Chapter 643: Rejecting A Toast, to accept a Forfeit II
CH643 Rejecting A Toast, to accept a Forfeit II
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"How about we enjoy some of the most sought-after cuisine BloodIron has to offer?"
Peyton’s lips twitched in faint irritation as he was forced to remove his boots from the table to allow the dishes to be placed before him.
For the next twenty minutes, the three parties ate in relative silence.
Raven Horn observed them both, and the contrast between the two sides could not have been more pronounced.
Though Peyton attempted to maintain a semblance of decorum, his movements were noticeably rough and unrefined. It was evident that he was unaccustomed to such dining etiquette, merely imitating what the setting demanded of him.
Alex, on the other hand, embodied the very essence of refined dining. Every motion was measured, deliberate, and effortlessly elegant.
The difference was stark.
It was like watching a common upstart—a nouveau riche at best—in contrast to the composure of a seasoned noble... perhaps even a royal prince.
With this simple exchange, the disparity in their backgrounds became unmistakably clear.
Once the meal concluded and the waiters cleared the table, Raven Horn gave a subtle nod, signalling that the negotiations could finally begin.
"Mister Alex Fury, you were the one who called for this meeting. What do you wish to say?" Raven Horn prompted.
Alex nodded his head politely before turning his attention towards Brock Peyton.
"It has come to my understanding that a feud has, perhaps unknowingly, arisen between us. It would seem that you, Mister Brock Peyton, hold my Fortuna Company responsible for the death of your younger brother... and have since placed a kill order upon us.
"I believe there has been a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?" Peyton cut in sharply. "Are you denying that you killed my brother?"
"I do not know who your brother is, Mister Peyton," Alex replied evenly. "To the best of my recollection, the individuals my company encountered were a group of bandits who attempted to rob us. We merely acted in self-defence.
"Or are you suggesting, Mister Peyton, that your brother was the leader of that bandit group?"
"So what if he was?!" Brock Peyton shot back, his glare intensifying. "Whether my brother was a bandit or a sanctified Saint of Justice and Light, you had no right to kill him.
"And not only did you kill him—you went so far as to fly his group’s flag to intimidate others.
"How do you expect me to overlook such blatant disrespect?"
"You are not making much sense, Mister Peyton," Alex replied, his expression remaining neutral. "Are you suggesting that we should not have defended ourselves against a group of bandits who attacked us? That we should have calmly bared our necks and offered them up for your brother to claim?"
"Exactly!" Peyton slammed his fist onto the table, causing the remaining cups and vessels to rattle violently.
"My brother’s life was worth more than all of yours combined. What right do weaklings like you have to take his life? It should have been your honour to die at his hands."
Mogal’s jaw nearly dropped, unable to comprehend the sheer absurdity of Brock Peyton’s reasoning.
Yet Alex’s expression did not change in the slightest. He remained completely impassive.
"Mister Peyton, I understand your anger. I would like to believe that you held your brother in high regard," Alex continued calmly. "However, you are not the only one who has suffered losses. I, too, lost men in your brother’s attack... and in your group’s ambush that followed shortly after.
"Even so, I chose to call for this meeting because I do not wish for this conflict to escalate further.
"A man in your line of work should understand that death lurks around every corner. Those who make a living by the blade must also be prepared to fall by it one day. That is simply the nature of things.
"What transpired between your brother and my men was not personal. It was an unfortunate outcome of conflicting interests. It was simply business, nothing more."
"If our two groups were to go to war over this, we would only be harming ourselves. In the end, it would be our respective operations—our livelihoods—that suffer the most."
Alex interlocked his fingers on the table before him, his posture composed as he continued in the same calm, measured tone.
"Judging from your words, you must be confident that you can destroy my group at any time. I will not attempt to dissuade you from that belief. However, I would like to point out that, regardless of the outcome, my group will not make it easy for you.
"Take, for instance, the unit you sent to ambush my raid party. You likely believed they would handle the task without difficulty... yet you were mistaken. As a result of that incident, you lost an entire company unit, along with a Combat Master. Meanwhile, my own raid unit has been rendered inoperable for the foreseeable future.
"In other words, both sides have suffered significant losses. The income both your company unit and my raid party would have generated has been halted. Worse still, we must now expend additional resources to rebuild. Losses that, quite frankly, could have been avoided."
Alex’s gaze shifted briefly towards the view beyond the fourth-floor window, overlooking the sprawling city below.
Then he turned back to Peyton.
"There is only one reason anyone comes to this godforsaken city—to make money. A feud between us will only drain whatever profits we have managed to secure.
"So, with that in mind, I propose that we resolve this matter amicably before it escalates any further.
"I am willing to offer reasonable compensation for the death of your brother, so that we may both put this incident behind us," Alex concluded.
"You think you can put a price on my brother’s life?" Peyton asked, his voice low.
"Let us not pretend otherwise, Mister Peyton," Alex replied plainly. "Given the nature of your business—slave trading—you of all people should understand that everything has a price. It is merely a question of how high that price is."
Peyton fell silent.
He stared at Alex, tapping his finger rhythmically against the table, as though weighing his options.
Several moments passed.
Then, at last, he nodded.
"You want to end this feud before it escalates, don’t you?" he said slowly. "There is only one way to achieve that. A merger. Your Fortuna Company will be absorbed into my Lost Heathens. Your men will work under me... and in exchange, you will be allowed to keep your lives.
"As for the women—" his lips curled into a crude smile, "—I’ve heard you travel with quite a few beauties. They can keep their lives as well... by earning their worth in my brothels. A fitting place for women like them."
Alex’s eyes flickered, a simmering rage threatening to rise to the surface.
Yet in that very moment, a chilling cold swept through his mind, freezing the emotion in place and preventing it from spilling over.
His expression remained unchanged.
He looked at Brock Peyton in silence for a long moment before letting out a quiet sigh.
"Is that your final demand?" he asked.
"It is," Peyton replied, a predatory smile spreading across his face.
"Then, regrettably, I cannot comply."
Alex rose to his feet.
He gave a slight nod to Mogal and turned, preparing to leave.
Peyton watched him go without a word.
Just as Alex reached the door, he paused.
"When the castle begins to crumble... remember that you were the one who cast aside the chance for peace," Alex said calmly.
He glanced back briefly.
Peyton’s figure was reflected in his eyes—now a chilling, frigid crimson.
Calm Madness!
"I look forward to seeing you again, Brock Peyton."
With that, Alex exited the room.
Behind him, the Lost Heathens’ Vice-Captain swallowed involuntarily, a cold shiver running down his spine.
For a fleeting moment, as he met those crimson eyes, an inexplicable sense of dread gripped him.
’What was that...?’
Doubt flickered within him—sharp and instinctive.
Yet in the very next moment, he suppressed it.
’No... that’s impossible.’
Within minutes, the meeting dissolved entirely.
Brock Peyton left the restaurant with a sense of triumph.
Unfortunately for him, he failed to notice the faint trace of pity in Raven Horn’s gaze as he departed.
For the man who had mediated the meeting understood all too well the ruinous web Alex had begun to weave around him.
’Peyton... oh, Peyton. You were offered a toast, but you chose a forfeit. Now you have awoken a dangerous beast...’
Raven Horn’s gaze drifted towards the window.
’A vindictive being—one that will not settle for simply killing you, but will dismantle everything you have built, piece by piece... while you are forced to watch, powerless, realising far too late that all of this could have been avoided had you only taken a step back... even just a little.’
He exhaled softly and shook his head.
A quiet sigh escaped him as he stared out into the distance.
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