When the old cat clung to him with all his strength, Glenn knew the man only meant well. He didn’t push him away—there was no point in arguing.

  Still, he wasn’t about to let it go. Once the old cat was out of the way, that man would get what was coming to him.

  “Count yourself lucky, kid. Don’t let me see you again!” sneered the mercenary called Fang, coiling his whip with arrogant ease before swaggering off with the rest of his crew.

  Maybe killing him outright would be easier… Glenn’s eyes narrowed. Then, glancing toward the other side, he silently added: And those three mages as well.

  He had sensed traces of the same dark aura that clung to black magicians—definitely not good people.

  “Good heavens, Mr. Glenn, you nearly scared me to death! Those were mercenaries! Dangerous, ruthless men! You actually wanted to fight them? That’s insane!”

  The old cat’s face was pale, still haunted by fear. “People like us—commoners—shouldn’t act on impulse. That’s how you lose your life. A few of my old workmates crossed paths with those in power… it ended terribly for them.”

  “I understand,” Glenn replied. He wanted to say that such people didn’t frighten him, but he doubted the old cat would believe it, so he just nodded along.

  The old cat knew he was being humored but said nothing more.

  They turned their eyes back to the passing convoy. A few unlucky townsfolk who had stood too close were now writhing from Fang’s whip, but none dared to protest.

  “Who are these mercenaries, exactly?” Glenn asked quietly.

  The old cat looked surprised. “You don’t know?”

  Glenn spread his hands helplessly.

  “Well, I suppose you did mention you haven’t been here long.” The old cat tapped his temple, then explained:

  “That’s the convoy of Count Punk’s household. They often patrol the borderlands hunting magical beasts—but that’s not their real work. The Count’s sons have a… hobby. They collect nonhuman slaves. These convoys capture and transport them. They pass through our town every time.”

  His gaze drifted toward the caged elven girl, lingering there before he went on:

  “I heard the Count’s sons once offered a fortune for a live elf slave. Elves are famed as the most beautiful of all races—it’s no wonder they attract such foul desire. Seems one of those young lords finally lost patience and ventured deep into a forest-elf settlement to get one himself. And look—he succeeded.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Truly, the depravity of humankind knew no bounds in times like these. Glenn drew a deep breath.

  “Openly hunting elves like that… won’t it anger the Kingdom of Seith?” he asked.

  The Seith Kingdom was ruled by high elves—a great power of this world, home also to night elves, frost elves, and forest elves. Their influence was unquestionable.

  “Of course it will,” the old cat agreed. “But I suppose the ones behind this got tired of sneaking around. Maybe they thought no one would notice if they acted in the open. They probably believe the Seith Kingdom wouldn’t bother over one lowly forest elf. And trust me, those arrogant noble brats would absolutely think that way.”

  Glenn was quietly impressed that a laborer like the old cat understood so much.

  The nobles Glenn had known always looked down on commoners—calling them filthy, ignorant, and unambitious.

  Even the body’s original owner had once shared those same delusions, forgetting he was no better than any of them.

  But Glenn was not bound by such notions. He knew the so-called superiority of the upper class was nothing more than vanity. Still, he was surprised to find such insight in a man from a world where information spread so poorly.

  “And what will happen to that elf?” Glenn asked, though he already had an inkling. He wanted to hear it from someone who knew.

  The old cat sighed heavily. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do,” Glenn said firmly.

  “Ha… you really know how to press,” the old cat chuckled bitterly. Then his tone darkened. “Slaves have no rights. If they’re lucky, they might find a gentle master—but the Punks? Not a chance. Their cruelty is infamous. I’ve worked all over the Bartsey region and heard plenty of stories. That poor elf girl’s best hope is to become some noble’s pet.

  “If her master grows bored, she’ll end up as dog feed—or worse, drowned in liquor.”

  Glenn’s brow twitched. As a soldier, such inhuman cruelty ignited a deep fury within him.

  “Drowned in liquor? What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

  “It’s said elves live for centuries,” the old cat explained with a grimace. “And there’s an old superstition—no one knows where it started—that soaking an elf’s body in wine grants longevity. So…”

  He shrugged helplessly, leaving Glenn to draw his own conclusion.

  Well then… looks like I’ve found something worth doing, Glenn thought, eyes glinting as he watched the convoy vanish down the road. His fingers itched for action.

  “Let’s go. Best not get involved with those people,” the old cat urged.

  Glenn nodded. “It’s about time I checked on my pigs. I’ll head back first.”

  Before the old cat could answer, Glenn was already striding away.

  Night fell.

  The mercenaries, having claimed the entire tavern, were reveling after days of hard travel.

  The air was thick with the stench of ale, sweat, and faint traces of blood.

  “Fang, you were too reckless this time—you got half our men killed!”

  A broad-faced mercenary with a long nose slammed his mug down, pointing at Fang with a grin. There was no real reproach in his voice, only drunken mockery.

  “Don’t blame me!” Fang roared, hurling his cup aside. “Those idiots were weak! They rushed in and got themselves shot full of arrows!”

  Laughter erupted. More drunkards joined the argument, and the tavern grew even louder.

  Only a few men remained silent—those who actually ran the crew.

  Among them was the man who had stopped Fang earlier, the leader of the group.

  His skin was gray and coarse, his leather armor rugged and primitive. Scars webbed his face and arms like a map of old wounds.

  “Boss, are we not being a bit too blatant?” one of the mages murmured nervously.

  The scarred man took a slow sip of wine, his gaze drifting toward the yard outside.

  The tavern had a special enclosure for “cargo,” guarded and well-watched. Inside, the elven girl lifted her head, sensing his eyes upon her, and glared back with burning hatred.

  “Trouble’s for the masters to worry about,” the scarred man said at last, lips curling into a faint smile. “We just do the job, Altan.”