Chapter 642: Rejecting A Toast, to accept a Forfeit I
CH642 Rejecting A Toast, to accept a Forfeit I
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A week passed swiftly—and seemingly uneventfully—within BloodIron City.
Due to the prospecting operation the Lost Heartens had underway in the barbarian village, and their temporary absence from the city, the meeting between Alex Fury, head of the Fortuna Company, and Brock Peyton, leader of the Lost Heartens, had been scheduled for a week later.
During that week, Alex and the Fortuna Company appeared almost entirely idle. They rarely left the mansion unless absolutely necessary, and certainly did not venture beyond the city’s limits.
Before long, rumours began to circulate. Whispers spread that the leader of Fortuna had capitulated in fear, going so far as to beg the Black Scar Syndicate to mediate a meeting—an outcome that was, unsurprisingly, likely fuelled by the Lost Heartens’ influence within the city.
Fortuna’s continued inactivity only served to reinforce these rumours in the eyes of many.
In a city where strength alone commanded respect, Fortuna’s apparent caution was met with open disdain by most, while some viewed it as a reasonable—if humiliating—response when faced with the overwhelming reputation of the Lost Heartens.
Only a select few understood the truth: Fortuna could not move even if it wished to, as its raid party—the bulk of its manpower—was still recovering from their injuries.
Even so, the situation worked to the advantage of the Lost Heartens, bolstering their standing within the city while eroding Fortuna’s credibility ahead of the impending meeting.
What had once seemed like a distant deadline arrived all too quickly. Time, indifferent to perception or preference, continued its steady march until the appointed day was finally upon them.
That afternoon, Alex stepped out of the mansion dressed in his usual clean, roguelike noble attire—though this time, he had chosen to forgo the jacket, cloak, and hood.
Without those additions, the outfit leaned more towards a refined rogue aesthetic than that of a traditional noble.
In the unlikely event that Brock Peyton agreed to peace—or something resembling it—presenting himself too overtly as a noble might only provoke the bandit leader into attempting to exploit him further.
If such a risk could be mitigated by the simple removal of a jacket or cloak, then there was no reason not to do so.
Besides... the city was unbearably hot anyway.
As Alex and his entourage exited the mansion, preparing to board the carriage and mount their horses, they found Raven Horn already waiting beside the carriage.
Alex’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. Raven Horn was not meant to meet them here—the plan had been to rendezvous directly at the meeting venue.
Curious, Alex stepped forward ahead of the others to greet him.
They exchanged brief pleasantries before the middle-aged man revealed the reason for his unexpected presence.
"There has been a change of plans. Brock Peyton wants the meeting restricted to a single accompanying entourage. No one else is to come within one block of the venue, or the meeting will be called off," Raven Horn explained.
Alex’s lips curved into a thin smile.
"He is making a show of force at the last minute... trying to remind me who he believes holds the upper hand."
Raven Horn gave a small nod.
"Unfortunately, it is not an unreasonable demand. As an ’impartial’ mediating party, we have no grounds to reject it. The same applies to you, since you were the one who requested this meeting in the first place," he added.
"I understand," Alex replied with a nod. He gave a casual shrug. "I have no objections either. Give me a moment—I need to decide who will accompany me."
He returned to the group and briefly explained the change in terms.
Unsurprisingly, the others were less than pleased, but Alex quickly downplayed the situation.
"You’re coming with me, big guy," he said suddenly, turning towards Mogal.
The group reacted with visible surprise. Among Alex’s followers, Mogal appeared to be the least threatening. Despite his imposing, hulking physique, his apparent rank did little to inspire confidence in his strength.
Then the realisation dawned on them...
That was precisely the point.
With Mogal accompanying him as his sole escort, Alex departed the mansion in a carriage, flanked by a security detail provided by the Black Scar Syndicate.
The Black Scars had arranged a similar escort for Brock Peyton as well.
Officially, this was to ensure the safety of both parties, as the Syndicate—acting as mediator—was responsible for maintaining order throughout the meeting.
The meeting venue was one of the largest and most prestigious restaurants in the city. For the average person, a single meal here would cost a small fortune—perhaps as much as half a year’s earnings.
Publicly, it appeared that Alex had been forced to pay an exorbitant price to book an entire floor to host the meeting. In reality, however, the establishment was secretly owned by the Black Scar Syndicate, meaning the arrangement had cost him nothing at all.
The Black Scars orchestrated the timing with precision, ensuring that both parties arrived at the restaurant at exactly the same moment.
They were then guided up the stairs at matching paces, guaranteeing that they reached the meeting room simultaneously.
For this occasion, the entire floor had been converted into a single, expansive room.
At its centre stood a long table with three seats: one at each end for the opposing parties, and a third positioned along the side at the midpoint for the mediator.
The moment they stepped into the room, Brock Peyton released his Combat Master aura, flooding the space with oppressive force.
Alex had anticipated the move, yet he made no attempt to resist, allowing the pressure to wash over him directly—if only for a brief moment—before Mogal and Raven Horn stepped forward to intercept it.
Raven Horn’s own aura rose to meet Peyton’s, neutralising the pressure before it could escalate further.
"What is the meaning of this, Brock Peyton?" Raven Horn demanded coldly. "An attack at the meeting venue is no different from an act of disrespect towards my Black Scar Syndicate."
"Relax, mediator. It was merely a friendly greeting," Brock Peyton replied with a broad, unapologetic grin.
Alex returned the smile in kind.
He understood the intent behind the gesture. Peyton was making a calculated power play—seeking to establish dominance before negotiations had even begun.
At the same time, it served as a test... or rather, a confirmation of the opposing side’s strength.
Before Raven Horn could formally guide both parties to their seats, as etiquette would dictate, Peyton strode forward and took his place without invitation.
He slouched into the chair, planting his boots atop the table like a common thug.
Another deliberate move—crude, yet effective—meant to assert control over the proceedings from the very outset.
Alex did not raise a fuss. Once again, he remained composed, calmly taking his seat with quiet elegance and refined poise.
Raven Horn followed suit, settling into the mediator’s chair.
Behind them, the Lost Heartens’ Vice-Captain and Mogal moved into position, standing silently behind their respective principals.
However, contrary to Peyton’s expectations, the negotiations did not begin immediately.
Instead, Raven Horn snapped his fingers.
At once, a line of waiters entered the room, pushing in carts laden with an array of exquisite dishes.
"Let us ease the atmosphere a bit before we begin." Raven Horn said smoothly as the table was set. "How about we enjoy some of the most sought-after cuisine BloodIron has to offer?"
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