Chapter Thirteen: Truly Destitute

Grant grinned foolishly and said respectfully, “Young master, this fellow is like a beast without claws now. Still, for safety’s sake, you’d best keep your distance and question him from afar.”
Carlos glanced at the broadsword sunk half a foot into the ground beside the man, then at the black cat perched on his shoulder, and nodded slowly. It seemed the other still had the resolve to fight to the death.
He followed the advice and hid behind the night patrols.
Anderson sneered repeatedly at Carlos’ timidity.
Carlos paid no mind to his provocative expressions. He simply touched his nose, fixed his gaze on Anderson’s eyes, and said, “I told you before, name your price in silver coins. The Stevenson family will guarantee it—my word still stands. But now, the roles are reversed.”
Anderson was silent for a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“Simply put, now you name your price. How many silver coins to compensate for my Mire Scroll and to buy your freedom?”
“You’re dreaming! Aren’t you afraid the Sword Guild will issue a warrant for you?”
Carlos looked at Anderson’s mocking face with confusion. He was, after all, an adult, yet these childish and foolish words came from his mouth. Even if he didn’t understand the principle of ‘man is knife, I am fish,’ surely he ought to have basic emotional intelligence. No matter how mighty the Sword Guild was, it had never granted a low-ranking follower the courage to challenge a noble. Anderson was merely a servant of the Radiant regime; the Sword Guild was just a station of armed service.
But nobles—
Even fallen nobles—were half-owners in the Empire of Light. Unless it was the king, no one could arrest someone with hereditary noble status.
“Young master, maybe we should just bring him back, keep him in the dungeon for a few days and he’ll be docile. If not, the master can arrange a charge for attacking a noble, and have him executed,” Grant said, knowing well how to deal with stubborn types.
Carlos smiled and waved, addressing Anderson who was trapped in the mire, “Let’s do this. Before the trap wears off, I estimate you could ransom your freedom with a few gold coins. What do you say?”
“You brat! You said silver coins before!” Anderson’s eyes were wild, as if he meant to devour him.
“Silver coins were before. Gold coins are now.”
Carlos corrected him seriously, then stepped out from the group of night patrols and said again, “If you don’t have any, it seems your black cat is rather well-behaved. I could settle for that. I’m a generous young master, fond of small creatures. The cat’s thin, but worth at least a couple silver coins. As for the sword…”
Anderson hated the greedy young noble beyond measure, but when he heard Carlos was eyeing his black cat Silly and his obsidian steel-patterned sword, he shook his head like a rattle and refused flatly.
“Not for sale.”
“Not for sale? Then do you have enough gold coins on you?”
Anderson gritted his teeth and stiffened his neck. “I haven’t a single coin. You might as well kill me!”
Carlos cast a sly glance at Grant behind him, who then drew the hidden blade from his sleeve and carefully searched Anderson up and down. Finding he truly was penniless, Grant shook his head and smiled bitterly at Carlos. “Young master, this fellow really is a pauper. The only thing of value on him is a silver medal, but you already have a drawer full of those. It’s hardly worth his life.”
Carlos thought, perhaps this man was honest after all, but on his face he merely curled his lips and said, “A silver medal can be melted into coins. Take it, and lock him in the dungeon for a while—that’ll cover his meals.”
“My, young master, you’re truly kind-hearted. A silver coin feeds a man for a few meals in town. In the dungeon, he’ll have plenty to eat, maybe even catch a fat rat for a snack now and then. Or we can hand him to Julio for discipline; with his strength, he’ll do well in the mines, eh?”
Carlos felt a certain pride—Grant, after spending so long by his side, had become quite the talker for an honest, simple man.
The rest of the night patrols, hearing Grant suggest handing the man to the mine overseer Julio, let out low, amused chuckles. Everyone knew that dwarf spent his days underground and had a strange temper—no prisoner ever fared well in his hands.
The man trapped in the mire fell silent. Carlos didn’t bother to frighten him further. Anyone who dared provoke him so brazenly on Bear Bridge clearly didn’t care about the young master of a ruined noble house.
If he didn’t teach him a lesson, the next time Carlos went alone to the alchemy hut to study, Anderson would certainly be watching.
He’d already dared to block his way at the doorstep; if he ever uncovered clues about the Bear Bridge murder, he’d probably try to arrest Carlos and send him off to the Cyprus City prison, and regret would be too late then.
An alchemist can’t brew regret.
With people like this, it was better to lay things out plainly.
Of course, if talks failed, then it was a matter of who had the greater strength. After all, this was Saltwell Town, Stevenson family territory. No need to be timid about everything.
Carlos turned and walked away. Dericht soon heard the news and hurried to Bear Bridge, helping Grant transfer the trapped Anderson to the town dungeon.
Anderson wasn’t alone; the black cat was locked up with him. Yet Carlos thought that, in the damp, chilly dungeon, the cat was less imprisoned than on holiday in a gourmet village.
No doubt, soon the skinny black cat would become a plump, obedient creature.
Back home.
His father, Mori, heard of the matter and, unexpectedly, had no comment. He seemed unimpressed with these black-hatted Sword Guild types. Lately, he was buried daily in town affairs, and his sallow, gaunt face showed it.
Saltwell Town, it seemed, was not as calm as it appeared.
“You’ve caused enough trouble lately. Get ready and report to old Dubuyi. Your temperament’s too unruly—you need a teacher to keep you in line. At the alchemy house, don’t just study alchemical crafting; learn some useful potion arts as well, they’ll benefit you in the future. Don’t think about scroll-making, that’s greed beyond your capacity.
And don’t neglect the mental control training with your Demon Hunter’s Pocket Watch. Get the puppet inside solidified soon, and the matter of bloodline inheritance should be addressed as well.”
With those words, Mori dragged his weary body upstairs to rest.
Carlos could only smile sheepishly in agreement, and soon his gaze fell on the seat his father had vacated.
A cowhide envelope lay scattered in the corner of the sofa, already opened, as if just recently read.
He pondered a moment,
then walked over, picked up the envelope, and tipped its contents into his palm. A yellowed letter slid into his hand.
The contents were brief, yet they sent a chill down Carlos’ spine, cold sweat breaking out across his back.