"What do you want to discuss?" Barrett grew alert. From his past experience, whenever Old Tony showed up out of the blue, there were never any easy money-making opportunities—just a ton of ways to get yourself killed.
Old Tony pondered for a moment, then got straight to the point, "The Warrior Captain tournament is nearing its end, and they're about to select the final spots for the championship. The second prince's faction has a powerful contender named Schroeve Dahlsen. His strength has been boosted in some unnatural way, and we couldn't stop it. I'm worried Brain won't be able to beat him."
"You should have faith in Brain—he's the Re-Estize's strongest swordsman, isn't he?" Barrett asked, a bit puzzled. "Besides, what does this have to do with me? I didn't even enter the Warrior Captain selection tournament. Don't try to drag me into this mess."
Old Tony pulled out a piece of parchment from his chest, unfolded it, and glanced at it. "I'm not trying to drag you into anything. I just want to ask you to step in for an adventurer in a match against Schroeve Dahlsen."
"Don't joke around," Barrett refused flatly. "I saw Schroeve's win rate at the gambling hall last time—a master with over a dozen straight victories. He's ruthless; anyone who duels him either ends up dead or crippled. And you say you're not pulling me in?"
Old Tony smiled awkwardly. "Didn't you once slay an ancient white dragon? Since you always pull off what normal folks can't, I figured I'd come talk to you about it."
"That dragon was an idiot—its brain had been bashed in by someone long ago," Barrett said irritably. "I just got lucky and took advantage of the situation.
"Plus, I've never entered the Warrior Captain selection competition. My ranking is zero. How could I possibly face off against Schroeve? Don't tell me about impersonation or anything like that—the later stages of the tournament are strict. Even if the Re-Estize's bureaucrats are dumb, they're not blind; they'd definitely catch it."
Old Tony said confidently, "As long as you're willing to fight, there's always a way. The tournament rules include a 'challenge system.' Anyone can challenge a contestant, and the contestant has the right to refuse or accept. If they accept, the two duel. If the challenger wins, they take the contestant's ranking and replace their spot."
Barrett understood Old Tony's scheme. He could set up an adventurer to put on a show of fighting Barrett and intentionally lose, allowing Barrett to step right into the arena and face off against Schroeve.
"I'm not getting mixed up in this mess. Schroeve Dahlsen's real name is Slam Daguerre, right? A mercenary nicknamed the 'Lord of Death.'" Barrett asked. He'd heard about Schroeve's reputation from "Wind Blade" Yaso.
"Yes. He's been hired by the nobles to compete." Old Tony nodded. "You must have heard of him back in Baharuth. He has a notorious assassin for a brother, but I heard recently that the guy got killed by someone."
Barrett thought to himself: His brother's death—I had a part in that. Better to steer clear of trouble; I'm dodging him as it is, no way I'd go stirring up a hornet's nest.
"You're really turning this down?" Old Tony looked disappointed. "For the medical fund, our comrades have already sacrificed so much. Five adventurers died in the advancement duels, and several more ended up injured and crippled.
"As long as we can beat Slam, Brain is sure to get elected as the Warrior Captain, and the contract between the Adventurer's Guild and Princess Renner will kick in. Don't you want official help from the Re-Estize if you get hurt down the line?"
"Old Tony," Barrett flipped the script and stared him down, "you're in way too deep. Have you forgotten the adventurer's code? Adventurers aren't mercenaries—mercenaries kill people, adventurers kill monsters. The power games of nobles and royals aren't our business."
Old Tony said softly, "I'm getting on in years. The old wounds from my youth often ache in the dead of night. Sure, mages don't fight with raw strength or Martial Arts, but my body's not up for all that running around anymore. I might quit this gig soon, but I still want to make a difference—even if it means scrapping with people."
"Then you'd better watch your back. Ever since we were hired by Princess Renner," Barrett mulled it over in his mind, "we've already faced two assassination attempts—the first aimed at me and the captain, the second at Princess Renner. Each one nearly did us in. This is a bloody whirlwind of steel and slaughter; don't get pulled into it. No need to keep pushing—I absolutely won't join the Warrior Captain selection tournament."
Old Tony nodded silently. He wasn't one to miss the hint; seeing Barrett firm in his stance, he dropped the persuasion, snatched his gray wool coat from the rack, and got ready to head out.
EeDechi called after him, handing over a parchment book. "This is a book I scavenged from an old shop. Take a look—how much of it is actually true?"
Old Tony took the weathered parchment book and skimmed it from front to back in a flash. "Is this a bedtime tale for kids? Eighty percent of it's total nonsense."
"How much is the book worth?" EeDechi asked.
"Given the top-notch aging work and the fact it'd make prime toilet paper, it's worth one silver coin. How much did you shell out for it?"
"I..." EeDechi stammered, for once too shy to speak up.
She had spent 10 gold coins! Barrett answered for his captain in his mind.
"Is there really no genuine lore in this book at all?" EeDechi pressed, not ready to let it go.
"Hmm..." Old Tony flipped through a few pages, pointing to a scribbled, messy illustration:
"Just this bit is spot on. The legend of the Eight Greed Kings' Great Expedition—in the Imperial Calendar year 1339, the eight kings threw their whole nation's might into launching a massive campaign. When I was wandering the Eight Greed Kings desert, I once found a chipped calcite slab, and the dates and events carved on it match the book exactly."
He handed the book back to EeDechi, threw on his coat, cinched his fur hat tight, and called to Eddie—who was pestering Sean for tips on archer aiming tricks. The old man and the kid pushed open the door, stepped into the biting chill of the wind, and were gone.
...
Winter had arrived, with howling cold winds. Noblewomen in wool cloaks and mink fur jackets strolled through the royal palace in small groups.
In the reception room, firelight danced silently in the fireplace. The flames were mere magical illusions; the real source of light and heat came from the red magic crystals embedded in the inner walls.
The magic-powered fireplace didn't give off smoke, dust, or ashes like charcoal or wood-burning ones, and there was no need for a special chimney to vent air or release fumes.
Such high-end fireplaces were only for nobles, royals, and high-level mages to enjoy—after all, the drain on magic crystals wasn't something ordinary folks could afford.
Princess Renner stared into the fireplace's fake flames, reminded of the fairy tales her maids used to tell her as a child.
In those tales, on the gods' birth festival, a divine messenger in a red cotton robe would ride a heavenly steed from the far north, slip down the rooftop chimney into the fireplace, and deliver precious gifts to blessed children.
As a kid, she could never wrap her head around what a "chimney" was, or how the divine messenger could "slip" into the fireplace from outside. Did the messenger have a squad of wall-digging infantry under his command?
She'd played war games during her court tutor lessons and knew about tunneling tactics in sieges.
Whether there really was a divine messenger handing out gifts to kids, she had her doubts. But every winter on that special day, she'd find a gift by the fireplace, which made her childhood self believe she was a little angel blessed by the gods, thrilled beyond words.
She grew up and learned the truth: the gifts had always been secretly placed there by the first prince's servants.
When the first prince got tired of the game of teasing his sister, the younger second prince took over the heartwarming duty, keeping their sister happy for a few more years before she found out.
Thinking of it now, Princess Renner couldn't help but smile bitterly in her heart. Royal kids really shouldn't hear fairy tales. Sweet honey water first, then bitter medicine—the bitterness hits twice as hard.
She pulled her gaze away from the fireplace flames. In the ornate armchair that had been empty before, now sat a stunning woman in a white gown.
The envoy from the Sorcerer Kingdom, Albedo, had arrived right on time.
Renner bowed her head and asked, "May I ask why you've summoned me here, my lady?"
"You haven't reported in for quite a while." Albedo lounged in the armchair, her alluring curves rising and falling enticingly.
On this cold winter day, when water froze outside by morning and the indoor temperature had lost its usual warmth, she still wore a sheer, form-fitting white gown as thin as cicada wings.
Renner, bundled in her otter fur coat, thought to herself that demon gods truly weren't bound by nature's rules. She remembered her last meeting with EeDechi—that adventurer had only worn a thin black linen outfit.
"What would you like to know, Lady Envoy?" Princess Renner asked politely.
"I'm asking you," Albedo pointed at Princess Renner with her chin, as arrogant as ever, "has EeDechi discussed anything with you about the Great Tomb of Nazarick?"