Garos did not trust Nick's words.
Honesty? Trust? Such words did not exist in a merchant's dictionary, especially not for a shrewd merchant like Nick. He even dared to boast endlessly among a pack of Werewolves. If he was honest, Garos could call himself a benevolent dragon.
Through the old Shaman, he said to Nick,
"Your caravan only has five steam trucks on the verge of being scrapped, carrying some cheap, useless Chicken-Blood Stones. How am I supposed to believe you can bring back Black Oil and Magic Energy Stones for me?"
After a pause, he added, "Think carefully before answering. You only have one chance."
The lives of him and his companions depended on the answer that came next.
Nick's breathing quickened for a moment as immense pressure bore down on him.
The old Shaman before him was hunched and gray-furred, without the slightest air of intimidation. Yet Nick felt as though a giant dragon lurked within those aged, cloudy eyes, pressing down on him with mountain-like force.
At first, he wanted to fall back on habit and weave a lie to earn the other party's trust.
But just as the lie was about to leave his lips, Nick stopped.
No lie could ever be more trustworthy than the truth.
After several seconds of silence, Nick took a few deep breaths and began telling his story.
At eleven, Nick had hidden half a stolen sack of pepper in his clothes. He traded the pepper to a fisherman for a stinking herring, then resold it to a drunken sailor, earning the first copper coin of his life.
At twenty, Nick had become the youngest trader in the Emerald Merchant Guild. By packaging moldy oats as special provisions from the Northern Frontier, he amassed his first fortune, formed his own large