Chapter 265: The Network Starts Turning

The less-than-a-month that Scarface Anton had spent under Duke Cecil’s domain was the most unbelievable stretch of his life.

Born in a backwater village in the southern Leslie territory, raised among thugs and beggars, Anton had lived at society’s lowest rung. He’d stolen, lied, worked hard at times, fought countless brawls—and been beaten to a pulp more times than he could count. He’d learned a few crude stealth tricks from a blind, down-on-his-luck mercenary, but his own limited talent meant he never became a true professional. For a long time, he’d been a hired muscle, but eventually, relying on his brute strength and a bit of shadow magic, he rose to become a “better class” of gutter rat—a bar owner in a dive.

He prided himself on having seen it all. Whether the filth and decay of the lowest slums or the glittering excesses of the nobility, he wouldn’t claim to have experienced everything, but he’d at least glimpsed it all—from afar, if nothing else.

Yet here, on this land, he realized how shallow his understanding truly was.

The thunderous machines, the disciplined armies, the spirited citizens, the efficient and orderly officials—everything was so astonishing.

And the training he was receiving was just as incredible.

He still remembered how, not long ago, he and his crew had been brought by their old boss to this unbelievable place, then locked inside what looked like a military camp. Everyone was uneasy, guessing what some high noble could possibly want with a bunch of gutter rats, enough to lock them up in a barracks. Without their boss’s presence, many would have quit on day one.

Then came the relentless training—and education.

Every day, different instructors came to pour knowledge and skills into them. Grueling physical training was just the start. Soldiers taught them swordplay and how to use strange magical tools. In the afternoons, teachers—who didn’t look like soldiers—came to teach reading, writing, arithmetic, and even basic social etiquette.

It was tough going. Most didn’t want to learn at all. None had ever imagined needing such knowledge. Literacy was useless for gutter rats—Anton thought so at first, too. But in the end, everyone forced themselves to keep at it.

Because if they didn’t, the punishment was brutal physical training that nearly killed.

Worse still, Amber herself personally supervised them—the big sister’s authority crushed any thought of rebellion.

Day and night, training and studying. Building strength, practicing combat, wielding weapons, learning to read and count. What had started as unbearable hardship gradually became routine in less than two weeks. After adapting, they even found the life wasn’t so bad—the training was intense, but the lord guaranteed everyone had meat broth and bread every day. No matter how hard they trained, Anton and his friends never went hungry.

Meat broth, bread, eggs, and always enough to fill their bellies. New clothes, warm dormitories—the merciful lord provided the best conditions, asking only that they follow his rules for training and study. It was a bargain far better than starving to death in the freezing cold.

So Scarface Anton and his comrades persevered, learning as much as they could. Those once worthless men now knew how to wash their faces and hands, keep their clothes tidy, disguise their identities, and interact with others. As for reading people and passing information—that was their old trade.

Of course, the training was far from over. Their literacy and covert skills were still rudimentary, but after more than two weeks of physical conditioning and proper nutrition, they at least looked the part—standing straight, walking steady, calmly pretending to be merchants, knight apprentices, or mage apprentices, and talking to people. That was enough to carry out their first mission.

After the mission briefing, Amber assigned teams and directions, then handed out letters of authorization from Duke Gawain Cecil.

“Carry these letters, and you are respectable agents commissioned by the duke to work throughout the southern territories. You can enter towns without fear of interrogation. But how you bring people back—that’s your test,” Amber said calmly from the stage, watching her team excitedly examine their documents. “You’ll receive operational funds—enough to buy fake papers, forge employment contracts, bribe guards, and so on to extract people from other noble lands. But remember, I’ll check your leftover funds when you return—the more you save, the bigger your reward. The ten who come back with the least money? You’ll have to run fifteen laps around Knight Street with a pumpkin on your head—at noon, when the streets are busiest! Got it?”

Everyone answered in unison: “Got it!”

Scarface Anton and the first batch of Military Security Intelligence trainees set off with the duke’s letters. Meanwhile, merchants carrying “Cecil Alchemical Potions” began circulating throughout the southern lands. Originally loose, independent traders, they were gradually bought off and persuaded by Patrick’s tireless efforts. Tempted by profit and pressured by the duke’s reputation, they signed sworn contracts, becoming the Cecil Trading Company’s roaming agents.

Soon, these merchants realized joining the company wasn’t as risky as they’d feared. Unlike other nobles who found excuses to squeeze merchants dry, Duke Cecil didn’t shortchange goods or impose exorbitant fees. Patrick, as the duke’s representative, supplied each dealer with ample, high-quality stock and fairly divided profits down to the last copper coin—a dream come true.

Many merchants were curious about how these neatly packaged, consistently high-quality potions were produced, but that was the duke’s secret. Smart traders didn’t pry into noble affairs. Curious or not, they stuck to their duties, focusing on how to turn these potions into steady profits.

The Cecil Trading Company set fixed prices and profit shares in the contracts—non-negotiable. But how to sell the potions quickly? That was the expertise of seasoned small-time merchants.

In the central southern territory of Viscount Carol, merchant Bob displayed three sample potions at the mercenary guild’s counter, explaining their origin and effects to the guild’s manager, with several mercenaries who had escorted him from the Kant lands standing behind.

A merchant showing up at the mercenary guild to sell potions drew attention. Mercenaries warming themselves by the hearth turned their eyes toward the counter—just what Bob wanted. Whether or not the manager was interested, Bob had succeeded in catching the mercenaries’ attention, which was his real goal.

“I’ve heard of these potions—they’re from that frontier territory in the south, right?” the guild manager frowned slightly after listening. “Supposedly not as good as official alchemical potions, but unbelievably cheap… Are they really as good as you say?”

“You can ask this warrior beside me,” Bob said, stepping aside to point at one of his mercenary escorts.

“Old Goldtooth here can vouch—they’re good stuff!” The towering mercenary grinned. “See this new scar on my neck? Without these potions, you’d be reading my name on a wooden board behind you right now!”

“Renting a counter at the mercenary guild to sell potions… no one’s done that before,” the manager said, clearly trusting the mercenary but still cautious. He looked at Bob. “You have to guarantee steady supply and the quality you promised. Mercenaries have short tempers—I don’t want them smashing your counter and me having to scrape you off the floor.”

“Merchants live by their reputation,” Bob said, pulling a supply agreement from his pocket and slapping it on the counter. “Here—signed by Duke Cecil himself! You recognize this seal, right?”

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

Watching his guards leave after collecting their pay, Bob squinted as if he could see the entire mercenary guild as walking coins. He looked forward to the day he’d saved enough to buy his own shop in Carol’s territory. According to Mr. Patrick’s promise, the Cecil Trading Company would provide extra financial aid to dealers preparing to open shops and might send personnel to assist. Bob knew well those “assistants” were the duke’s eyes and ears, watching him—but so what?

From the day he joined the Cecil Trading Company, merchant Bob understood he was managing the duke’s enterprise—and would become part of it. Which noble wouldn’t keep an eye on their own business?

As long as there was real gold and silver, being a noble’s loyal hound wasn’t so bad.

(End of chapter)