The less than a month spent in Cecil was the most incredible period in Scarface Anton’s life.
Born in a gutter in a border village of the Leslie territory in the southern borders, he grew up among vagrants and beggars, mingling with the lowest strata of society. He had stolen, lied, and worked hard. He fought countless brawls and was brutalized badly at times. He had learned a few rudimentary stealth skills from a blind, down-and-out mercenary but never became a professional due to his limited talent. He once worked long as a thug but later became an "upper-class man" in the sewers thanks to his brute strength and shadow manipulation ability — transforming into a rundown bar owner.
He prided himself on being well-versed with everything; whether it was the filth and decay at the bottom of society or the glitz and glamour of the aristocrats, he dared not say he had experienced it all but claimed he had seen it — at least from afar.
Yet in this land, he realized his knowledge was ultimately shallow.
The rumbling machines, disciplined army, spirited residents, and efficient and orderly officials — everything here was so incredible.
And the training he received was equally unbelievable.
He remembered not long ago when he and his associates were brought to this incredible place by their old boss, being confined in a facility resembling a military camp. Everyone was anxious, wondering what the great aristocrat intended for such rats in the sewer, to lock them in a military camp — if not for the boss appearing, they might have backed out on the first day.
Then came the intense training and... education.
Every day, different instructors came to instill various skills and knowledge. High-intensity physical training was just the basics. They were taught how to use swords and some magical supplies — these lessons were taught by people who looked like Soldiers. In the afternoons, people who didn’t look like Soldiers, supposedly night school teachers, taught them reading, writing, and math, even some simple social etiquette.
These subjects were hard to learn, and most outright did not want to. They never thought they would need such knowledge. Literary skills were unnecessary for rats in the sewer — Scarface Anton initially thought so too, but in the end, everyone pushed on with determination.
Because if they didn’t learn, a nearly lethal punishing physical training awaited them.
Even more frightening was Amber personally supervising them — the boss lady’s authority stifled any rebellion.
Day and night training, constant learning, body conditioning, bat practice, using weapons, reading, and counting, Scarface Anton and his panions transitioned from utter misery to gradual adaptation in less than two weeks. Once adapted, they found the life wasn’t that bad — although the training was intense, the leader here ensured everyone had soup and bread every day. Regardless of how much they could eat after a day of training, Anton and his friends never went hungry.
There was soup, bread, eggs, and plenty to go around, along with new clothes, and warm dorms. One could say that benevolent leader provided everyone the best living conditions possible — simply asking them to train and learn by the set rules, which was a significantly fair trade pared to starving to death in freezing conditions.
Thus, Scarface Anton and his panions endured, striving to learn those skills and knowledge. Now those once good-for-nothings had learned to wash faces, hands, and bathe regularly, wore clothes properly, learned how to disguise identities and get along with people, and as for discerning intentions and relaying information during interactions...that was their forte.
Of course, training was far from over; their literacy skills and secretive operation knowledge were still amateurish, but after over two weeks of physical workouts and adequate nutrition, they at least seemed like something— able to stand straight, walk steadily, and calmly feign identities as merchants, knight apprentices, Mage apprentices, and converse with others, enough to execute the first mission.
After the mission briefing, Amber allocated personnel actions and respective directions, then handed out identity documents from Duke Gawain Cecil to each of them.
"With these proof documents, you are entrusted by the duke to be respectable individuals conducting various works along the southern borders. You may enter and leave various towns without worrying about checks, but how you bring people back... that’s the test for you," Amber said casually from the stage, watching her subordinates excitedly flipping through the proof documents they received, "You will get some operational funds, enough for you to use in purchasing fake proofs, forging hiring paperwork, bribing guards, and the like to get people from other aristocratic territories. But remember, I’ll check how much money you have left when you return—the more you have left, the higher the reward you’ll get, but for the ten who have the least remaining, I want you to run fifteen laps around Knight Street with a pumpkin on your head! During the busiest time at noon! Got it?!"
Everyone replied in unison: "Got it!!"
Scarface Anton and the first batch of Military Security Intelligence Bureau trainees set off with the duke’s proof documents, and meanwhile, a large number of merchants carrying "Cecil alchemical potions" started moving throughout the southern borders. They were originally loose independent merchants, active everywhere and pletely unorganized, but under Patrick’s relentless efforts, the merchants were bought, persuaded, lured by profit, and pressured by the duke’s prestigious name. They signed contracts sworn by surname, being external appendages of the Cecil Chamber of merce.
Soon, these merchants discovered that signing up for the chamber wasn’t as risky as they thought—Duke Cecil did not, like other nobles, just find excuses to exploit the merchants’ profits. He neither withheld goods nor made up excuses to charge exorbitant additional fees. Patrick, as the duke’s representative, thoroughly followed contract standards to provide ample and quality goods to each distributor and was fair in dividing profits, ensuring no mistakes down to the last copper coin—this truly was dreamlike brilliance.
Many members of the chamber were curious, curious about how these neatly packaged, stable quality, voluminous alchemical potions were produced. But this was obviously Duke Cecil’s secret. Smart merchants won’t attempt to probe into the great noble’s privacy. They remain curious but responsibly fulfill the merchants’ duties, focusing on how to use these potions to amass adequate profits.
The Cecil Chamber of merce specified the distribution price and profit-sharing method for potions in the contract, and these terms cannot be altered freely. However, how to quickly sell the potions is something long-standing small-time merchants are adept at contemplating.
In the centre of the southern borders at Viscount Carol’s territory, travelling merchant Bob placed three bottles of alchemical potions at the Mercenary Guild’s counter as samples and began explaining the origin and effects of these potions to the guild manager he had dealt with several times. Behind him were several mercenary warriors who had escorted him all the way from Kant territory to here.
A merchant running to the Mercenary Guild to sell potions had caught people’s attention. The mercenaries waiting for business around the fireplace in the hall directed their glance towards the counter, which was exactly what Bob had hoped for—whether the manager before him showed interest in the potions, he had successfully drawn the attention of the mercenaries, which was his main goal.
"I’ve heard of these potions; they’re produced by that southern development territory, right?" the guild manager said, slightly frowning after listening to Bob, "It’s said to be slightly inferior to regular alchemical potions but with incredibly low prices... Can this stuff really be as good as you say?"
"You can ask the warrior next to me," Bob said, stepping aside as he pointed to one of the mercenaries who escorted him, "He’s used the potion."
"Old Gold Tooth, I can vouch for this stuff being top-notch!" The mercenary, who appeared at least a head taller than Bob, grinned, "Seen the new scar below my neck? Without this potion, you’d see my name engraved on the wooden plaque behind you right now!"
"Renting a counter to sell potions in the Mercenary Guild... nobody’s ever done this before," the guild manager said, evidently trusting the mercenary he knew, but still somewhat apprehensive as he looked at the merchant, "You need to ensure stable supply and that the potion quality matches your claims—most mercenaries are quick-tempered, and I don’t want them wrecking your counter, forcing me to find someone to scrape you off the ground and toss you out."
"Merchants are all about credibility," Bob said, casually pulling out a supply contract from his coat and placing it on the counter, "Take a look for yourself, this is the document signed by Duke Cecil himself—surely you recognize this crest?"
With that, a deal was struck.
Watching as the guards he brought left after their mission balance was settled, Bob squinted his eyes. He seemed to see nothing but walking silver coins throughout the Mercenary Guild. He began to anticipate the day he would accumulate enough wealth to purchase his own shop in Carol territory and bee a settled merchant. According to Mr. Patrick’s promise, Cecil Chamber of merce would provide additional financial aid to any dealer planning to acquire retail space, and personnel would be sent to assist them as needed—Bob knew all too well that the personnel sent would really be the duke’s spies to watch over him, but what problem does that pose?
From the day Bob became a member of the Cecil Chamber, he knew he was managing the duke’s business, and he himself would bee part of the duke’s asset. And what noble wouldn’t send someone to oversee their property?
As long as there are genuine gold and silver coins, there’s nothing wrong with being a noble’s lapdog.
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