Chapter 87: Making Friends Comes at a Price
To witness it with one's own eyes—
A man—a human being—hurling a spear from more than ten meters away and driving it straight into stone.
Then outrunning a horse on foot, borrowing momentum from thin air itself, scaling a ten-meter wall with ease—
And doing all of this without so much as a flushed face or a ragged breath.
Everyone who saw it froze.
The looks they cast at Podrick were no longer those meant for a man.
They were the looks reserved for a god.
As for Tumbleton's acting castellan, he wasn't merely sweating anymore.
Staring up at Podrick—standing tall on the battlements, looking down at him as though he were nothing more than a discarded object—the man's legs gave out entirely.
He collapsed onto the stone.
Eyes bulging. Mouth agape. One trembling finger raised toward Podrick—yet not a single word could escape.
And yet, no one laughed at him.
Because it wasn't just him.
The three hundred City Watch soldiers Podrick had brought with him were just as stunned, mouths hanging open, gasps rippling through their ranks.
The men on the walls were no blind fools either.
They had seen it all clearly.
That nameless youth—Podrick Payne, self-styled commander of the City Watch—had come from nowhere, and in seconds displayed strength that defied reason:
A spear hurled with such force it screamed through the air and bit into stone.
A body moving with the speed of a hunting beast.
A wall scaled like a staircase.
Every detail chilled the blood.
Faced with this, the so-called defenders—farmhands and shepherds pressed into service, along with the ten unlucky soldiers left behind who had never even trained properly—had no morale left to speak of.
If a spear could punch into stone, it could punch through them.
If that man could run that fast and leap that high, killing them would be easier than slaughtering chickens.
And worse still—
He wore full black plate armor.
A gilded helm caught the sky behind him as he stood tall on the battlements, looking like a war god descended to earth.
With his strength, his armor, and the advantage of already being on the wall—
What could a dozen men possibly do?
Fight him?
Run from him?
Either answer was a joke.
"I asked you a question."
Podrick's cold voice shattered the unnatural silence.
The fat acting castellan shuddered violently.
His body betrayed him—a hot wetness spreading beneath him, the sharp stench of fear rising into the air.
But he didn't dare care.
Scrambling to answer, his voice broke apart between sobs and terror.
"Y-y-yes…! M-my lord…! Lord Payne…! O-of course… we c-can be friends…!"
Under the gaze of those eyes—eyes that made no effort to hide their intent to kill—the man dared not say a single word of refusal.
Whatever orders Lord Footly had given him before leaving were long forgotten.
Podrick watched him for a moment, satisfied.
Then he stepped down from the battlements in one smooth motion, landing lightly—and deliberately moving a step farther away from the collapsed man.
Only once the smell no longer reached him did Podrick nod.
"Good," he said calmly.
"I love making friends."
"But since you're willing to be my friend, I should explain my rules."
"So you don't break them by accident."
The castellan felt as though he were trapped on a boat, caught in the heart of a sudden storm.
"L-lord… w-what… what rules…?"
His voice shook uncontrollably.
Dozens of men stood nearby—yet not one of them gave him even the slightest sense of safety.
He didn't know whether, if a fight broke out, they could kill this monster before their strength failed.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty—
If it came to that, he would die first.
And he would die badly.
This thing before him—
It wasn't here to make friends at all.
Podrick did not care about their fear.
In fact, the more terrified they were, the better—it meant he wouldn't have to work very hard at all.
So his mouth split into a grin.
A grin that revealed a set of teeth so white they gleamed even beneath the overcast sky.
White enough to hurt the eyes.
Like something about to devour flesh.
No—
It was as if every gap between those teeth was carved with the word "eat."
"It's not some complicated rule," Podrick said, completely unaware—or perhaps fully aware—of how chilling his smile looked.
"I just don't like being taken advantage of when I make friends."
He squatted down as he spoke, thumb and forefinger rubbing together lightly.
"So anyone who becomes my friend has to pay a friendship fee."
"And you…"
"Do you have a friendship fee to pay?"
A friendship fee?
The words landed like a hammer.
Never mind the fat acting castellan—everyone on the wall who heard Podrick clearly froze in disbelief.
They had heard of every kind of tax imaginable.
Every excuse for levies and fees.
But this?
A friendship fee?
And who ever heard of paying money just to be someone's friend?
But—
Could they refuse?
From below the walls came the excited shouting of the gold cloaks as they surged closer, their noise making the silence atop the battlements feel even more suffocating.
"L-Lord… Lord Payne…"
"W-what… what kind of friendship fee… are you asking for?"
Tumbleton was finished.
The fat acting castellan closed his eyes in despair.
By now, he had finally shaken free of the shock from Podrick's sudden ascent onto the wall.
In the span of just a few minutes—between Podrick's impossible climb and this brief exchange—the advantage of defending the walls had evaporated completely.
And now, as clarity returned along with the thunder of hundreds of approaching gold cloaks, the castellan understood:
Tumbleton was lost.
Once again, after the tragedy of the Dance of the Dragons, the town had fallen.
All that remained was for the invaders to take what they wished—
To plunder, to claim, to depart satisfied—
Leaving nothing behind but scars.
The fat man's despair was that of a powerless maiden facing the inevitable.
Podrick, meanwhile, let out a low, raspy laugh.
"Heh. Heh. Heh."
"The friendship fee is simple," he said.
"It's the cost of being friends."
"And since so many of you want to be my friends…"
"Well then—
You all belong to me now."
"Which naturally includes this town."
---
Half an hour later.
Without a single drop of blood spilled, Podrick stood atop the captured walls, nodding in satisfaction.
Because no battle had taken place, the townsfolk suffered little direct harm—and few had managed to flee.
Those who did escape didn't matter.
Podrick didn't care about them.
They took nothing with them.
And now—
He would take everything that could be taken.
Including the people who had just become his prisoners.