Chapter 8 : Chapter 8
Chapter 8: The Abacus's Price
The next morning, the group arrived at Grayrock Town.
The city walls were built from black volcanic rock, rough and oppressive. Several long poles jutted from the top of the walls, bearing heads that had long since dried and blackened in the wind. A few crows hopped up and down on them, their grating cries making one's nerves crawl.
This was the frontier of the Empire's territory, a gathering place for exiles, mercenaries, and fugitives—the garbage dump of civilization and order.
At the city gate, several town guards wearing rusty chain mail and bearing numb expressions were crudely rapping the wooden shaft of their spears against a cargo wagon trying to enter the city. The leader, his face covered in fierce scars, was demanding entrance fees with spittle flying from his mouth.
When it came to Caesar's group, the guard captain looked them up and down with contempt. Taking in their shabby equipment and exhausted appearance, he spat out a thick glob of phlegm impatiently.
“One silver coin per person, or leave your horses.”
Barrett's single eye glared, and his hand had already moved to the hilt at his waist.
Just as he was about to explode, he was stopped by Roland's gaze from beside him.
The old Knight tremblingly pulled out a worn money pouch from his chest, poured out several heavily worn silver coins, and handed them over with a servile smile.
The guard captain weighed them, then reluctantly waved his hand and let them get lost inside.
Upon entering the city, a thick stench—a mixture of livestock dung, the sour smell of fermenting cheap ale, coal smoke, and the ever-present reek of sweat—assaulted them, making their heads spin.
In the center of the street ran a dark green open sewage ditch. Bare-chested mercenaries, wary-eyed merchants, and ragged refugees crowded together on the muddy streets.
The buildings lining the road were mostly crooked wooden structures mixed with mud and thatch, looking as if they might collapse at any moment.
The clanging of the blacksmith's shop, the cursing from the taverns, the hawking of street vendors—all wove together into a chaotic yet “lively” frontier symphony.
According to the plan, Roland and Barrett took most of the men and headed conspicuously toward the trading district in the town center.
Barrett was a natural actor. He deliberately started a loud argument with the barkeeper at the Scimitar Tavern's entrance over a half-copper difference, even shoving and pushing, drawing countless onlookers. He brought the image of a “desperate, foul-tempered mercenary” to vivid life.
Caesar, meanwhile, changed into a shabby linen tunic stripped from a corpse, wrapped his conspicuous golden hair in a headcloth, smeared two streaks of pot ash on his face, and blended in among several equally unremarkable soldiers, slipping away from the group without a sound.
Eventually, Caesar stopped in front of a shop sandwiched between a brothel and a slaughterhouse.
A crooked wooden sign hung over the door, bearing words written in the common tongue: Jig the Abacus's Curio Shop.
After a moment's thought, Caesar decided to try his luck.
Caesar pushed the door open. A string of wind chimes made from animal bones hanging from the door beam let out a hoarse jingle.
The shop's interior was dim, the air thick with the strange smell of dried herbs, rusted metal, and some kind of preservative agent.
A goblin no more than three feet tall, with an enormous hooked nose and dark green skin, was sprawled across the dust-covered counter. Awakened by the wind chimes, he grumbled in displeasure.
“Get out. Not open today.”
The old goblin didn't even lift his eyelids, his voice like rusted gears grinding.
“I'm buying medicine.”
Caesar's voice was kept very low, seeming somewhat muffled in the darkness.
“Typhoid or rotting feet? Look on the shelf yourself. No haggling.”
“The medicine I need isn't on your shelf.”
As Caesar spoke, he gently slid a brightly polished gold coin onto the counter.
The crisp sound of metal striking wood made the old goblin's ears twitch sharply.
He finally slowly raised his head. In those eyes no bigger than soybeans glinted the shrewdness and greed particular to businessmen.
He studied Caesar carefully, as if trying to sniff out the scent of gold coins beneath this shabby outfit.
“Oh? Bold words. Let's hear it then—what medicine is worth using a gold coin to knock on my door?”
“Something that can snatch a dying Knight back from the Death God's hands, and incidentally… give him more strength to swing his longsword.”
The old goblin's gaze changed instantly.
He sat up straight, the laziness vanishing from his face, replaced by extreme scrutiny and wariness.
“Boy, do you know what you're saying? That's Lionheart Elixir! An alchemist's masterpiece! That sort of thing isn't something a guy who rolls around in the mud like you can touch.”
“You only need to tell me whether you have it, and what the price is.”
Caesar remained unmoved, pulling out nine more gold coins from his chest and laying them out in a row on the counter, unhurried.
Ten gold coins glowed in the dim shop with a light that made hearts race.
The goblin's breathing grew noticeably heavier. His throat bobbed as he licked his cracked lips. After a full half minute of silence, as if making up his mind, he carefully retrieved a scratched black iron box from a hidden compartment beneath the counter.
“Lionheart Elixir—made from the heart of an adult griffin and the regenerating blood of a troll as primary materials, supplemented with seventeen types of magical herbs, personally prepared by an alchemy grandmaster from the capital.”
“As long as someone isn't completely dead, one mouthful and broken bones regrow.”
“If it's a Knight, there's a thirty percent chance of breaking through bottlenecks and advancing to Grand Knight.”
He chuckled, revealing a mouthful of sharp yellow teeth.
“However, the medicinal properties are as violent as magma. Those with weaker constitutions will have their internal organs burst alive. So, does your man… dare to use it?”
“Name your price.”
The goblin extended eight stubby fingers, then cunningly retracted three.
“Eight hundred fifty gold coins! Not a single coin less! This is a treasure that can create a Grand Knight!”
“Eight hundred fifty?”
Caesar laughed. He casually pulled over a stool and sat down, as if this were his own home.
“Master Jig, your shop is in Grayrock Town, not the capital.”
“At that price, I could buy an entire ogre tribe in the southern slave markets to use as enforcers.”
He pointed at the black iron box.
“The color of this potion is a dark red, not a vibrant ruby red, which means the griffin heart's vitality has already diminished by at least thirty percent.”
“If I'm not mistaken, this potion has been sitting in your hands for at least half a year, hasn't it?”
The smile froze on the goblin's face.
Caesar continued speaking unhurriedly, each sentence hammering at Jig's heart like a mallet.
“This should be your last hard currency at the bottom of your chest, right?”
“If you can't sell it, in another half year, it really will become troll bathwater.”
Caesar tossed a small cloth bag onto the counter and poured out two hundred fifty gold coins with a clattering sound.
“Two hundred gold coins for the potion.”
“Additionally, I need the best wound medicine, plus fifty gold coins' worth.”
“If this deal goes through, in the future if I have any magical beast materials, I can sell them to you first. The price is negotiable.”
The goblin's eyeballs spun rapidly in their sockets as he weighed the gains and losses.
This fellow in front of him could casually produce two hundred fifty gold coins—clearly his background was significant. Perhaps he was some noble's son who had read too many adventure stories and gotten excited about adventuring.
Keeping this thing was just keeping it. If it couldn't be sold in half a year, it would just be a bottle of waste water.
He gritted his teeth as if cutting his own flesh and extended three fingers.
“Three hundred gold coins! The potion and all the wound medicine together—three hundred gold coins! Boy, this is my bottom line! If you dare haggle today, I'll pour this potion down your throat!”
“Deal.”
Caesar didn't hesitate. He counted out another fifty gold coins from his chest and pushed them over.
With the transaction complete, Caesar tucked the potion and a large package of pungently fragrant wound medicine into his chest. Without another word of nonsense, he turned and left.
……
As night fell, the campfires blazed at the temporary camp outside the city.
Roland sat alone in his tent. Listening to the cheerful laughter of soldiers drinking cheap liquor outside, his heart was icy cold.
He could clearly feel his life force flowing away like sand in an hourglass, bit by bit.
The tent flap was lifted, and Caesar walked inside.
“My lord.”
“Stay seated.”
Caesar placed the cold black iron box before him.
“Open it.”
Roland opened the box with confusion. An intensely rich energy aura mixed with blood and fragrance rushed at him.
A crystal-clear vial lay quietly on a velvet cushion. Inside was liquid as thick as rubies, flowing with dreamlike luster in the dim lamplight.
“Lion… Lionheart Elixir!”
Roland's voice changed pitch instantly. He jerked his head up, his eyes full of shock and disbelief.
“My lord! This… this thing… this thing is too precious…”
Even on the black market, this bottle of potion was worth a fortune!
Even if his lord had a small treasury, this single bottle of potion must have completely emptied it.
Caesar simply looked at him calmly, his deep purple eyes reflecting the old Knight's shocked face.
“A Grand Knight's loyalty can't be bought with gold coins alone.”
“But his life can be.”
“Roland, your life is worth far more than this bottle of potion.”
Simple, direct, yet heavy as mountains.
Roland's body began to tremble violently.
A warrior dies for those who understand him!
This old Knight who had spent a lifetime at war, whose face was covered in vicious scars, now had the muscles of his face twisting. He wanted to say something, but his throat seemed blocked.
Finally, a drop of turbid, scalding old tears could no longer be suppressed and burst from the corners of his wrinkled eyes.
He said not another word. With hands trembling from emotion, he took the potion, pulled out the stopper, and drank it down in one gulp!
BOOM—!
A violent torrent of energy exploded instantly within him!
Roland let out a beast-like suppressed groan. His entire body's skin turned bright red in an instant, and bulging veins writhed madly across his body's surface like hideous earthworms.
The old wounds, hidden ailments, and the sinister cold energy left by the Wolf King within his body were incinerated and purified with devastating force under this tyrannically unmatched medicinal power!
His graying hair, at a speed visible to the naked eye, began turning from the roots into a resolute iron-gray color, inch by inch!
A Battle Energy far more vigorous and condensed than before—more than ten times stronger—erupted like an awakening volcano, even bulging the small tent's roof high!
Grand Knight!
After an unknown amount of time, the light faded.
Roland slowly opened his eyes. Those pupils were no longer turbid and aged but had recovered the sharpness and clarity of youth, like hawks soaring across the sky.
The next moment, he turned and knelt, pounding his right fist heavily against his heart. In a tone solemn to the extreme, as if swearing an oath before a deity, he spoke word by word.
“My life and soul are both granted by you, my lord, Caesar Valerius!”
He drew the Knight's longsword from his waist and held it horizontally before his chest, the blade reflecting his reborn, resolute face.
“From this moment, I, Roland, swear by my Knight's soul—”
“My sword is your fury, cutting down all thorns before your path!”
“My shield is your will, blocking ten thousand hostilities for you!”
“Until death separates me from this oath!”