The smell of ink, sweat, and mana-infused parchment hung in the air like smoke after a battle.
Bernie sat stiffly across from Charles, his back straight, but his hands shook as he held the quill.
Every stroke across the parchment felt heavier, and the weight of the moment grew with each breath.
He didn't just write to record; he wrote to persuade Charles, desperate to sway Charles's decision and secure the future of his business and men's lives.
This youth could've simply taken everything.
He didn't need to negotiate. No court would prosecute him; the dragon alone could have razed the camp if Charles willed it.
And yet…
Instead of violence, he offered gold.
Not just a bribe.
Not a token of goodwill.
No—he offered what amounted to the lifeblood of a small kingdom, demonstrating his resolve to win allies through significant investment rather than force.
Charles reached into his cloak with the same composure a lord might use to adjust his cufflinks. From within, he produced a plain, matte-black spatial ring. No crest. No sigil. No flare.
When he slid it across the table, it made a soft clink. The sound was sharper than it would be, like a guillotine blade gently tapping down before a decision.
"A small vault," said Charles calmly, his voice soft like rain at night. "Holding ten million gold coins. Cleaned. Real coins. No tracking. No stamps from the royal vault. This morning, I took it out of a neutral realm vault."
Bernie's breath got stuck in his throat.
"Inside are ten high-grade healing and recovery elixirs. They're strong enough for your worst cases. Three advanced protection scrolls. Two long-range teleportation talismans, tuned to neutral cities. One master-grade defensive array disc for your command wagon. Sixty mid-grade mana crystals for infrastructure recharge."
Bernie opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"The total package," Charles specified, "covers projected profit margins. It includes hazard premiums, operational loss recovery, transport restructuring, and your logistics surcharge. As for the excess..."
Charles's gaze sharpened—not harshly, but with undeniable weight.
"Consider it a down payment."
Bernie blinked. "A... downpayment, my lord?"
Charles leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers atop the table.
"I want more shipments within the month. Cultivators, builders, alchemists, rune masters, artificers, elves with memory professions, dwarves from shattered forge-lines, and high-potential youths. Focus on strategic potential."
He paused.
"But I also want laborers. Ordinary slaves—as many as your network can procure: mine workers, farmers, builders, haulers. Records must be clean."
Bernie's brows lifted. "Clean?"
"I don't want criminals," Charles said coolly, his voice dipped into iron.
"No murderers disguised as field hands. No smugglers in 'transport crews.' No rotted souls slithering into my foundations. I'm building something permanent. I won't risk corruption in my labor force."
Bernie swallowed hard. "Understood, my lord."
Charles reclined again and brushed a finger along the contract scroll's edge. It was as if he sealed the conversation with the same elegance he sealed empires.
"This is the beginning, Bernie," Charles added softly, almost with amusement. "And trust me... I always tip well for loyalty."
"You… young lord…" Bernie stammered, voice quivering as he finally found his words. "This is… more than fair. This is madness. You could have taken it all and left me to die. I would have… I would've had to thank you for sparing my life!"
Charles tilted his head, amusement dancing behind those sapphire eyes.
"But what would that accomplish? A dead merchant doesn't deliver future slaves. A terrified trader can't become an asset. I'm not a bandit, Bernie. I want to build an enduring empire—one that thrives through calculated partnerships, not ruin. I'm an investor."
Bernie's lips twitched. It was almost a smile—caught between awe and terror.
"You're also a terrifying man, Lord Ziglar."
"I get that a lot."
Charles rose from his chair and straightened his cloak. Nimbus stirred lazily around his neck like a warm, purring scarf.
"Your route changes. Deliver the slaves to the East Wing Manor of House Ziglar. Don't speak of this deal. No ledgers, notaries, or couriers. If questioned, say this was a regular supply run to Velmora. Any deviation… and I'll take everything without paying next time."
Bernie immediately stood and bowed so low his nose nearly scraped the rugs.
"I swear it, my lord. On my trade license, my blood, and the weight of every coin I've earned—I will deliver them in silence and obedience," Bernie promised.
Charles smiled again.
"I knew you were the right man for this."
There was a lot going on outside the camp. The staff and guards were either mingling with Charles's party or were scared of it.
Rob had made a teacup that looked like a beast and was arguing with a dwarf mechanic about how to make axles.
Karel was using a stick to give the slaves a dramatic lecture on how to use blood splatter in a fashionable way.
Wendy stood like a silent wraith near one of the carriages, watching the bound cultivators with an expression Charles couldn't quite read.
Andy, having commandeered a meal from the cooks, nodded approvingly as Charles exited the tent.
"All done?"
Charles gave a curt nod. "We own everything."
"Even the spoons?"
"Especially the spoons."
Rob chuckled and handed Charles a roasted leg of something—not quite chicken, but spiced well.
Bernie emerged a moment later, still pale, but standing taller.
He clapped his hands together and turned to his men. "Prepare the route to East Wing Manor! We move by sunset! You there, repair that axle! You, check the slave carriages! We're on Lord Ziglar's personal commission now!"
Charles smirked as he bit into the leg. Victory, it turned out, tasted like meat, gold, and absolute logistical dominance.
Bernie Lothan, once the merchant prince of the midlands, now looked resurrected—sweaty, pale, and vibrating with adrenaline. Not fear. Not quite. This was something new.
Greed, hope, and the electrifying terror of risking everything now drove him—Bernie realized both reward and ruin were tied to this deal.
He moved with purpose outside the command tent, barking orders like a general whose army had come back to life. His voice broke once. No one laughed—not with a dragon wrapped around their new boss's shoulders.
Bernie told his chief logistics officer about the latest news. The quartermaster changed the route markers and made a new caravan registry with a fake noble crest: the House of Valcorin.
A harmless little trade vassal under Charles's control, just hidden enough to stay off the Kingdom's radar.
The whole caravan was given new names within an hour.
The branding irons were already hot, with sigils glowing. Wagon seals moved around. Even the spare flags now had Valcorin's beige stag-on-sable banner on them. Plausible deniability has never looked so good.
The rest of the camp moved in a strange way, like half military and half carnival, just beyond the tent flap.
Kael, who was shirtless and shining with happiness after the battle, sparred with the unlucky quartermaster. Either the man lost a bet or he forgot how to take care of himself.
Every time Gravemeld, Kael's huge earthen claymore, hit a poor iron-tipped spear, it hummed with pleasure. The shockwaves made dust fly and pebbles jump like scared frogs leaving their homes.
"Don't flinch!" Kael barked and laughed as the quartermaster almost fell into a pot of stew. "You said you wanted to train, not live!"
Rob lay back on a tree stump across the campfire, looking like a wise man whose temple had burned down long ago and who had decided that enlightenment wasn't all that great.
Two cooks with wide eyes sat across from him, listening to everything he said.
"So you're saying the elk liked the gingergrass?" One cook took a chance and scratched his head.
Rob sipped from a wooden goblet that was a little dented. He swirled his herbal wine like a retired bard.
"Did you like it? After I fed that elk three strips, he bowed like a royal butler when I told him to. It's about leaving an emotional mark. You give them what they want, whisper sweet threats in their ears, and let nature take care of the rest.
He joked, "It works on dragons too, if you're brave enough."
As if to prove his point, Nimbus—currently in scarf mode—gave a smug flick of her tail from Charles's shoulder and let out a purr so smug it belonged in a noble's bedroom rather than a battlefield.
Wendy stood a few paces away, cloaked in silence. Her storm-grey eyes locked with those of a young elven healer inside one of the slave wagons. No words passed between them. Just understanding. One had been captured by the world. The other had clawed free.
A moment passed. Neither looked away.
And then there was Borris.
He leaned against the strong wall of the command wagon like a granite golem made for war, giving off an air of calm menace. His arms were crossed, and there were still dried blood spots on his beard.
The lantern above him swung back and forth, making the deep lines on his face look different. He looked like the last boss in a dungeon who didn't care that the hero was at the top of his game.
Charles came over.
"Are you ready?" Borris's voice sounded like boulders rolling in a canyon.
Charles put his arms behind his back and cracked one of his shoulders with a soft pop.
"They will get to the East Wing in less than a week. I've already sent Anya a secure message to prepare for her arrival."
Borris nodded once.
"Elmer's prepping the screening protocols," Charles added. "We'll need a full soul-detoxification array, two barrier wards, a reconditioning bathhouse, and a triple-seal on the core cultivators."
"I'll have the east chamber cleared. The one with the high vault and grounded crystal floor," Borris replied.
"Perfect," Charles said. Then his tone dipped lower. "We're not just acquiring labor here, Borris. We're building our first force. Our foundation."
"Any of them dangerous?" Borris asked, jerking his chin toward the wagons.
"They're all dangerous," Charles said with a faint smirk. "That's the point."
Borris's brow twitched. "You really trust Bernie with all this?"
Charles glanced over his shoulder at the command tent. Its walls flickered with frantic shadows—ink, gold, secrecy, ambition all flowing in ink-slicked waves.
"Not at all," Charles replied with a sardonic tilt of his lips. "But he's got one quality I can rely on."
"Greed?"
"Exactly. And nothing secures greed's loyalty better than a mountain of gold."
Borris grunted in amusement.
From behind them came the low hum of bootsteps. Kael and Karel approached first, both sweaty and satisfied, followed by the more reserved Andy and Donald, who looked freshly finished from reviewing wagon assignments.
Donald wiped his brow. "The caravan's about ready to roll, my lord. We'll detour through Rubai to restock rations and medical supplies."
Charles turned to him. "Good. Rubai's also where you'll reinforce the escort team."
Donald's brows lifted. "My older brother runs a small mercenary guild there. Solid men. They've been doing beast-hunts and contracts for nobles—small-time, but consistent."
Charles's eyes sparked. "Perfect. Hire the entire guild to escort the caravan to the East Wing. Offer them triple their normal rate, and if they perform well, extend them a recruitment invitation. When they arrive, Knight Elmer will handle negotiations and onboarding. He'll sweeten the pot."
"I'll write to him tonight," Donald said, his voice straightening with purpose.
Charles turned to all four of them. His tone shifted—commanding yet warm.
"This mission is more than just guard duty. Everyone you meet—every merchant, merc, beast trainer, informant—they're all seeds. If they aren't worth recruiting, they might know someone who is. Use the road to expand our reach. Be observant. Be persuasive. Use our name with caution."
Kael gave a thumbs-up, still half-shirtless. Karel smirked and stretched his bow string playfully. Andy, ever silent, merely nodded. Donald bowed low.
"When you arrive," Charles continued, "report everything to Anya and Elmer. Brief them on the Highlands of Throm Vale, the Emberdrake, Nimbus, the lair, and our acquisitions. Begin preparation for the Coming-of-Age Banquet. Organize the new slaves into provisional work units—no formal branding yet. We'll see which ones have leadership, potential, and skill once detox is complete."
Borris cleared his throat. "And the mine?"
Charles's gaze turned distant for a moment, calculating.
"I've already created a layered teleportation glyph in the manor's deepest vault. It connects to the chamber near the lair. I'll have a stealth deployment team begin excavation and construction within the week. Quiet. No noise. No rumors. Some of the new slaves—engineers, rune carvers, blacksmiths—they'll be assigned there under heavy guard. Have Elmer rotate trusted men from our Shadow Cohort as supervisors."
"Smart," Borris said. "And your schedule?"
"I'll return in two weeks. That gives us just enough time before the ceremony. Until then…" Charles stretched again and smiled. "Rob, Wendy, and you stay with me. We'll continue training, scouting, and healing you up."
Borris grumbled. "You always pick the fun assignments."
Charles grinned. "Then stop being so indispensable."
Nimbus moved a little behind him, yawning and sending out a spray of violet sparks. A few birds spooked by the noise flew out of a nearby tree. The camp was quiet for a moment as they watched the little curled-up dragon stretch like a languid cat.
Karel said quietly, "I still can't get used to seeing that thing be cute."
"It's like putting a volcano in a teacup," Kael said softly.
Wendy spoke, and her voice was calm. "She is more than she looks."
Charles laughed. "Isn't that what we all are?"
As the caravan began to mobilize under new banners, freshly packed crates, and carefully resealed cages, the embers of dusk gave way to the violet wash of night. In the clearing beneath the stars, an empire was being built—not through conquest, but through gold, loyalty, and terrifyingly efficient logistics.
The men dispersed. The mission was underway.
Charles stepped back into the flickering torchlight, whispering to Nimbus softly, "Let's see how many kingdoms we can build before they figure out who we really are."
The dragon purred.