A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor
Chapter 76: A Big Haul

Chapter 76: Chapter 76: A Big Haul

"Ian! Ian!"

Hana’s voice sliced through the tranquil silence of the garden as she sprinted toward him. Ian, engrossed in meticulously pruning the Gula sprouts, swiveled around. She skidded to a halt before him, breathless, and thrust a letter at him. It bore no seal, but the heavy, cream-colored paper practically reeked of wealth.

"A letter from Mereloff!"

"Oh. Interesting."

Ian carefully removed his gardening gloves and accepted the letter. Definitely not from the Count himself... In that case, there’s only one person in that drafty old house who’d be holding a pen.

"It has to be the steward."

"What? Not the Count?"

"No seal. Can’t be him. If the Count had deigned to write, he wouldn’t have entrusted it to a mere servant." He would have marched to the front gate himself, demanding Ian receive it personally—a pointed reminder of their respective stations, of course.

Ian slit the envelope open with a practiced flick of his wrist and scanned the neat, precise script. Hana, unable to read a word, fidgeted restlessly, her eyes darting back and forth, trying to read Ian’s face like an open book.

"Is it what you were waiting for?"

"...Not precisely what I was *anticipating*," Ian murmured, almost to himself, "but welcome news all the same."

He folded the paper with a deliberate motion and patted Hana’s shoulder. Then, he directed his sharp gaze towards Beric, who was sprawled lazily under the shade of a sprawling oak.

"Beric. Enough lounging. Cellar. Now."

"The cellar? Again? What for?"

"And get Romandro. Tell the kitchen to mix up some flour with... whatever they can find that’s vaguely edible. Make it into dough balls."

The steward, writing on the Count’s behalf, inquired about the possibility of a Gula trade.

[To Viscount Ian,

Please forgive the informality of my address and my writing on the Count’s behalf. Count Mereloff is currently indisposed and unable to reply himself.]

The "informality" stemmed from Ian not yet having received a family name. And the claim of the Count being "indisposed" was a transparent lie. Ian’s first letter to Mereloff had detailed the assassins’ plot, yet he had received no formal response. Typical.

The celebratory letter about my viscountcy was probably written by the steward, too. The Count probably didn’t even lift a finger.

Mereloff is conducting a thorough investigation into the matter of the assassins you reported. Please wait a little longer. The reason for this letter is to inquire whether you might be open to a Gula trade.

Rumor has it that you strictly forbid Gula trade with outsiders. While I respect your decision, I am compelled to write, considering the approaching winter.

This is my personal proposal, unrelated to the Count. However, if you grant your permission, I will strive to facilitate a mutually satisfactory transaction.

I hope for your generosity and conclude.

Samon, Steward of the Mereloff Estate.

Ian tapped the letter against his palm, his gaze fixed on the steward’s name. Samon...

Bariel was a melting pot, a crossroads of countless bloodlines. Yet, each territory clung fiercely to its own unique identity. And that name... it didn’t ring of Mereloff.

"What are you going to use that for?"

"Sharp as ever, Beric."

"Mixing up some flour balls isn’t rocket science."

In a remarkably short time, Beric stood before him, holding a thumb-sized ball of dough. Its color was... unsettling. Ian couldn’t even begin to guess what foul concoction Beric had mixed in.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Thud-thud!

"Agh! Ian!"

"Lord Romandro. Careful, you’ll trip."

"Blast it."

"Word reached me of a letter from Mereloff. A Gula trade, is it? I came as fast as my old legs would carry me."

"No. Unfortunately, it’s not from the Count himself, but from his steward. It seems the Count hasn’t quite hit rock bottom yet." Ian’s smile was sharp, predatory, and he handed the letter to Romandro. The old man’s eyes flickered across the page, quickly devouring the contents. If there was still a straw to clutch at, it was the possibility of procuring food from somewhere other than Brats.

"...Sheiron?"

"Likely. He might try the Hawan Kingdom, but word is bandits are running rampant there. He won’t risk a large contingent, and good luck finding volunteers for *that* suicide mission."

"Precisely. A bandit’s blade is a far less appealing end than slow starvation. That avenue is closed. Hmm. Su, wasn’t it? The Cheonryeo woman?"

Ian knew precisely what had transpired in the canyon that night, thanks to Su’s carrier pigeon. And, in a stroke of what could only be described as divinely orchestrated timing, Erica had appeared.

He didn’t know if she had survived, but rumors were flying thick and fast that the Hawan Kingdom had dispatched soldiers to eradicate the bandits. For the time being, anyone who valued their life would avoid that region like the plague.

"Anyway, those Cheonryeo people are surprisingly efficient."

"Especially when it comes to... *physical* endeavors."

"The journey to Sheiron takes ten days, give or take... The problem will be the return trip. The altitude is high there, so snow falls early. It’ll be a race against the first blizzard."

Ian, Beric, and Romandro descended into the cool, damp cellar, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. They halted before a heavy, iron-bound door—the prison of the sole surviving assassin.

"Open it."

Creak.

Two guards, faces etched with grim duty, unlocked the door at Ian’s clipped command. A figure huddled on the narrow cot inside—Colin. He scrambled up, throwing himself prostrate on the cold stone floor. His tangled beard and grime-caked skin spoke volumes of his weeks of suffering. Living like a rat in a windowless cage...what else could he expect?

"Colin."

"Y-Yes..."

He glanced up, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. Now what? The final curtain? His body trembled uncontrollably.

"Eat this."

"What?"

"Eat it, and I’ll send you home."

Ian’s eyes flickered towards Beric, a cruel smile twisting his lips. No idea, but orders are orders. Beric held up the dough ball, then roughly grabbed Colin’s jaw, forcing his mouth open. Colin struggled instinctively, a whimper escaping his lips, but he was no match for Beric’s brute strength.

"Gah! What in the—? Help!"

"Worried? Don’t be. You’ll die either way."

Beric shoved the dough ball deep into Colin’s throat, a cruel parody of feeding a baby bird. He clamped a hand over the man’s nose, forcing his head back. Colin gagged, his face twisting in disgust, and thrashed on the floor.

"Ugh..."

"Gone. He swallowed it, Ian."

"Excellent. Colin. I am now going to send you back to Mereloff."

"R-Really? Th-Thank you..."

"But there’s a little task you need to perform."

Ian crouched, his gaze like a hawk’s, and reached out to smooth Colin’s filthy hair—a gesture one might use on a particularly dim-witted, but obedient, hound.

"Have you ever been to Sheiron?"

"Sh-Sheiron? N-No, I haven’t."

Ian’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. But it didn’t matter. His role in Mereloff wasn’t to be a guide, but quite the opposite.

"Listen very carefully. When you return, you must keep everything that transpired here a closely guarded secret. No one, and I mean *no one*, must know where you’ve been or what your mission is."

That, at least, was a proposal Colin could readily agree to. If it ever came out that he had attempted to assassinate Ian—even a half-fledged noble—he would be hauled before a magistrate and likely hanged.

"Instead, you will volunteer for the expedition—and I use that word loosely—that Mereloff is cobbling together to send to Sheiron."

He had no way of knowing if there would be many volunteers or a desperate few. The outcome would depend entirely on the atmosphere within the territory. But Colin, a strapping young man, should be able to weasel his way into the trading party somehow.

"And you will do whatever it takes to ensure that expedition fails. Miserably. If they somehow reach Sheiron, they return with nothing. Smash the carts, scatter the supplies, tie everyone up and leave them for the wolves... I truly don’t care. Your methods are your own. But they must not return for at least fifteen days. Is that clear?"

"I... I can’t..."

"You were willing to kill for coin. This is practically charity work in comparison."

"Lord Ian... I... I was wrong. I beg you..."

"If you fail to follow my instructions to the letter, you will die."

Fwoosh.

Ian’s eyes blazed with a cold, golden light, a visible ripple of mana emanating from him. His dark hair stirred in the otherwise still air of the windowless room, and Colin froze, paralyzed by the raw, unfamiliar power radiating off him.

"That concoction you just swallowed will seep into every fiber of your being, becoming one with your very blood and flesh. The instant—and I mean the instant—I detect any deviation from my plan, I will unleash this power. Your blood will turn to acid. Your body will melt from the inside out, leaving nothing but a greasy stain on this filthy floor."

"Ugh! Gack!"

Ian’s voice softened, a chilling contrast to his previous words, "But, if all goes according to plan, your freedom is assured. I will personally lift the... curse. Compared to your former associates, who’ve already *kicked the bucket*, you’re in a rather enviable position, wouldn’t you say?"

The implication was clear: don’t even think of betrayal. Colin nodded frantically, his eyes wide, pupils dilated with terror. He could almost feel that foul-tasting lump burning a hole in his stomach—a constant, gnawing reminder of the agonizing death that awaited him should he fail.

Creak.

"Come. Out."

Ian pushed the door open, stepping aside. The doorway framed the stone staircase leading upwards, bathed in the blessed, almost forgotten light of day.

"Wouldn’t do to have you return home looking like that. Beric. Clean him up."

"I am a swordsman, after all. My shaving skills are unmatched."

"Just don’t slit his throat."

"Gulp!"

"Kidding. Just kidding."

Colin instinctively clutched at his throat. Beric chuckled, a low, guttural sound, and hauled him roughly to his feet. Colin stumbled out of the cellar, blinking against the sudden light, dazed by the fresh air and the overwhelming, almost intoxicating, relief of simply being alive. He’d been teetering on the precipice of death, and now... solid ground.

"We’ll need someone to keep an eye on him. Just in case."

"Indeed. Someone... reliable."

"Hmm. Let’s see, I’ll find someone suitable."

It was the only sensible course of action. What Colin had swallowed was nothing more than a crude lump of flour and... other things. A more concrete safeguard was clearly necessary.

"If he’s resorting to Sheiron, things are drawing to a close."

"A man as meticulous with his accounts as that... ahem. No. If that fastidious Count is willing to pay a premium for a caravan to Sheiron, then yes. He’s cornered. Desperate."

"We should start stockpiling the Gula."

A lone crow winged its way across the vast, azure expanse, a stark black silhouette against the brilliant blue. Time to gather the last scraps of hope and brace for the coming winter.

"If this trade goes through," Romandro began, turning to Ian as they walked, "one gold coin per sack of Gula... will that be enough?"

He was curious, naturally, about the price Ian intended to demand for the Gula if the negotiations were successful. It seemed almost absurd to put a price on something that grew wild in the mountains and fields, but they had already established a baseline of one gold coin for three sacks.

"One coin?" Ian scoffed, a dismissive flick of his wrist. As if.

"I’m thinking at least—and I mean at the very least—ten gold coins per sack."

This was a unique, fleeting opportunity. He couldn’t afford to be sentimental.

He’d already informed Prince Marib of Gula’s... edibility. The whispers about it being a health food in the central region might very well be solidifying into fact among the upper echelons.

This winter—or, more precisely, after the New Year’s festivities—Gula’s true value would likely become common knowledge across Bariel.

And by then, the market will be flooded. We’ll be lucky to get a copper piece for a whole sack. We need to make a killing now.

Honestly, if he could, he’d bleed Mereloff’s storehouses dry. The merchant caravans would return, eventually. Spring would, inevitably, follow. A temporary... inconvenience for Mereloff wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it?

"That’s... ambitious. Do you think the Count will stomach such a price?"

"When a man is staring death in the face," Ian replied, a confident smirk twisting his lips, "even Count Mereloff will realize you can’t eat gold."

He glanced at the neatly stacked boxes in the corner of the garden, his eyes gleaming with avarice. The Gula, collected as taxes. His Gula.

A shiver traced its way down Romandro’s spine at the sight of Ian’s predatory smile. The smile of a wolf who had finally cornered its prey. He made a silent, solemn vow never to cross this young man. It would be a catastrophically painful experience.