Nathan – POV

  True to their word, Krizek, Xander, and Leshner arrived at sunset. Their silhouettes emerged from the fading light, cloaked in menace. No introductions were needed; Anda’s party already knew them from their days in Kizah. But when Dianne presented my minions to the servant girls, the reaction was immediate: fear. Who could blame them? Those three radiated an aura of danger and malice, a suffocating pressure that made the girls shrink back. I quickly ordered them mentally to suppress it. At once, the oppressive weight lifted, and the girls relaxed, though their eyes still lingered uneasily on the trio.

  Leshner, ever the incubus, leaned toward me with a sly grin. “Master, may I… play with the girls?” His voice dripped with suggestions.

  I denied him flatly. “No. They are part of our house now...protected, not prey. Whatever you mean by ‘play,’ I don’t want to know.”

  He chuckled but obeyed.

  That night, the campfire burned bright, and the air was alive with chatter. Leshner, as talkative as ever, regaled us with tales of their exploits; embellished, no doubt, but captivating, nonetheless. The servant girls listened wide-eyed, caught between awe and unease. His charm was dangerous, but my command kept him in check.

  Anda’s party, however, was genuinely impressed. When my minions recounted how they had cleared one of Kharb’s dungeons, Anda and his companions looked relieved to have pledged themselves to our house. Powerful allies were worth more than gold.

  Meanwhile, my own progress was steady. My two-handed sword mastery had reached level 15, thanks to the teachings of the Italian master. Jack’s growth was equally swift, his eagerness to learn from me unshaken. Soon, even Anda, Jake, and Stanley asked to be taught. Father encouraged me to write a manual, a record of Fiore dei Liberi’s techniques, for our retainers. A secret text, kept within our house alone. I agreed.

  By morning, the merchants returned from the city, and we broke camp. They were quick to notice our increased numbers, and questions followed. We had intended to keep our noble status hidden, but Father chose otherwise.

  At first, disbelief. Then, proof. Father presented Mother’s letter of patent, and one merchant produced a magical device that revealed Jakob’s identity as co-head of House Mayweather-Abensberg. Respect replaced doubt.

  I couldn’t help but marvel at how easily people accepted identity through the system. On Earth, such a tool would have solved countless problems of fraud and theft. The thought made me chuckle.

  Two months passed before we reached the borders of the Holy State of Shablin, another theocracy. This world seemed infested with self-righteous holy states. I groaned at the thought.

  We passed countless cities, towns, and villages along the way. I turned seven years old during the journey. Thankfully, no major incidents arose...save one. A merchant’s bodyguard attempted to harass one of our servant girls. Our retainers subdued him instantly, and when his comrades tried to intervene, Father invoked our noble status. Jakob declared the insult to our honor must be repaid in blood and coin.

  The merchants relented, offering indemnity. The offending bodyguard was executed by Anda. The act drew enmity from the mercenaries, but Father explained:

  “If we let that man go, our fledgling house would appear weak. Weakness invites conflict.”

  I protested. “But killing him will invite hatred. They will plot against us.”

  Father’s reply was grim but true. “Either way, they will attack us. Better to show strength now. I am sure some of them are already plotting to either rob or enslave us, perhaps both. Remember this son, it is better to be feared and to be abused. The harassment of our servant girl was sort of a test... on our resolve. I have seen this before son.”

  Father is right. In this feudal world, might was law. Mercy was weakness. A fight was inevitable.

  I ordered my minions to watch the merchants closely. Soon, Krizek, hidden under invisibility, overheard their scheme. The merchants and their bodyguards planned to strike on the first night past Shablin’s border. Their goal: raid our coffers and enslave our women.

  I relayed the news.

  “We strike first,” Leshner urged, his eyes gleaming.

  “Not here,” Father countered. “We wait until the whole caravan stops to make camp. Then we strike before they do.”

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Krizek grinned. “The three of us can take them all.”

  Stanley shivered at his tone. Anda asked what should be done with the merchants. Jakob’s answer was cold:

  “They deserve no mercy. Eliminate them all. Leave none alive.”

  I agreed. My command to my minions was simple: Execute them all with extreme prejudice.

  As we crossed into Shablin, tension thickened. The mercenaries feigned camaraderie, joking and laughing, but we were not deceived.

  Near sundown, the border vanished behind us. The caravan entered a dense forest. The mercenary leader called for camp. That was our cue.

  While our retainers stood guard by the wagons, my mother and the girls sheltered inside. The merchants smiled, feigning innocence. Then my minions struck.

  Silent, methodical, they began with the farthest men, strolling through camp as if on a casual walk. A throat slit here, a head taken there. By the time the others realized, half their force was gone. Krizek held a severed head in his hand, grinning.

  The merchants and mercenaries found themselves trapped between our retainers and my blood-soaked minions.

  “What are your people doing, Lord Jakob?” one of the merchants cried.

  Father’s reply was cold steel. “Collecting advance payment for your betrayal.”

  The mercenary leader, the one who had harmed Christine, charged. Stanley beheaded him in a single stroke.

  The rest were slaughtered. None survived.

  I was astonished by my minions’ overwhelming power. Yet disappointed—the system granted me no levels for the massacre.

  Father ordered the looting. Weapons, valuables, gold...all taken. Our retainers kept what they stripped from the bodies. Even the servant girls received coins. Anda’s team did not protest; even the women joined in. Hard lives forge hard people.

  By moonrise, the corpses were stripped and buried in a mass grave. The gold alone was staggering. Father distributed bonuses, ensuring loyalty.

  But the night was solemn. No laughter, no revelry. Only silence, and the mound of death nearby.

  As I lay beneath the moon, I reflected. In Delta Force, death had purpose; missions, objectives. Here, death was survival. Nothing more, nothing less. I had already resigned myself to this life.

  I only hoped that whoever placed me in this world would not regret their choice.

  The next morning dawned crisp and clear, and we rose early for breakfast. None of us lingered long over the meal; the urgency of departure pressed heavily upon us. Our caravan had grown overnight into something far larger than we had anticipated. Several wagons now stood laden with goods, their wheels creaking under the weight of loot taken from the merchants.

  It was a blessing, yes, but also a burden. Too many wagons meant too many vulnerabilities. With only a limited number of men to guard them, we risked becoming a lumbering target for bandits or rival adventurers.

  Jakob leaned close, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Do you still have space in your pocket dimension?”

  I considered for a moment, mentally gauging the capacity of that hidden vault. “There is still a little room,” I replied. “Enough to store perhaps three-quarters of the goods. The rest will have to be carried openly on some wagons.”

  Dianne, ever practical, interjected. “Then we should choose carefully which goods to keep. Not everything is worth the risk of hauling across dangerous roads.”

  “That would be ideal,” I agreed.

  We set about taking stock of the wagons’ contents. The haul was impressive: crates of spices whose aroma filled the air, bolts of fine textiles shimmering in the morning light, and rows of heavy jars of mead. After some deliberation, we decided to prioritize. The spices and textiles were far too valuable to risk losing, and so I stored them safely within the pocket dimension, along with the chests of gold coins looted from the merchants. The mead, bulky and less precious, was left to fill three wagons entirely.

  Anda and his team watched with furrowed brows as the goods seemed to vanish before their eyes. They exchanged puzzled glances, whispering among themselves. Jakob, sensing their unease, promised to explain later. For now, speed is more important than clarity.

  By the time we finished, our caravan had been reshaped. In addition to our original two wagons, we now commanded three more, each stacked high with jars of mead. Several horses had been taken from the abandoned wagons, giving us the means to pull the load. The rest of the goods; spices, textiles, and gold; were secured in my pocket dimension, hidden from sight and safe from theft.

  There was a strategy in this arrangement. Should we be ambushed, the wagons of mead could serve as bait, a tempting prize to distract would-be attackers while our true wealth remained concealed.

  By mid-morning, five wagons creaked into motion, accompanied by a train of horses and retainers. The sight of our caravan stretching along the road filled me with quiet satisfaction. In a single stroke, our house had grown richer than ever before.

  Our destination lays ahead: one of the great cities of Shabalan. There, we hoped to sell our surplus goods and convert them into coins and maybe some influence. Yet even as we planned, disagreements arose. Mother insisted that the textiles should not be sold, seeing them as symbols of refinement and status for our household. Father, ever the pragmatist, refused to part with the weapons we had acquired, knowing their worth in the battles yet to come. As for myself, I could not bear to relinquish the spices. Their rarity and value were too great, and I imagined the power they might bring when traded wisely or used to liven up the bland reality of our food.

  Jakob, caught between our differing desires, finally relented. “We will sell only the mead,” he declared, “and keep a few jars for our own use. The rest; spices, textiles, weapons; remain with us.”

  And so, it was decided. Our wagons rolled onward, heavy with mead and heavier still with the promise of wealth and conflict yet to come.