Volume 4 Chapter 14 To Grass Island
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
Two long hours in line at the counter of the Merchant Guild.
At last, Kian handed over the stack of documents. The clerk informed him that a notary would soon review the founding procedure, and an inspector would verify the validity of Priscilla’s check.
If both the notary and the inspector found no fault, the Kian Merchant Guild would be formally registered. Registration meant recognition as a legal entity—a corporation with the right to trade.
Until that registration was complete, the sugarcane business would remain on hold.
Kian had originally planned to juggle both tasks: deliver Priscilla’s order while simultaneously pushing the guild’s foundation forward, scheduling both quests so no idle days were wasted.
But Priscilla’s delivery had been laughably quick—everything finished in a single day thanks to her “let’s just charge in” approach. Because of that absurd result, Kian and his companions now found themselves forced into several days of unexpected tropical vacation at Priscilla’s villa.
* * *
”Good thing we made the last ferry,” Aliona murmured.
The ship’s departure gong had already faded. Water Island’s pier shrank into the twilight behind them. She leaned against the railing beside Kian, her platinum hair whipped into disorder by the sea breeze. With practiced hands she tied it back into a quick tail at her nape.
The hairstyle suited her: paired with the garland of tropical flowers around her neck and the tinted glasses on her face, she looked every bit the wealthy tourist on holiday.
”Ahh, the food is divine! Back when we were trekking across the grasslands, all I could find was dried fish and muddy river catch. I never knew seafood could taste this good!”
Isthbaran tore into a grilled squid with relish, a wine bottle in his other hand, its label stamped with the crest of Crete’s famous Beekeepers’ Guild. While Kian had spent hours in line, the old man had been merrily hopping between beachside taverns and food stalls.
”Feels like it’ll make me healthier somehow,” Aliona laughed, accepting a wide-brimmed white hat from Kian.
”Kian, has the guild been founded yet?” asked the leanan sídhe, chewing quietly on squid legs. She wore a flowing red dress now, crowned with laurel leaves, the same garland of flowers about her throat.
They were all enjoying the island far too much, Kian thought, before he answered.
”The Merchant Guild still needs to run its inspections. Once that clears, the registration will be filed and the Kian Merchant Guild will officially exist.”
”Hmm. But really, doesn’t the name ‘Kian Merchant Guild’ sound dull? No artistry at all,” she said.
”Sorry to disappoint,” Kian muttered.
”With all your vocabulary, it’s a shame. Same with your painting—you’re so joyless. You should learn from Robert.”
”In court life, lack of artistic sense can be a liability,” Aliona chimed in serenely.
”It narrows your conversation topics. To cultured folk, you’ll seem barbaric.”
”I see. So it’s essential. I’ve some talent for wordplay of the indecent sort, but I suppose I must study loftier rhetoric.”
”And expose yourself to current art,” Aliona added.
”That’ll be difficult on the frontier.”
Kian nodded, then steered the subject away.
”By the way—what became of the slaves? And the sugar?”
Aliona and the leanan sídhe turned their faces aside. Kian smiled pleasantly.
”Miss Aliona? I won’t be angry, but please report your progress. And if you lie, Isthbaran will know.”
”Me? I’m fairly deep in my cups…” Isthbaran said, grinning.
”I won’t lie,” Aliona sighed at last. “First, the sugar. Every guild I approached—five in total—refused.”
”Do you know why?”
”Because our identity isn’t clear. We don’t belong to any guild or farming union, yet we suddenly appeared with a huge stock of the highest quality sugar. Naturally they wondered: is it truly sugar? Was it acquired illegally? Stolen in some coastal raid?”
”So—no trust. That explains it.”
Kian nodded. And of course, both Aliona and the leanan sídhe wielded power that outstripped most first-class magicians. Any merchant who saw them casually summon a sandworm’s massive head just to prove storage would surely think, What is this high elf!? and decide it safest to end negotiations at once.
”As Kian’s Head Magician, I couldn’t risk lowering the guild’s reputation before it even exists,” Aliona continued. “Without intimidation, I had no leverage.”
”…So in your book, ‘negotiation’ is spelled with the word ‘threat,’” Kian said dryly.
”A threat is still a form of negotiation. Especially for us—when muscle is our only card, we can’t afford to discard it.”
”They all doubted the sugar’s authenticity,” the leanan sídhe added evenly. “Three insisted they’d need an expert to verify it before buying. Two claimed they had neither the money nor resale channels for such fine sugar.”
”After the fifth refusal, we were at a loss. Then a hooded magician approached, offering to take all our sugar for thirty Azrael gold coins. Risk included.”
”That would be robbery. With the volume we have, thirty coins means handing over nearly everything for free.”
The underground warehouse of Count Cain’s territory brimmed with sugar. Even Kian couldn’t tally the weight exactly.
And thirty Azrael coins—about forty Franz kingdom gold—was absurdly low. To sell at that price would be sheer folly.
”I think it’s wiser to wait until the Kian Merchant Guild is formally recognized,” Aliona said. “Then we can sell sugar under its name. Not as a steady contract, but to whoever suddenly needs a large supply.”
”Agreed. Let’s put the sugar of Count Cain’s territory on hold for now.”
Kian gave a single nod.
”And about the slaves with the five hundred gold coins Lady Priscilla is sending. It was good we took her commission. Otherwise our master, who knows nothing of the field, would have bawled us out again.”
”You went to the slave market, didn’t you? Find anything promising?”
”No. Looks like this will be a long hunt.”
”I see.”
Camilla’s standards were absurdly high. At this point, it seemed that no Azraelian man alive matched her conditions except Jibril himself. Still, if they kept dredging the markets, perhaps—by sheer fortune—they might unearth someone of his caliber.
…Perhaps.
Or perhaps not.
No—plainly impossible.
Unless some new war broke out, and warrior monks on the level of Natra, Sarah, or Linca were captured and sold into chains. Only then would they have the faintest chance.
As an employer, he wanted to grant his subordinate’s wish if at all possible. Yet Camilla’s search for the ideal slave was proving as much a torment to Kian as it was to the Leanan sídhe herself.
”Did you hear? The Malc Family is said to be in trouble.”
Their conversation faltered. Kian, gazing idly at the horizon, caught a furtive whisper from behind.
It came from two men sitting across from each other, fellow passengers bound for Grass Island.
”Seriously? Nakash is gone, and now Malc too?” one asked.
”Yeah. Remember at the start of summer? The ‘Tiger-Bearded Demon’ was killed—by Oswald, the Sun’s Sword Saint.”
”The Tiger-Bearded Demon… Nizaam, once strongest of the Twelve Divine Generals. He conquered Cyclops Island south of Crete, a hated foe. Because of him, several of our guild’s trade routes collapsed.”
”Since his death, the Malc Family has supposedly fallen under Lord Jibril’s shadow. A friend of mine said more and more of Vahid’s men have appeared in Malc’s court.”
”So soon they’ll abandon Cyclops Island entirely. That explains the surge of pirates, doesn’t it?”
”Maybe. Some say Jibril hands out licenses and lets them attack merchant ships at will. The Grand Marshal of Balinars insists they’re just rogues filling the void left by Nakash and Malc… but does he truly believe that?”
”Others think they’re no mere pirates—that they’re Azrael’s army in disguise.”
”Time will tell. If their numbers keep swelling, the truth will be clear.”
Kian’s pulse lurched when Oswald’s name was spoken. Four months ago, he had clasped hands with that man and forged a strange bond. Hearing him mentioned like this made his heart race without reason.
He could not forget those smoldering eyes. The strongest warrior alive still hadn’t given up on him. If they fought again, and he lost—Kian knew Oswald would claim him.
Without Talia’s magic sword, if every scroll were torn apart, could he resist?
(No. That wasn’t the point.)
The corner of his mouth tugged upward.
(What I want is to face him at full strength—as one warrior to another.)
Even if it doomed him, even if it invited ruin. Beneath his cool mask, Kian’s body ached for the savage clash.
”A hated foe, yet even the Tiger-Bearded Demon deserves pity. And his daughter, left behind, can do nothing against Lord Jibril,” one man said.
”That’s how it seems. Nizaam gathered beautiful boys from the West, trained them as disciples, to form the backbone of his nation. But those cherished pupils had no shred of loyalty. They all fled.”
”Predictable. Still—none of them stayed? Even if taken by force, years under his care might have sparked affection.”
”Don’t be a fool. He used them like playthings—from boyhood.”
”Ah. I see.”
”But he did keep one female slave as his disciple.”
”A woman? Him? Strange.”
”Apparently he raised her purely as a pupil, nothing more.”
”The only girl among them. If she returned now, stood as Malc’s last hero… well, the bards would have a new tale to sing.”
”It would rival the legend of Ramsey’s Champion. But it won’t happen.”
The two men laughed.
Just then, Isthbaran, who had been watching the violet sky, turned to Kian.
”My lord, what now? The examinations for founding our guild will take considerable time, will they not?”
”Yes. Appointment of a notary and inspector, then their scrutiny and investigation. No telling how many days. Certainly not four or five.”
”And the additional payment from Lady Priscilla—four days from now?”
”Right. Last night, they said it would take four or five days.”
”So, we wait here?”
Kian hesitated a beat.
”Not necessarily. We could scout land for sugarcane. Fire Island is the prime candidate—abandoned because of its dangerous fauna. If we secure permission, we could survey it first. Or sail among the uninhabited isles near Crete, list suitable ones, find their owners, open negotiations.”
”But the notary’s notice, the tax forms, guild correspondence—those will all arrive at Lady Priscilla’s villa, our registered base, won’t they?” Aliona asked, slipping off her sunglasses now that the sun had weakened.
”Yes. To the grand estate on Grass Island, still unseen.”
”Then someone must remain there. If we all vanish to Fire Island or beyond, we’ll miss time-sensitive notices.”
”Agreed,” said the Leanan sídhe. “I’d be grateful if Kian or Aliona helped with our master’s slave purchase as well. Few slave merchants dealing in Azraelians speak fluent Western Common. Most are Azraelian or Cretan themselves.”
”Understood. We’ll discuss assignments later. But have you noticed? Since finishing our great adventure, we haven’t stopped—buried in paperwork all day.”
”You were the only one working, my lord,” Isthbaran remarked.
”Even so, I want to grant you rest. Once Lady Priscilla’s funds arrive, we resume. Until then, you rest. The sudden heat and damp must have worn you down. Recuperate. Acclimate to the climate.”
”A holiday! At last—I can fish!”
”Kian, you’re generous!”
”I’d like to keep searching for slaves,” leanan murmured, “but truthfully, rushing today achieved nothing. I may as well have rested.”
”No objections, then,” Kian said, sweeping his gaze across them. “Four days off. After that, we split into island-scouting, slave-buying, and villa-guarding groups.”
The three nodded. Just then, a sailor called from behind, urging them inside—the sun was setting fast.
The royal archipelago of Crete boasted three great islands—Fire, Water, and Grass. By the time Kian’s party reached the southernmost of them, Grass Island, dawn was just breaking.
The ferry had arrived offshore earlier than scheduled and lingered at sea until the horizon paled and the waters brightened. Roused from their cramped naps by the clamorous toll of the ship’s bell, Kian and his companions joined the other passengers in filing down the gangplank to the pier.
Like its sister at Water Island, the pier was built of white stone and cement. Beyond it stretched a vacant strand and a scatter of black rocks. No bazaars or seaside shops waited at the shore; instead the docks led straight into a residential quarter. White square houses and tropical palms—ordinary coconut and date palms alike—were laid out across the district like pieces on a chessboard.
Nothing here suggested that Cyclops Island, the Azraelian forward base, lay further south. The island was peace itself.
A discreet bribe to a local deckhand yielded more: past the fishing village’s unnaturally neat and spotless streets rolled broad, green hills. Grass Island lived up to its name, boasting meadows vast enough to put Water Island to shame, where dairy farming flourished on an immense scale.
Beyond the hills rose mountains, their peaks already mantled with snow. From November through January, winter storms painted every slope above mid-height in white, and—at a price—tourists could sled there. Like Water Island, Grass Island had long ago been cleared of native beasts, leaving it safe. Wealthy visitors often passed their holidays here in leisure, their protection assured by the Order of the Lightning Knights, Crete’s pride, stationed at a southern base to guard against any misfortune.
Grass Island was smaller in total area than Water Island, but less fragmented. Water’s sprawl owed to the many islets strung together and the V-shaped waterways cutting into its land. The canals doubled as thoroughfares, so travelers often found themselves detouring around brackish inlets, or vaulting across skiffs to reach the opposite shore. Grass Island held none of these inconveniences. It felt more like a stretch of continental countryside, one stable, continuous expanse of land. Or so the sailor had said.
After purchasing provisions in the fishing village, Kian’s group set out along the northern coast toward Priscilla’s fabled estate.
They went on foot.
Kian carried Aliona on his back, while Isthbaran bore Leanan Sídhe. Together they tore across the sand at impossible speed, their sprint a blur so rapid it was almost nauseating to behold. Islanders who caught sight of them burst out with incredulous cries—”What in the world—?!”—and reeled in shock.
Kian found himself wondering whether Ninini, the feline Beastman whose soul Rean had once gambled away, was still alive. Priscilla had kept both Ninini’s and Lyritisse’s bodies in her care. Vestacia’s fate was murkier—Rean had taken her away. Still, when they met Priscilla, he meant to ask after them. Whatever old entanglements lay between them, they were not strangers.
Ten minutes of running brought them to where the beach ended abruptly in cliffs of black rock and a forested headland. Stairs had been cut into the stone, rising to an iron gate, Western in style. Beyond lay a narrow path, as though the forest had been parted root and branch. A sign warned: “Private property of Lady Priscilla of Châtillon. Trespassers fined ten silver coins.”
Kian produced a ring of keys and swung the gate open.
The shadowed path, fit for fish-men or wandering ghosts, gave way suddenly to magnificence.
White buildings clung to the mountainside, vast enough to rival a ghost ship’s hull. Blue roofs gleamed against white walls—a mansion far too large for a single occupant. Surely the entire mountain was her estate.
Below lay a private beach, secluded by forest and rock. The surf was guarded by piles of hewn white stone, barriers against the high waves. Another sign declared, “Fishing rights of these waters belong to Lady Priscilla.” Land and sea alike, it seemed, were hers to harvest at will.
Kian gave a low whistle.
”Too rich by half, Ms. Priscilla,” he said.
”As expected of the Châtillon family,” Isthbaran added.
Aliona, newly dismounted, sniffed the salt air. “There’s even a hot spring.”
”I’ve been thinking,” she went on. “Wouldn’t it be better if we purchased land directly from Lady Priscilla?”
”Hmm? I’m not so sure,” Kian said. “This mountain looks too steep and stony for sugarcane.”
”Then better to look further inland, out of the sea wind,” Aliona replied, shaking her head. “And farther from the settlement. If we set golems or tools to work here, the noise and tremors will trouble the villagers. Imagine the lawsuits, the protests, once we’d already invested in the site. It would be a nightmare.”
”How bad would the noise and vibration be?” Kian asked.
”I don’t know. We’d need Mrs. Camilla’s counsel. Even small disturbances, over time, can harm people’s health. If there’s any habitation nearby, it will bring trouble. We should strike this place off the list.”
”You hear that, Isthbaran? Looks like we’ll need to scout Fire Island after all.”
The old general slid his sunglasses away with a sigh. “Indeed. I regret suggesting otherwise. But an expedition suits me well.”
”Then I suppose we scatter for now?” said Leanan Sídhe. Without waiting for an answer, she stripped off her dress in a single motion, revealing a swimsuit beneath. “I’m going to hunt octopus. The market didn’t have any.”
In the blink of an eye, Isthbaran too had shed his toga, reduced to little more than a loincloth, spear of conjured earth in hand. “Lady Aliona, the dinghy from Captain Drake!”
”One moment—ah, here. All yours, General!”
”To the sea!”
Leanan Sídhe bolted down the forest slope toward the sand, and Isthbaran bounded after her in a single tremendous leap.
Such spirited elders—there was something admirable in their refusal to surrender childhood’s joy.
”…Shall we carry our things into the villa and tidy up?” Aliona suggested.
”I’ll take care of it all,” Kian said. “We only had scraps of sleep in the ferry’s hold. Ms. Aliona, see to your own bed and then rest until evening.”
”Are you sure? That feels unfair.”
”Not at all. You yawned three times on my back earlier, didn’t you?”
”Oh—you noticed?” She stuck out her tongue and blinked sleepily.
”Then I’ll nap a little. Wake me when the sun is lower.”
”Of course. But before you sleep, could you bring out a few rations from the sandworm stores?”
”Done.”
With that, their brief exchange ended, and the two of them began the slow walk up the path toward the mansion’s looming gates.
Notes:
• Isthbaran – The High Warlord of the ‘Storm Herd.’
• Mag – The wolfwoman under Yelmar—the one who was caught by Kian’s group earlier.
• Count Cain – Talia’s father.
• Camilla – A woman; the subject of the chapter; her body was used to seal Erynys’ soul.
• Linca – Jibril’s favorite girl. High-ranking warrior monk woman from Shin, with strong abilities like ignoring attacks and poisons.
• Nizaam – A former member of Azrael’s Twelve Divine Generals and the current head of the Malc family, though he has passed both titles to his daughter to return to the battlefield. He is a prominent warrior noble in Azrael, known for his love of beautiful boys and fierce battles.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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