Chapter 43 : White Robes and Water Blades

He raised a hand—and all the water he’d spilled began to draw inward, pooling gently into the earth, vanishing. To the others, it was simply the mage tidying up his craft.

In truth, it returned to the spirit’s reserve—stored for future battles.

While the camp began its slow return to order, the mercenaries did their work.

They dragged bodies. Stripped weapons. Questioned the living.

Later that night, the mercenary captain approached again, his boots quieter now, his posture deferential.

“Sir Mage,” he said, voice hushed. “We didn’t get much. Most of them died too quickly. But we did learn something…”

“Go on.”

“They weren’t always bandits. They used to be mercenaries.”

“I figured.” Curtis nodded. “They were too organized. Their gear too clean.”

It wasn’t uncommon. Bronze-rank mercs sometimes turned when the coin ran dry. A low-tier sellsword with no work and no honor was a blade waiting to be misused.

“Their leader was silver,” the captain added. “Could’ve led a real company. So why resort to banditry?”

“Likely marked by the Guild. Committed some crime. Once you’re blacklisted, no one hires you legitimately.”

From nearby, a merchant—one of those who had bowed so deeply—spoke up, cautiously.

“If I may, sir… trade has increased this year. The eastern frontier’s expansion has created a flood of goods—ripe for theft.”

“I’d heard hiring had picked up,” the captain muttered. “So that’s why.”

“Are you headed east, sir Mage?” the merchant asked, more boldly now.

“Yes,” Curtis replied. “To Abaca.”

The merchant lit up.

“Then allow me to repay you! I’m with the Doris Trading Company—Abaca-based. Let us offer our service in return!”

Curtis raised a brow, the corner of his lips tilting in amusement.

“Very well. Let’s talk.”

His name was Donnie.

A merchant by title, but in practice, the commander of his own modest caravan—three traders, seventeen mercenaries, and four lumbering wagons laden with goods. Two of those wagons were his, and he had personally funded half the cost of their protection. Among his peers, he was not just respected—he was relied upon.

Donnie hailed from the Doris Trading Company, a powerful merchant guild said to be the largest in the city of Abaca. He wasn’t at its helm, but by his own word and the deferential glances of those around him, he held a solid place within its middle ranks.

“Of course, a mage of your stature may not need assistance,” he had said to Curtis  with a polite smile, “but wouldn’t you agree that even power needs comfort to thrive?”

“True enough,” Curtis  replied. “I’ve few connections in Abaca, and less patience for red tape.”

“Then allow Doris to open every gate for you. Whatever you require, we can make it so!”

“If that’s true, then I’ve nothing to lose.”

In this world, a trading company was much like a well-oiled machine, while a merchant guild, like the Doris Trading Company, functioned as a coalition—a network of independent traders too small to operate alone, but united in strength. While individual companies specialized in narrow fields, guilds like Doris boasted overwhelming variety. And influence.

If Donnie truly held weight in such a place, Curtis  figured a few small favors would be a trivial cost for someone who had just saved their lives.

“Very well,” Curtis  said. “Let’s travel together.”

“It would be our honor!” Donnie said, bowing with a flourish.

And so, the mage and the merchants marched as one.

It was slower than riding alone, of course. But Curtis  had never bought the horse for speed—he bought it for ease. In truth, a rider at a casual pace and a man marching with purpose didn’t differ much in distance covered each day.

Besides, they had already crossed more than half the distance to Abaca. A few extra days meant little.

In return, Curtis  gained warm meals, exemption from night watch, and a quiet camp. Most of the caravan still kept their distance, intimidated by his presence, which suited him fine. The few conversations he did have, he initiated himself—mostly with Donnie.

Curtis  had learned much from Terity, but knowledge was never wasted. Merchants and mercenaries saw the world through different eyes, and Curtis  was eager to compare the views.

“You said Doris is the largest guild in Abaca?”

“Indeed. More than half of the city’s active merchants are affiliated with us—even if we count conservatively.”

“Impressive.”

“It’s also the oldest. Doris was here before Abaca was even officially called a city. The other guilds are barely children in comparison.”

“And what do you trade in?”

“Everything,” Donnie said with a chuckle. “Truly, it would be faster to list what we don’t. We supply everything the Eastern Frontier requires.”

The East, beyond the coast, was a land of mountains and monsters. In this world, mountains meant danger—the domain of aberrations and beasts. It was no mystery why the East was considered wild, untamed.

But scattered among those ridges were fertile basins, rich in water and soil—lands that made greedy men dream. And so, slowly, the bold had begun to tame them.

Abaca was the gateway. Situated at the mouth of a rare mountain pass, it marked the beginning of the frontier—where civilization met wilderness.

“So,” Donnie asked cautiously one evening by the fire, “Sir Curtis … are you headed to Abaca in order to cross into the Frontier?”

“That was the plan. Though I’ve heard the path isn’t open to just anyone.”

“That’s true. Most wait for the official caravans—every fortnight or so.”

Anyone could technically enter the frontier. But only fools did so alone. The risks were high. Official groups, escorted by dozens—sometimes hundreds—moved as one. Even then, death was never far behind.

“Is there a problem with that?” Curtis  asked, noting the hesitation.

“N-no, not at all…” Donnie paused. “It’s just… mages usually avoid the frontier. I didn’t expect someone like you to head that way willingly.”

“Is that so?” Curtis  tilted his head. “I was under the impression the Eastern Frontier had the highest concentration of mercenary mages.”

“You’re not wrong,” Donnie admitted. “But… mercenary mages are rare to begin with. And those who do come, rarely stay. The pay is good—but the danger never sleeps.”

Indeed, mages were not treated like warriors. A bronze-tier swordsman was common as sand. A bronze-tier mage? Rare—and far more valuable. And if one had real combat experience from the frontier? They became coveted, hunted, prized.

Silver-tier and above could retire into luxury.