Tavern Bet

In a tavern called the "Drunken Badger," its sign hanging crookedly inside Fran City, the place was packed and roaring with noise. It was far livelier than usual at this hour.

Many citizens and idlers who had been drawn out by the spectacle of Karl's troops leaving the city that morning had gathered here. They drank cheap ale and discussed, spraying spittle, all sorts of rumors about that unusual southern army and the young Lord.

But on the second floor, inside a relatively secluded private room, the atmosphere was entirely different.

The room was thick with smoke, mingling with the strange smells of alcohol, roast meat, and cheap perfume.

Several extravagantly dressed young nobles sat around a greasy wooden table.

Among them were Lorenzo Visconti of the Visconti Family and Jasper Waters of the Fitzwalters Family...

They were all second sons or collateral relatives whose families had fallen into decline, or who were disregarded by their families and sent to the Northern Territory merely to make up the numbers.

The tabletop was a chaotic mess of cups and plates. All of them had puffy faces from hangovers and wore expressions of listless irritation.

"Tsk, heard the news? Karl, that 'precious darling' of the Schmidt Family, put on quite a show early this morning and set off!" Lorenzo gulped down some wine, his tone dripping with sourness.

Jasper Waters snorted and prodded a piece of cold steak with his fork. "So what if he put on a big show? He took so few people, bought a whole bunch of slaves, and ran off to a godforsaken place like Carnford? I say he's got a death wish! Earl Rochefort went to see him off? I bet he went to arrange his funeral in advance!"

"Shh! Keep your voice down!" Fairchild cautiously glanced at the door. "He is the son of Duke Schmidt, after all. Don't make it sound too unpleasant."

"So what if he's a duke's son? He was still dumped in this godforsaken place just like us, wasn't he?" Lorenzo muttered unhappily, though he did lower his voice. "I just can't stand that pretentious act of his! Training soldiers? Buying equipment? Who's he putting on a show for? He acts like he's the only one who genuinely serves the kingdom."

"Exactly!" Jasper chimed in. "Wouldn't it be better to stay in the city, drink, and chase women? He just has to run off to die, making the rest of us look like useless cowards..."

Just then, the private-room door creaked open.

A figure staggered inside.

He was around Karl's age and quite handsome, but his complexion was pale, his eye sockets sunken. Heavy dark circles and deep fatigue between his brows made him look utterly listless. The collar of his expensive silk shirt hung open, stained with unknown smears and a few lipstick marks.

The moment the men at the table saw him enter, their spirits soared. They whistled and slapped the tabletop.

"The boss is here!"

"Boss Cyril! You're finally back!"

"Come sit, come sit!"

The newcomer was Cyril von Eichberg, also the son of a duke. He likewise belonged to the "most useless" category within his family. But thanks to his higher position in the succession and his even more reckless spending habits, he had naturally become the leader of this little circle.

Cyril lazily collapsed into the seat of honor, and someone immediately handed him a full glass of wine.

He tipped his head back and drained a large gulp before letting out a sigh of relief.

Lorenzo sidled over with exaggerated winks and asked obsequiously, "Boss, how was the one from last night? I heard you found another new target?"

Cyril gave a mocking snort, his tone full of condescension and ostentation. "This dump of a Northern Territory is truly dirt-poor. Any girl who's even halfway decent can be had for two Silver coins, but..."

He licked his lips, revealing a lecherous smile. "I have to admit, the women in the Northern Territory are a little wilder. They've got some real bite!"

The others immediately burst into knowing laughter and lewd agreement.

Cyril seemed to remember something. His gaze drifted for a moment before he spoke to himself. "If you ask me, the finest prize in the Northern Territory has to be Earl Rochefort's daughter. That girl named Charlotte—I caught a glimpse of her from a distance when I came back this morning. Tsk, tsk, that figure, those long legs and slender waist, that spirit of hers... She really does look like a prickly noble Princess. I'd love to see whether she's just as haughty in bed..."

The more he spoke, the more obscene he became.

Lorenzo and Jasper's eyes gleamed as they listened, but Fairchild and the others only managed awkward smiles, not daring to respond.

Fantasizing about an Earl's daughter? This was not a topic minor nobles like them could casually participate in. If word got out, they might not even know how they died.

Seeing this, Jasper Waters hurriedly changed the subject. "By the way, Boss, didn't you also go to the Governor's Office yesterday to choose a territory? Which one did you pick? It must be a good place, right?"

Cyril waved dismissively, as if shooing away a fly. "Oh, that? My military adviser chose it. I had no interest in looking at those lousy maps. It seems to be on the tip of some peninsula in the southwest? I heard it's easy to defend and difficult to attack. Not bad."

He paused, apparently recalling something his adviser had mentioned in passing. A trace of disdain entered his voice. "That old fool also said the place that boy from the Schmidt Family picked was actually pretty good. It just faces the route the Sauron Barbarians use to come down, so he's practically begging to die. Hmph, putting on an act like that—does he really think he's some God of War?"

His eyes shifted, and a sudden idea occurred to him. A malicious smile spread across his face. "Hey, we're idle anyway. How about we make a bet? Let's bet on how long our 'brave' Karl von Schmidt and his 'elite army' can last in that graveyard called Carnford."

His words immediately piqued everyone's interest. They had been desperate for some entertainment.

"I bet he won't make it past next autumn!" Lorenzo was the first to shout. "The moment the Sauron people arrive, they'll be the first to crush him!"

Jasper stroked his chin. "Autumn? You think too highly of him! I bet he'll be finished by summer! Maybe the slaves he bought will revolt and butcher him!"

"I bet three months!"

"I bet two months!"

Cyril listened as his men placed their bets one after another and smiled smugly. He leisurely drained the wine in his glass, then slammed it down on the table with a heavy bang.

"You're all far too optimistic." Cyril swept his gaze around the room, his face filled with cruel anticipation. "I bet he won't live out the month! And when he dies, it'll be horrible—truly ugly."