Seeing the quiet confidence on Glen’s face, Douglas chose to trust him. He patted Glen’s shoulder and said,

  “All right then. But if you ever need help, come to me. I’ll stand by your side.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Glen replied with a nod.

  “I should get back. There’s still plenty to handle at the station.” With that, Douglas hurried off, leaving Glen alone.

  After mulling over the news for a while, Glen prepared to leave—

  “Mr. Glen.”

  A somewhat familiar voice called out to him. Turning his head, he saw a young man in a workman’s outfit.

  Old Cat?

  It was one of Glen’s more talkative customers, Desrod Mann. Hardly anyone used his full name; everyone called him by his nickname, and Glen did the same.

  “Old Cat, aren’t you working today?” Glen teased.

  “We day laborers get paid by the day—you know how it is,” Old Cat puffed slightly as he approached. “You haven’t sold meat in ages. I’ve been craving your pigs! That meat’s not only delicious but cheap. Now that damn Im has raised the price again, I can’t even afford a bite.”

  So that’s what this was about. Glen nodded knowingly. “It’s not that I don’t want to sell. The black pigs I raise can’t handle such frequent slaughter. I’ll need a few years to restock.”

  “What?!” Old Cat’s face fell. “Mr. Glen, can’t you butcher just one more? I’ve been starving for it!”

  Seeing the pleading look in his customer’s eyes, Glen felt torn.

  It was hard watching money walk up to your door—and having to turn it away.

  “All right,” Glen sighed at last. “I’ll start selling again tomorrow. Might not be black pork, though.”

  He had decided to hunt other animals to make up the difference. Troublesome, perhaps—but money was money.

  Old Cat’s exaggerated joy was so genuine he nearly kissed Glen in gratitude. Luckily, Glen pushed him away just in time.

  “So what are you up to now? Need a hand?” Old Cat asked, once he’d calmed down.

  “I’m looking to buy a shop,” Glen said plainly. “Something I can settle into.”

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  “Then you’re in luck!” Old Cat clapped his hands. “I’m always wandering town looking for jobs. I know every place for rent or sale. Let me be your guide, my friend!”

  Glen hadn’t expected such fortune—it would save him plenty of time.

  “Then I’ll owe you a drink later.”

  “Now that’s a deal.”

  Old Cat led Glen through every available shop in Dudd Town. Prices varied, and they bargained at each stop.

  Both men were shrewd negotiators—by the end of every exchange, they’d secured a deal favorable enough to make the other side nearly weep.

  Yet even after touring them all, Glen made no move to buy.

  “None of them suit you?” Old Cat asked curiously as they walked down the main street, each gnawing on a piece of rye bread.

  “I’m just thinking,” Glen replied, shaking his head.

  Old Cat assumed he was choosing between locations and didn’t press further.

  In truth, Glen was debating whether to buy at all.

  There were simply too many stores for sale—three taverns alone.

  That meant business here couldn’t possibly be booming.

  He had confidence in himself, yes—but not enough to waste effort on a town that would only yield modest returns.

  He wasn’t after small profits. He wanted real money.

  “Let’s check Mitchell’s place,” Glen finally said, as though reaching a decision.

  “I told you, that’s the best spot!” Old Cat agreed eagerly.

  Glen planned to use it as a butcher’s shop or a small workshop even if he didn’t open a tavern right away. That way, he wouldn’t have to set up a roadside stall every time.

  As for his tavern idea—he hadn’t abandoned it, merely postponed it.

  After all, his cellar held a portal straight to the capital, Keladriel.

  Before long, Glen purchased a two-story tavern for two gold and thirty silver coins.

  “So, Glen, you’re really opening a tavern here?” Old Cat asked as Glen received the deed.

  “You’ve got it wrong,” Glen smiled. “It’ll be my butcher shop.”

  As they talked, a convoy of mercenaries appeared up ahead, drawing stares from the townsfolk.

  Glen’s eyes sharpened. His keen vision caught every detail.

  Their armor was battered, their expressions weary, some bandaged from recent wounds—yet even so, they exuded raw, dangerous power.

  The air around them reeked faintly of blood.

  Among them were three figures in long robes and pointed hats—magicians.

  That alone marked the group as no ordinary band.

  And yet, for all their strength, they were escorting a cage.

  Inside it sat a girl.

  She was slender, clothed in green garments styled after the forest, her face buried between her knees. Only a glimpse of pointed ear betrayed her identity.

  “An elf?” Glen murmured, brow furrowing.

  There was no mistaking it.

  An elf—like in so many tales of slave caravans.

  The convoy drew closer, and Glen and Old Cat stepped aside to make room.

  The scent of blood grew stronger.

  The mercenaries marched past without a glance—except for one on the outer edge, who, without warning, cracked his whip.

  The lash tore through the air with a sharp hiss and struck Glen squarely.

  It didn’t hurt him in the slightest.

  Calmly, Glen looked at the man who had struck him. He could’ve dodged easily—but this way, when he retaliated, he’d have every right to.

  The mercenary, disappointed by Glen’s lack of reaction, sneered and raised his whip again.

  “Tough one, huh? Let’s see how thick that hide really is!”

  He was just about to strike again when a sharp voice barked, “Fang! Stand down!”

  At the same time, Old Cat grabbed Glen’s arm, pulling him back.

  He had seen the flicker of intent in Glen’s eyes and knew he was about to act.

  To Old Cat, Glen was just a civilian—no match for professional killers.

  Even if the town guards intervened, the most they’d get would be a handful of silver in compensation.

  It wasn’t worth the risk.