“Ah... this scent...” He trembled in a trance. “It’s like the first breath of spring wind blowing across a frozen field of peppermint... even though I’ve never seen a peppermint field, I bet this is exactly what it smells like!”
“Information, Old Gob.”
I tapped the counter, interrupting the goblin merchant’s self-indulgence. “My patience is a consumable, just like that soap.”
“Of course, of course! Integrity is Old Gob’s second life!”
The goblin reluctantly locked the soap into a tin box he kept close to his chest. He turned, scrambled up a ladder, and opened a black wooden chest suspended from the ceiling beams.
With a series of rhythmic click-clacks from rotating gears, he retrieved a tube rolled from an unknown beast’s hide and carefully unfurled it on the counter.
It was a map. To be precise, it was a 3D airspace chart rendered with multi-colored inks and complex contour lines.
“The ‘Flying Stones’—Floatstone—you’re looking for? They’re right here.”
Old Gob’s finger, thin as a withered twig, jabbed at a red-shaded area in the northeast corner of the map. “The locals call it the Shattered Spine. It was the only mountain range that didn’t completely plummet during the Great Collapse.”
I pushed my glasses up, quickly scanning the map data into the system.
“Occupied?” I frowned.
“That’s right, occupied.” Old Gob lowered his voice, his expression turning fearful. “Just half a month ago, those ‘winged bandits’—the Storm Clan—suddenly blockaded the entire mountain range. They aren’t just mining the stone; they’re building a... fortress.”
“Storm Clan?”
I heard Zayla, who had been silent behind me, let out a low, vibrating growl—the distinctive warning sound a feline predator makes when facing a natural enemy. “Those arrogant bird-men who live in the clouds?”
“Shhh! Keep it down!” Old Gob covered his mouth in terror. “This port is crawling with their eyes and ears! They’re the bosses around here now!”
He pointed toward the ceiling.
“They control the sky. Any merchant caravan wanting to pass through that airspace has to pay a ‘transit tax’ as high as 30%. If you don’t pay, or if you try to smuggle Floatstone...”
Old Gob made a slicing motion across his throat.
“Their Griffin Riders will drop you from a hundred meters up and turn you into meat paste.”
My fingers drummed rhythmically on the counter. Floatstone was the core material for building airships. It was the only solution for defying gravity and getting heavy-lift vehicles airborne. If the Storm Clan monopolized this resource, it meant they intended to monopolize the world’s air superiority.
In any theater of war, losing air superiority meant losing the future.
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“Why are they building a fortress?” I asked. “Just to collect taxes?”
“I don’t know,” Old Gob shook his head. “But I heard they’re scavenging every bit of ‘Ancient Metal’ and ‘Mana Cores’ they can find. Some are even being hauled up from the dungeons. People say... they’re trying to repair some kind of ‘Big Guy.’”
Lyn and I exchanged a sharp look.
“Big guy?” Lyn caught the keyword instantly, her fox ears twitching. “How big?”
Old Gob made an exaggerated gesture. “Word is, it’s the wreckage of a Sky Warship left over from the Age of Dragons.”
My heart skipped a beat.
Sky Warship. Those two words exploded in my mind.
If the Storm Clan actually repaired something like that, the walls and machine-gun turrets Skyreach prided itself on would be meaningless against devastating fire raining from the heavens.
This was no longer a simple procurement mission. This was a race against time for survival.
“The intelligence is valuable.” I took a deep breath, rolled up the map, and stowed it in my pack. “As an extra payment...”
I pulled a small glass vial from my pocket containing about 50ml of clear liquid.
“This is Peppermint Essential Oil.” I gave a professional, deadpan introduction. “If you feel fatigued or have a headache, rub a little on your temples. The cooling stimulus... will make you feel like you’ve been reborn.”
Amidst Old Gob’s shrieks of gratitude, the four of us stepped out of the shop.
...
The streets outside were still noisy, but the atmosphere had shifted. The peddlers had stopped shouting, and pedestrians were freezing in their tracks, looking toward the sky with tense expressions.
A strange, high-pitched screeching sound tore through the clouds from above. It wasn't the wind; it was the sonic shockwave produced by a massive creature piercing the atmosphere.
“So those are... Griffins?” Brad squinted, watching a black speck dive from the grey clouds.
It was a beast with a wingspan exceeding five meters. The front half was an eagle, the rear a lion; its talons glinted like cold steel in the dim sunlight. Mounted on its back was a warrior clad in light leather armor, clutching a long lance.
The rider had no intention of landing. He guided the griffin in a mock strafing run, flying aggressively low over the street. The massive downdraft flipped several stalls, kicking up a whirlwind of dust.
“It’s a warning.” Zayla watched the figure coldly, her hand already resting on the hilt of her dagger. “The bastard is patrolling his territory. Like a wildcat pissing on trees to mark its bounds... only this cat flies.”
The rider circled once in the air. Suddenly, he seemed to notice us.
Specifically, he noticed Zayla.
Even though she wore a hood, the aura of a terrestrial apex predator radiating from her bones triggered the aerial hunter’s instincts. The Griffin Rider pulled the reins, and the massive shadow began a direct dive toward us.
“He’s coming!” Lyn gripped Brad’s arm nervously.
“Don’t panic.” I kept my hands in my pockets, but my brain was already overclocking.
“We are merchants,” I whispered to the team. “Remember, we’re just harmless soap salesmen.”
The griffin hovered barely ten meters above our heads, the gale from its wings whipping our clothes. The rider looked down with eyes as sharp and arrogant as a hawk’s. He didn't speak; he simply pointed his lance at the ground and made a demeaning gesture—the command for slaves to kneel.
The surrounding locals dropped to their knees, trembling. Brad’s brow furrowed, and I heard a faint clank as his mechanical arm prepped for a torque burst. Zayla’s pupils had thinned into vertical slits.
The situation was on a razor’s edge.
Right then, I made an unexpected move. I pulled a bar of soap from my pack, held it high, and plastered a standard, almost fawning commercial smile on my face.
“My Lord! We are but humble soap merchants. Has my Lord come to purchase a ‘Purification Brick’ as well?” I shouted, my voice laced with just the right amount of feigned awe. “Consider this a gift to the Sky!”
The rider blinked, stunned. He clearly hadn't expected a "slave" to try to close a deal with him. But then, the scent of peppermint drifted up on the wind.
In this stench-filled lower port, that fragrance was practically heaven. The rider hesitated for a few seconds before letting out a cold snort. He tossed down a heavy pouch, then guided the griffin in a precision swoop to snatch the soap from my hand.
“At least you know your place, ground rat,” the rider mocked, beating his wings and soaring back into the clouds.
Watching the receding shadow, Brad relaxed his fist and exhaled a heavy breath. “Boss, I really wanted to knock that bird down and turn it into grilled wings.”
“There will be an opportunity, Brad.” I picked up the coin pouch and weighed it in my hand. It contained several high-purity gold coins stamped with the Storm Clan crest.
I looked up at the sky occupied by those arrogant bastards.
“Since they’ve decided to monopolize the sky, we’ll have to let them know...”
“The penalty for a monopoly is quite steep.”
Question of the Day: How should Alex deal with the Griffin blockade?
(Click to choose)
?? A) The Engineering Way: Build a Flak Cannon.
Result: "If it flies, it dies." Pure kinetic satisfaction. Turn the sky into a no-fly zone with high-velocity lead.
?? B) The Merchant Way: Sabotage their "Soap Supply."
Result: "Addiction is a powerful tool." Make them dependent on your industrial goods, then introduce a "quality control issue" at the worst moment.
?? C) The Protagonist Way: Steal the Sky Warship.
Result: The Engineer's Choice. Why build from scratch when there's a perfectly good chassis waiting to be retrofitted with steam turbines and armor plating?
Follow and Rate for more industrial madness!