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Home Post 10605-chapter-22

10605-chapter-22

Chapter 22 : The Gambler’s Odds

 

They agreed to speak of details upon their return to the city.

Terty admitted he had been gone from Nigerte for quite some time—summoned away by contracts and campaigns. In truth, he knew little of the city’s current state, having barely stepped foot within its walls before being sent straight to the troll hunt.

The next morning, after a simple breakfast, they departed.

The guild had fulfilled its duties to the hunters. The return to the city, as was custom, was left to each party’s own means.

Thanks to the hired carriage, they passed through Nigerte’s southern gate in less than three hours. Their first stop was the Mercenary Guildhall, a stone edifice nestled in the city’s bustling center. Curtis  and Terty waited outside while an assistant ascended the stairs to report their arrival.

They idled beneath the towering bulletin board, skimming posted contracts and faded notices.

It wasn’t long before the assistant returned.

“The Guildmaster wishes to speak with you both.”

They followed the guide into the upper chambers of the hall, where the Guildmaster awaited—a man well into his fifties, worn by years of campaign and command. The remnants of a once-formidable frame clung to him, though weathered like an ancient blade dulled by time.

Terty had explained earlier: the man had once held the rank of Silver-White, a level few ever achieved. He had retired a decade ago to helm the guild.

“Welcome, Terty,” the Guildmaster said warmly. Then, turning to Curtis , he bowed slightly. “And you… Curtis , Lord Mage.”

“Please, just ‘Curtis ’ will do.”

Curtis  raised his hand, politely warding off the formality.

It was customary, when addressing high-tier mercenaries, to append titles of honor: ‘Sir’ for warriors, ‘Lord’ for mages and priests. But mercenary life was far from genteel, and Curtis ’s path had been anything but noble. Such refinement only made him uncomfortable.

“Terty calls me Curtis , and I prefer to keep things simple.”

“As you wish,” the Guildmaster replied with a faint smile.

Tea was served, and with its warmth, the stiffness of first meetings began to ease.

“I’ve heard the full account from Terty,” the Guildmaster began. “The capture of the wretched breeds… and the troll. Yours is a skill worthy of Silver-White rank, no doubt.”

“You’re too kind. But if I may speak bluntly—isn’t it a bit much to take a stranger’s tale at face value?”

The Guildmaster chuckled. “I take it Terty didn’t praise himself?”

“Terty is our guild’s finest. If I can’t trust him, I’d have to stop trusting mercenaries altogether.”

Terty shifted, looking faintly embarrassed as the Guildmaster continued.

“There’s no need to feel burdened by praise. Rank evaluations are a matter of mutual benefit—for both mercenary and guild. You gain access to better contracts. We gain association with those of proven skill.”

“Does this rank come with… obligations?”

“None beyond a deeper duty to uphold trust. From Silver-White upward, you’re no longer easy to hide. Too few of you exist. When you act, the city watches.”

“Then I’ll act accordingly. And I’ll accept the honor.”

“Very well. The badge will take some time to forge. But from this moment forth, Curtis —you are recognized as a Silver-White mercenary under the seal of Nigerte.”

Terty clapped him on the back, offering quiet congratulations. Curtis  shook the Guildmaster’s hand.

“And now,” Curtis  said with a knowing smile, “shall we move to the real reason I was summoned?”

The Guildmaster’s smile faded—but not with hostility. Only gravity remained.

“You suspected, then? Terty told you?”

“Only that something’s stirring beneath the city’s calm.”

“I see. And how much do you know?”

“Only whispers. That there’s a power struggle here in Nigerte. The rest is still a blur.”

The Guildmaster exhaled and gathered his thoughts.

Curtis  mirrored him, sorting through what he had overheard and observed during his month-long stay in the city.

This world had no emperors. No kings.
Once, long ago, there had been empires and crowned thrones—but war had shattered them into dust.
Now, such titles lived only in stories.

And Curtis  suspected why: true central rule was impossible in a world such as this.
A world where a single warrior might slay a hundred.
Where a lone mage could level a keep.
In such a world, power didn’t obey blood—it obeyed strength.

Why bend the knee to a man born into rule, if he was weaker than you?

Thus, power flowed differently here. Cities ruled themselves.
Each was a city-state, surrounded by villages, functioning as a miniature kingdom.
Each one was ruled by power: either by a warrior clan, or a mage lineage.
The greatest of them—like House Plagius—commanded multiple cities.
Others formed coalitions, sharing fragile dominion over one.

Nigerte was the latter.

“I’ll speak plainly,” the Guildmaster said at last. “Nigerte’s noble houses fall into two factions—Gaud and Narok. Bitter rivals for decades.”

“I’ve heard the names,” Curtis  replied. “And that they detest each other.”

“They maintained balance. Barely. But recently, House Gaud has brought in outside strength—a mercenary of uncommon skill. Enough to tip the scales.”

“A Gold-rank?”

“If it were a Gold, Narok would already lie in ruin. No, not a Gold. But still… dangerous.”

The Guildmaster’s voice dropped low.

“She’s a Spiritcaller.”

Curtis ’s eyes widened.

Spiritcallers—magi who channeled spirits rather than casting spells directly. Rarer even than mages themselves.
He had never expected to find one in a place like this.

“And so you’re seeking a countermeasure,” Curtis  murmured. “A mage to oppose a mage.”

“Exactly. Word spreads fast, you know. That tavern scuffle before the hunt—Bron’s Rest? The one with the beer?”

“…Ah. That.”

“The mercenaries who witnessed it told the tale. And that tale reached me. It reached both Gaud and Narok as well.”

The Guildmaster opened a drawer and pulled out two letters—sealed envelopes, each marked with a different noble crest.

One bore the crimson wax of House Varellian, the serpent sigil pressed deep into the lacquer. The other, a silver seal bearing the stag of House Dornmere, still gleamed as though freshly stamped. Both were pristine. Untouched. Heavy with silent expectation.

He placed them on the desk with care, as though the slightest misstep might awaken something dangerous within.

His eyes lingered on the crests, but his hands did not reach for either. Not yet.

He knew what they were.

And he knew he would not break them.

To open one would be to choose a side. To choose a side would be to set the guild’s course in stone—binding it to a tide that might not be turned back.

So instead, he leaned back into the shadows of his chair, hands folded, gaze distant.

Two kingdoms. Two requests. One guild.

And silence, for now, was his strongest move.