Chapter 144: Negotiations (Part Two)

On the third morning of the negotiations, Kevin finally made up his mind and requested an audience with the general. "Stad is struggling to handle the negotiations alone. I ask permission to enter and assist him. Since the other side demands a written promise from you, General, I can use carrying your official document as a pretext to enter and negotiate."

His words caught the three veterans by surprise. General Bright and Count Glaide exchanged a glance and smiled, as if reaching a silent understanding. General Ode, however, maintained a stern expression.

"What’s the point of going now? What difference could you possibly make?" Ode asked flatly.

"We must try our best," Kevin replied calmly. "The battlefield is like a game of chance; victory or defeat both remain possibilities."

The general studied Kevin for a moment before asking, "What do you need to prepare?"

Kevin answered, "Since I’m going under the pretense of delivering your document, I’ll need that. I also plan to borrow a couple of history books from the library and visit the market—there might be something useful. I expect to depart by evening."

"Anything else?" the general inquired directly, his tone implying he was ready to grant whatever Kevin requested.

Kevin smiled. "If the general is willing, perhaps you could record a message on a conch shell for me. That way, I’d have more persuasive power when I go in."

The conch shell recording device originated from seaside legends—stories of strange conches that, when held to the ear, could capture haunting songs. After careful study by mages, it was found that certain rare conches could indeed preserve sounds. Mages then crafted these into high-end voice recorders. Naturally, such conches were toys for the nobility; a commoner like Kevin had never even seen one. It was only through his wide reading that he knew of them. Nobles like the Sword Saints, however, had no reason to lack such items.

The three Sword Saints exchanged glances. Count Glaide retrieved a conch from his spatial ring—at least head-sized, with dazzling blue patterns, set with small crystals and magical runes—clearly a premium item. "Here, if you don’t have one, take this."

The general did not accept it himself but handed Kevin a red conch shell from his own ring. "What shall I say?" he asked.

Kevin replied, "The bandits want the general’s promise to release them. Simply state the promise and swear by the name of the god."

"Must it be like this?" General Ode frowned.

"Of course. Otherwise, how could the bandits believe you’ll actually spare them? This is the fundamental condition. Without it, the mastermind behind the scenes won’t be fooled, nor will the bandits."

Ode hesitated, holding the conch. No one pressured him. After a pause, he finally resolved, placing the conch to his lips: "I am General Ode, current commander of the Thunder Knights. In the name of the God of Light, I swear I will no longer pursue the bandits for their uprisings and will ransom all captives of the Thunder Knights."

The conch automatically records nearby sounds and, when held to the ear, can replay them with focused mental energy. Even without concentration, the sound can be heard, albeit faintly.

"Is that sufficient?" the general asked, placing the conch on the table.

"General, such a vow won’t be believed," Kevin sighed. "What are the consequences if it’s broken?"

"I’m a man of my word. Breaking this oath would destroy my credibility," Ode answered with slight irritation. "What more do you want?"

"But General Ode’s willingness alone isn’t enough," Kevin pressed on. "There’s also General Bright and others nearby. The bandits won’t trust just one commander. You must state that you represent the military command, not just the Thunder Knights."

"Fine," Ode sighed, took back the conch, and revised the oath.

"It’s still no good. Do you believe in the God of Light?" Kevin continued to pick at the details.

"I do!" Ode emphasized.

"You believe, but the oath you swore doesn’t match the proper form for the God of Light," Kevin insisted.

The two went back and forth, revising the oath repeatedly until the general was nearly furious. At last, Kevin nodded, "This should do."

The general casually tossed the conch to Kevin, who caught it with both hands. "I give you three days. After that, I will personally launch the attack. Don’t blame me for showing no mercy."

"Understood," Kevin nodded and pulled a letter from his pocket. "This is my will. The battlefield is a gamble; no one knows if they’ll survive. If I don’t return, deliver this to my mother. If I do, return it to me."

The general nodded and took it.

"I’ll be on my way." Kevin saluted the three Sword Saints, who returned the gesture. Turning to leave, a sigh escaped him—no one called him a hero or warrior as he departed.

Once Kevin left, the three Sword Saints gathered, and Count Glaide casually picked up Kevin’s will, feeling its thinness. "So thin? Doesn’t seem like something a bard would write."

They all found it odd. Normally, a will would be two or three pages full of heartfelt lamentation, not a single sheet.

"Shall we open it?" Glaide suggested. The others agreed. With precise skill, likely learned from being an assassin, Glaide carefully slit the envelope without damaging it.

Inside was but one sentence: "Ah! I intended to play a joke on the bandits but ended up being tricked myself. What a pity! — Kevin, final words from the Inn of Missing Thoughts."

The three Sword Saints were speechless.

Meanwhile, Kevin, carrying a small pack, rushed towards the teleportation array. Nearby, horse-drawn carriages were available for rent, and though it cost a bit, money was no object now. Urging the driver onward, they reached the Sarka City teleport array, and Kevin entered, teleporting directly to the capital.

Though aided by the Crow, Kevin still felt uneasy. Recalling his friends, besides the Crow, the assassins should be a powerful help. But their movements were elusive, and he had no clue where to find them. He only knew one particularly clumsy assassin who stayed at Count Glaide’s estate to tend the fire.

Familiar with the surroundings, Kevin sought out the little fire-tending girl. The steward and gatekeepers were acquaintances, as Kevin had once served as a tutor. When he asked for the fire-tending girl, no one objected, simply saying he could go in and look.

But when he tried to find her, she was nowhere to be found. One said she was chopping wood, but near the woodpile she was absent. Others said they just saw her a moment ago, then no one knew. Some guessed she’d gone to the latrine; others said she had already left. Confused, Kevin felt time slipping away and was ready to give up.

Just as he stepped outside, a sudden blur caught his eye, and a strong hand yanked him into a narrow alley. Kevin immediately ceased resistance—this force was beyond his ability to oppose.

"Who are you?" Kevin asked. The figure faced away, cloaked in a large hooded cape—not the little fire girl, but likely a higher-level assassin.

"I cannot tell you who I am," the voice was hoarse, seemingly deliberately so, its tone neutral enough that Kevin could not discern gender. "You came looking for the little fire girl, didn’t you?"

"Yes," Kevin replied without hesitation. "I’m in serious trouble and seek help. I plan to storm the bandits’ den and want some sort of insurance. Time is tight, so I’m trusting you. Your appearance must mean you’re here to help."

"What kind of insurance do you want?" the figure asked.

"Primarily to save my life," Kevin answered. "Anything that can buy time, confuse the enemy—anything." If he could just hold out long enough for the Crow to relay the entrance to the Sword Saints, they might avoid the massacre beneath. But even entering through the entrance would take time, and ensuring survival during that period was critical—no terrain advantage inside the cave.

Suddenly, a mole emerged from the ground at Kevin’s feet, nodded to him, then quickly burrowed back. The hole sealed itself as if it never existed.

Kevin was taken aback. He remembered this mole well—it had twice appeared during a fight against a Smith expert, shooting small crossbow bolts at the opponent’s crotch, causing a decisive defeat. Many wondered where the mole came from, but Kevin hadn’t expected it to show up now.

Looking up to thank whoever was there, the figure had vanished. Kevin glanced around; the alley was empty except for himself.

Accustomed to the assassins’ ghost-like appearances, Kevin hurried back through the teleport array to the nearby library to borrow some books. There was no time for the market now. By the time he reached the outskirts of the Kaludia Hills, dusk was falling.

Taking a deep breath, he donned his blue cloak and tidied his appearance, chewing on some jerky as he entered the area. Sometimes, when in a rush, even sentiments can be skipped. His mind received the Crow’s update: "Negotiations are much the same, but Stad found a breakthrough. He’s telling the bandits stories—they seem eager to listen."

"What is he telling them? The ‘Legend of Rex’?" Kevin asked.

"Something like that," the Crow replied. "You give them what they want to hear. That’s only natural."

"If that’s the case, this is my specialty," Kevin thought.

"Old friend, you’re not going to treat it like a tavern and then roast Stad like a common bard, are you?" the Crow teased. Kevin had often bantered in taverns, with the Crow witnessing many such jabs.

"There are many strategies—it depends on the situation," Kevin answered.

Moments later, Kevin noticed many burnt patches nearby, clearly man-made. Squatting to inspect, he frowned: "Drunkenwood?"

Drunkenwood is a high-grade elven timber, unfamiliar to most but not to Kevin. It was rare for anyone outside the elves to possess even one or two pieces. Legend held that the Elven Kingdom and the Ryan Empire were uneasy neighbors, wary of one another. If it were just three to five pieces, perhaps stolen by the empire, but such large-scale burning to smoke out an entire battalion was suspicious.

Could the mastermind behind this have elven involvement as well? As a half-elf, Kevin felt some awkwardness and suspected many unknown forces lurked behind this plot.

Knowing the enemy’s methods, Kevin no longer panicked. Like Stad, he shouted loudly, "The negotiators have arrived!" Then he returned to the cave to sleep, using the bed Stad had prepared days before—no need to make his own.

Kevin had considered feigning sleep to launch a counterattack, but his own low strength and being on enemy ground made that pointless. Killing one would only enrage the bandits, leading to his demise.

Realizing this, he settled into sleep. Upon opening his eyes, he found himself tied to a cross. The surroundings matched Stad’s description: red carpet, torchlight, a miserable strategist, countless captives, and a group of grim-faced bandits.

"Old friends, long time no see," Kevin said calmly.

The bandits fell silent, all turning to their leader, whose expression was serious but who finally nodded. "Yes, it has been a long time."

Beside him, Stad scowled, wondering why he was asked to address the bandits as "Honorable Lords."

The bandit leader glanced at Stad, reconsidering his earlier words. "Come on, then. As tradition demands, a hundred lashes to the privates!"

At this, the bandits showed no enthusiasm this time, hesitating and looking around nervously.

Kevin burst into hearty laughter, his presence commanding. The bandits’ memories soured.

"What are you laughing at?" the leader demanded.

"I’m laughing because you, bandit leader, are on the brink of death and don’t even know it! Ha ha ha!" Kevin continued laughing.

All eyes turned to the leader, whose face twitched as he clenched his left fist and stood, but then sat back down. "Then tell me why I’m on death’s door. If you can’t, I’ll make it ten thousand lashes!"

Stad was furious at the irony; when he spoke, the bandits mocked him as a coward, but when Kevin spoke, they followed the ritual. Why such a difference?

Ultimately, it was the lingering aura of power. Kevin, cloaked, even restrained on a cross, still exerted immense psychological pressure. Even when the bandits realized the effects were just theatrics, facing the actual "protagonist" bound before them, none dared strike first.

(To be continued.)