Chapter 528: Another Deal

It was an enormous expense.

But it was worth it.

Victoria carefully examined the one-handed sword in her hand—a gift from Gawain after they had officially signed the contract. This sword was almost identical to every blade she had seen on the warriors of the Cecil family. The only difference was that the family crest on the hilt had been replaced: instead of Cecil’s emblem, it bore the insignia of the Wilde family of the Northlands.

The craftsmanship was exquisite, with sharp, precise lines and meticulous engravings. The surface was flawless. As a mass-produced weapon, it was even finer than those wielded by the royal knights. And there were thousands more just like it, each indistinguishable from the next.

This uniformity gave Victoria a palpable sense of “power.”

It certainly wasn’t the very best weapon Cecil had—no one in their right mind would sell off their top-tier armaments unless forced—but it was still better than what the kingdom’s army currently had. That was enough.

As the Northern Duchess held the sword, lost in thought, Gawain’s mind drifted to memories of Gawain Cecil. He recalled the first Duke of the Northlands, Snowwilde, a powerful mage who, during his last visit to the southern lands, had spent an entire night in deep conversation with Gawain Cecil.

At that time, the system of the Four Border Dukes had been established, and the central kingdom and the four great duchies were working together to build Ansu. Yet the Northern Duke had asked a strange question: What if, one day, the greatest threat to the kingdom wasn’t the external magical tides, but the Four Border Dukes themselves?

Snowwilde was passionate about history, especially the noble history of the Gondor Empire. Perhaps he saw a hidden danger in the forced establishment of the Four Border Dukes system. Unfortunately, Gawain Cecil had no answer for him—three days later, Gawain Cecil died on the battlefield.

Gawain snapped back to the present and looked at Victoria. Casually, he asked, “Do you think the crisis in Ansu will end once the civil war is over?”

“If we win, yes,” Victoria lifted her head and stated matter-of-factly, “Wales Morn is the rightful heir to the throne. As long as the kingdom’s army defeats the Eastern rebels, the Ansu nobility will inevitably reunite. Once the nobles come together again, Ansu will become whole, and the crisis will naturally be resolved.”

“I see,” Gawain nodded. “Then let’s head back to the city.”

Victoria blinked, a flicker of confusion hidden beneath her calm expression. She sensed a trace of disappointment in Gawain’s subtle expression, but quickly dismissed it as a trick of her imagination. Watching him stride away, she didn’t press further. Instead, she quickened her pace to the magi-car parked nearby and pointed at it. “Duke Cecil, do you also sell these things called magi-cars?”

Gawain stopped and glanced at her, a bit surprised, then smiled faintly. “Eventually, yes. But not yet—we can’t produce enough of them right now. At least six months before we can meet demand. And if you want to buy one, you’d better fix the Kingdom Road first when you get back.”

Victoria bowed her head deeply. “I will. Roads are the lifeblood of the kingdom. Once the snow melts, my first priority will be to rebuild the Kingdom Road.”

Back at the lord’s manor, Victoria quickly took her leave. She needed to return to the Autumn Palace to calculate exactly how much the kingdom’s army could afford to spend on armaments. Gawain didn’t linger either. He soon boarded the magi-car waiting at the gate and ordered the driver to head to the merchant district.

The mechanical vibrations hummed beneath the vehicle. Sitting inside this magi-car, which looked somewhat out of place in the era’s aesthetic, Gawain exhaled softly. Suddenly, a shadow stirred on the seat beside him, and Amber’s figure emerged from the darkness.

“That duchess seemed really pained,” Amber blinked, clearly having been lurking nearby without Gawain noticing. “She probably put all her dowry money into this.”

“That’s a huge sum. Even if half of it could be converted into supplies, it would still exceed the treasury’s capacity at Saint Suniel. Yet Victoria chose to accept it. She truly wants this civil war to end quickly and hopes the kingdom’s army will win soon.”

“You never go easy on money, though,” Amber said bluntly. “You’re ruthless. After all, she’s your junior and a noble to boot, yet you didn’t even offer a discount.”

Gawain glanced at Amber and said slowly, “The kingdom’s army can’t save Ansu.”

Those gold coins would only be slowly consumed on the battlefields of the Saint Spirit Plains. Rather than letting them be wasted, it was better to turn them into the gears and levers of magi-industrial development.

Amber blinked and stroked her chin. “So what are you going to do now?”

“Go meet another group of people who also can’t save Ansu.”

The magi-car passed through Cecil City’s administrative district, crossed the ring road, and soon arrived at the merchant district on the city’s west side. Before long, it stopped in front of a tall, brand-new building—

The Cecil Merchant Guildhall, a place reserved for receiving wealthy and influential merchants.

Behind a second-floor window, a young noble with short brown hair quietly observed the street. When he saw the magi-car approaching, he stepped back and left the window.

Inside the room were several others, dressed in fine silk or velvet, wearing brooches or mechanical pocket watches. They looked like merchants, but their sharp, wary eyes and commanding presence suggested they were more than mere traders.

One of them noticed the brown-haired youth leaving the window and stood up to ask, “Young master, is there something happening outside?”

“No need to worry. He’s here,” the brown-haired youth nodded gravely. “He only brought one attendant. He should be up soon.”

The others relaxed slightly and moved toward the door with the young man, waiting quietly.

Footsteps approached…

Inside the merchant guildhall’s room, Gawain met these special guests.

Over the past three days, he had arranged for Victoria and other visitors from the capital to tour the markets, the city streets, and all the planned locations. Meanwhile, he had been busy meeting with these particular guests.

The door closed behind him. Gawain looked at the brown-haired young man before him and nodded slightly. “Marquis Belk, it seems you took my advice and didn’t run off.”

The brown-haired youth—Belk Rolorn, eldest son of the Duke of the Eastlands, Selas Rolorn—bowed respectfully as a junior to Gawain. The others followed suit. After the formalities, the young man, barely in his twenties but already mid-ranking, couldn’t help but say, “It’s not comfortable staying cooped up in a room.”

“Leaving the room would be more troublesome,” Gawain said, settling onto the sofa in the center of the room with Amber beside him. He looked at Belk, who had also taken a seat. “The heir to the Eastern Duchy appearing in Cecil City is not a good sign. And I’m sure Victoria would be more than happy to use this opportunity to make Selas Rolorn lose his beloved son—you can’t beat her.”

Belk shifted awkwardly. Though he tried to control his expression, he was no match for Victoria’s practiced poise. “You received envoys from the capital at the lord’s manor but had us hide among the merchants. Is that… a statement of your position?”

Gawain chuckled. He looked at the young man before him. Belk was a decent fellow—polite, talented, intelligent—but clearly too reckless and inexperienced. He hadn’t yet mastered the art of negotiation. But considering his age, it was unfair to compare him to the Northern Duchess. “To be frank, the so-called kingdom’s army and the Eastern army are the same to me. Youngsters fighting doesn’t require the parents to come and judge who’s right or wrong. But geographically, the Southlands and the Saint Spirit Plains are more closely connected than the Eastlands. And their visit was announced long ago.”

He paused, then continued, “As for you… I reserve limited trust for you, and that’s only because of Anthony Rolorn.”

“Forgive me for overstepping, but you’ll see soon enough—we are the ones truly trying to save this kingdom,” Belk said seriously. “The nobles of the Saint Spirit Plains, lost in their peace, don’t realize the crisis. They don’t see the changes in Typhon, nor the shifts in the world. They only know endless feasts and squeezing the last copper coin from the common folk. But we know—

“Typhon is reforming land laws, promoting education, developing technology, reorganizing the army, and expanding territory. Their commoners can eat meat once a week, while our people can’t even get enough black bread in winter. Even if Ansu tries to catch up now, it will be difficult. Our only way out is to quickly concentrate power in the hands of a strong new king, to make Typhon wary—even if only for ten years, or five—we still have a chance…”

Gawain interrupted the passionate young man. “Edmund is the ‘strong new king’ you speak of?”

“Prince Edmund has vision and charisma,” Belk said earnestly, admiration in his tone. “His pilot programs in the Eastlands—the farming reward law, road-building act, commercial regulations, and farm reclamation system—are already showing results. If the Saint Spirit Plains sent a competent noble to see for themselves, they’d realize who the rightful king is—but they’re clearly afraid.”

It seemed this young marquis was completely unaware of Prince Edmund’s ties to the Cult of the End of All Things, or the truth behind Francis II’s death—or perhaps he was just a skilled actor, pretending ignorance.

Gawain didn’t care what Belk knew or didn’t. He patiently waited for him to finish before nodding. “I know a bit myself. It’s because I know these things that I’m willing to give you some trust and allow your merchants to establish trade routes in the Eastlands. You must understand, I’ve been dead for seven hundred years. Most of the people I knew and trusted are gone. I have to learn about everyone and every power in this era anew—even the descendants of old friends.”

Belk sat on the sofa, unconsciously rubbing his index finger’s knuckle—a subconscious gesture when organizing his thoughts. “Yes, my father and I understand that… Mr. Code left a deep impression on us. The potions he brought are exactly what we need. My father sent me here to discuss this with you…”

“We’ve been talking about that for the past two days,” Gawain nodded. “I know what you mean. You have a huge shortage of potions, so you want to order a massive supply of alchemical medicines, buy a set of factory equipment, and have Cecil train a group of machine operators for you… Honestly, you’re asking for quite a lot.”

“We have no choice,” Belk said.

The young marquis understood that what he was asking for was a delicate “technical core,” something Duke Cecil would be hard-pressed to agree to. Yet before setting out, Prince Edmund had explained the necessity of it all—alchemical potions, vital to the army’s survival, couldn’t always be controlled by others. Only by enabling the Eastern Territory to produce them could they ensure that if the Southern Territory’s supply was suddenly cut off one day, they wouldn’t be left completely vulnerable.

Two days ago, negotiations had stalled precisely over this issue. But now that Duke Cecil had come again, it meant there was still room to discuss.

Gawain sat quietly, deep in thought—his expression conflicted and hesitant. Amber, sitting beside him, couldn’t help but speak up: “Our machines were developed at a huge cost. That’s knowledge you can’t just buy with money…”

Gawain gave Amber a subtle thumbs-up, his face serious. “But the Eastern Territory is still part of Ansu.”

“But what if we help them build the factory, and then they learn the technology, start producing on their own, and refuse to let our potions in?” Amber pressed.

Belk immediately responded, “I swear on my family’s honor, the Eastern Territory would never betray the knightly code like that. Before I left, Prince Edmund made it clear: we’re building our own factory only as a contingency. We still rely on the Southern Territory’s alchemical potions.”

Gawain didn’t trust Edmund’s promise for a second, but he nodded with a look of faith. “I want to believe you.”

Then he shifted gears. “But I have to protect the Southern Territory’s interests, and the merchants loyal to me. So if you want to build a potion factory in the East, I have one condition: it must be a joint venture with merchants I appoint.”

“A joint venture?”

“Yes. We split the costs fifty-fifty, build it together, manage it together, and share the profits equally. Southern commercial representatives will safeguard the core technology from leaking and provide technical guidance. That’s the biggest concession I’m willing to make.”

Belk pondered for a moment, then rose to confer quietly and quickly with his companions.

After a brief discussion, he returned to his seat. “…I agree. On this matter, I can represent the will of my father and Prince Edmund.”

Gawain smiled. “Good. Then we need to recalculate the price…”

When the final estimate came in, the young marquis was stunned.

“This much?!”

“Isn’t that normal?” Gawain spread his hands. “If building an alchemy factory were easy, I wouldn’t have hesitated until now. And I’m not just helping you build one factory—you’re buying an initial batch of potions equal to the total traditional alchemical output of all Ansu over the past three years. Think about the price of traditional potions, and you’ll see this cost isn’t unreasonable.”

“That… is true,” Belk rubbed his knuckles, looking troubled again. “But to be honest, this price is a bit beyond what we expected.”

Gawain said calmly, “That’s because you made demands beyond the original plan.”

He then proposed the method he had discussed with Victoria earlier: offsetting half the cash with supplies.

But this time, Belk still looked uneasy.

After all, the Eastern Territory was just that—eastern territory. Though its army was strong, with a higher proportion of gifted individuals than the kingdom’s forces, in terms of land area, population, and resource output, it couldn’t compare to the kingdom’s army, which controlled the Holy Spirit Plains and had the “Western Territory–Ogure Tribe” trade route backing it.

Clearly, their ability to pay was limited.

The talks seemed to reach an impasse, until Gawain suddenly broke the silence. “There’s another option.”

Young Belk immediately looked up. “What option do you have in mind?”

“In the southwestern part of the Eastern Territory, near the triangular junction of the Southern Territory and the Dark Mountains, there’s an area called the ‘White Sand Hills,’ right?” Gawain said evenly. “It’s said to produce iron and copper, and has small deposits of magic crystal veins.”

“You want the White Sand Hills?” Belk’s eyes widened, then he shook his head firmly. “I must refuse—that’s impossible. That area, though undeveloped, is the Eastern Territory’s future long-term mining ground and a precious part of our land. Trading permanent territory for temporary potions and a factory is too high a price.”

“I’m not asking for permanent control,” Gawain interrupted. “I only want to mine it for a limited time—five years. The Southern Territory would mine the White Sand Hills for five years, then it would revert to you. Given the current situation, this civil war should be over in five years. By then, everything will have settled, and we can begin a new era.”

Seeing the seriousness and resolve on Gawain’s face, young Belk, heir to the Eastern Territory, hesitated.

Five years…

He rose again and quickly consulted with his advisors and subordinates.

A few minutes later, he returned to Gawain.

They probably wouldn’t be able to extract much.

“We agree.”

(End of chapter)