The Tavern Gamble

In Fran City, at a tavern with a crooked sign called "Drunken Badger," the place was buzzing with noise, much livelier than usual for this hour.

Many citizens and idlers, drawn by the sight of Karl's troops marching out of the city at dawn, were gathered here now, drinking cheap ale and jabbering with spittle flying, discussing the unusual southern army and all sorts of rumors about their young lord.

Meanwhile, in a relatively secluded private room on the second floor of the tavern, the atmosphere was completely different.

The room was filled with smoke, a strange mix of alcohol, roasted meat, and cheap perfume.

Several young nobles in flamboyant attire were gathered around a greasy wooden table.

There was Lorenzo Visconti of the Visconti Family, Jasper Waters of the Fitzwalters Family...

But they were all just scions of declining families, or unimportant branches from their families, sent to the Northern Border to make up the numbers.

The table was littered with cups and plates, and the faces of the men showed the puffiness of a hangover and the boredom of restlessness.

"Tsk, did you hear? That 'treasure' of the Schmidt family, Karl, made quite a show of himself this morning when he set off!" Lorenzo took a swig of wine, his tone sour.

Jasper Waters let out a scoff and poked at a cold steak with his fork. "What's the point of a big show? He's taking so few men, and bought a bunch of slaves, to go to a hellhole like Carnford? I think he's tired of living! Earl Rochefort went to see him off? I think he was there to send him to his grave early!"

"Hush! Keep your voice down!" Fairchild glanced cautiously at the door. "He's still Duke Schmidt's son, don't say anything too nasty."

"So what if he's the Duke's son? Isn't he thrown into this godforsaken place like us?" Lorenzo grumbled discontentedly, but he did lower his voice. "I just can't stand his pretentious act! Training soldiers? Buying equipment? Who's he trying to impress? As if he's the only one truly serving the kingdom."

"Exactly!" Jasper chimed in. "Wouldn't it be better to just drink and womanize in the city like we should? He has to go and die, making us look like failures..."

Just then, the private room door creaked open.

A figure stumbled in.

He was about Karl's age, quite handsome, but pale, with sunken eyes, dark circles, and a deep weariness in his brow that made him look listless. His expensive silk shirt was unbuttoned, stained with an unknown smudge and a hint of lipstick.

Seeing him enter, the men at the table perked up, whistling and banging on the table.

"The boss is here!"

"Boss Cyril! You're finally back!"

"Sit down, sit down!"

The newcomer was Cyril von Eichberg, also a son of a duke, also belonging to the "most useless" category in his family, but with a higher line of succession and a more unrestrained spendthrift style, he had naturally become the leader of this small circle.

Cyril slumped lazily into the head seat, and someone immediately handed him a full wine glass.

He tilted his head and took a large gulp before letting out a sigh.

Lorenzo squeezed his eyes and leaned in, asking slyly, "Boss, how was the one yesterday? Heard you found a new prey?"

Cyril snorted, his tone carrying a condescending disdain and boastfulness. "This dump of a Northern Border is truly poor. Any girl who's even halfway decent can be had for two silver coins, but..."

He licked his lips, a lewd smile appearing. "I have to say, the women up north are wilder, more spirited!"

The others immediately let out knowing laughter and lewd agreement.

Cyril seemed to recall something, his eyes drifting, and he continued to himself, "If you ask me, the best goods in the Northern Border are still Earl Rochefort's daughter, that girl Charlotte. I caught a glimpse of her from afar when I came back this morning. Tsk, that figure, those long legs and slender waist, that noble princess vibe with thorns, I really want to see if she's as proud in bed..."

He became more and more vulgar.

Lorenzo and Jasper at the table listened with shining eyes, but Fairchild and the others only managed awkward laughs, daring not to join in.

To fantasize about the Earl's daughter? This was not a topic that minor nobles like them could casually engage in. If it got out, they wouldn't even know how they died.

Jasper Waters, seeing this, quickly changed the subject and asked, "By the way, boss, didn't you go to the Governor's mansion yesterday to choose a territory? Which one did you pick? It must be a good place!"

Cyril waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing away a fly. "Oh, that... my military advisor chose it. I wasn't interested in looking at those broken maps. It seems to be on the tip of some peninsula in the southwest? Heard it's easy to defend and hard to attack, not bad."

He paused, as if recalling something the advisor had mentioned in passing, and his tone carried a hint of disdain. "That old guy also said that Schmidt's kid's chosen place is actually not bad, it's just directly facing the path the Sauron Barbarians come down. Pure suicide, humph, putting on a show, really thinks he's a god of war?"

His eyes darted around, and a sudden idea struck him, a wicked smile appearing on his face. "Hey, I say, since we're all bored anyway, why don't we make a bet? Let's just bet on how long our 'brave' Karl von Schmidt, and his 'elite army', can last in that graveyard of Carnford?"

This immediately piqued everyone's interest; they were bored and looking for some fun.

"I bet he won't last until next autumn!" Lorenzo was the first to shout. "As soon as the Sauron people come, they'll crush him first!"

Jasper stroked his chin. "Autumn? You're giving him too much credit! I bet he'll be finished by summer! Maybe he'll be killed by a slave revolt he bought himself!"

"I bet three months!"

"I bet two months!"

Cyril listened to his subordinates placing their bets and smiled smugly. He slowly finished the wine in his glass, then slammed the cup down on the table with a "thud."

"You're all too optimistic," Cyril said, looking around the table with a cruel anticipation on his face. "I bet he won't live for a month! And he'll die miserably, and ugly."