“Speaking of which,” Robellus muttered, lowering his voice slightly. “Have you ever laid eyes on the master who governs this keep?”

The fact that he was inquiring about another man instead of boasting about his own deeds was clear proof that his composure was fraying.

Stephan offered a slight shake of his head.

“I have not seen him in person, though word has it he hails from the Rosnova bloodline.”

“Ah! The Rosnova house! The Sword that Protects the Empire. But for what reason was he chosen to serve as the Archduchess’s betrothed?”

“Rumors suggest his physical vessel is remarkably frail. Furthermore, possessing azure eyes rather than the unmistakable lineage traits of the Rosnova bloodline, it was widely assumed he was the product of a scandalous affair. They say his kin were desperately searching for an opportunity to exile him… He accepted the arrangement, and now he reigns as the betrothed and Regent of the Archduchy.”

“Oho… is that the truth of it?”

Robellus scratched at his jawline, an ugly, opportunistic glint flaring within his eyes.

“Hmm, if a cast-off weakling discarded by his own blood can carry himself like a sovereign simply by being a betrothed… does that mean with the right maneuvers, I might seize that very Throne for myself?”

The vulgar ambitions of a common bandit spilled casually from the lips of a self-proclaimed “knight.” They seemed entirely oblivious to the reality that they were standing directly upon the domain ruled by that very “weakling.”

To think an individual of this caliber claims descent from a martial lineage once revered as the Sword of the Arken Empire…

He had long recognized that the martial orders of the Empire were rotting from within, yet discovering a depth of depravity sinking beneath the floorboards made him want to sigh in despair.

Nevertheless, Stephan remained a tradesman through and through. He understood that a sharpened blade often struck faster than the reach of the law, and he possessed the wisdom to deploy flattery whenever circumstances demanded it.

“Haha… well, I suppose all things are possible in this world.”

Stephan had harbored few expectations regarding Ferda as well. Whispers circulated claiming he had put an end to Thesalos Wolcher and forced the eastern nobility into total submission, yet rumors were universally embellished.

What grand feat could a man cast out for total incompetence truly hope to achieve…

Casting aside any lingering hopes regarding Ferda, he stood waiting in silence. And when the undisputed ruler of the fortress finally stepped into the chamber, Stephan was forced to confront a familiar truth:

His ability to judge character was truly abysmal.