Chapter 120: Someone Is Pissed
Stonehorn Crossing was a furnace that day. The marketplace below shimmered in the heat, vendors shouting themselves hoarse, carts rattling, and children darting between stalls. Smoked meats, wool bolts, and sacks of grain filled the air with heavy smells.
On the third floor of a wide, rustic stone building that overlooked it all, a Ramari merchant lord raged. His office was large, furnished with carved chairs, thick rugs, and a wide desk polished to a shine. Brass candlesticks glinted on the shelves. A portrait of himself, plump and smug in a velvet vest, hung crooked on the wall.
The same man was sweating through that same vest, his belly straining against the buttons as he tore through ledgers with greasy fingers. His gold bangles clinked loudly as he hurled one book after another onto the floor.
"Three fucking weeks!" he roared, slamming a ledger so hard the desk rattled. "Three weeks, and every wagon comes back half-empty. Twenty fucking percent of what they used to bring! Do they think I’m blind? Do they think I can’t count?!"
He yanked the quill from the inkwell and snapped it in half, splattering black across the carpet. "Lazy bastards! My caravans used to choke with grain, leather, smoked hogs—mountains of it! Now? Donkey-shit and excuses! They think I’ll just sit here, smiling, while they piss my profits down the road?!"
His secretary — a young female Ramari in a neat green dress — stood trembling just outside the doorway. She had been scribbling notes when the first vase shattered. Now she hugged her clipboard to her chest like a shield, flinching as another inkwell crashed against the wall.
Inside, the merchant stomped across the room, muttering curses in between guttural shouts. "Three weeks of this drought, and my name’s the one they’ll laugh at. Me! A man of standing, reduced to begging for scraps like a flea-bitten farmer! Fuck that!"
He ripped open another ledger, scanning the columns, sweat dripping down his furred brow. "Where’s the grain? Where’s the leather? Where’s the fucking meat? Don’t tell me the villages are drying up — I’ve seen their fields! They’re bursting with crops! The greedy pigs are selling it to someone else, I know it!"
A porcelain vase met the wall with a sharp crash, sending shards skittering across the floor. The secretary yelped, ears folding flat, but stayed frozen in the doorway.
"Worthless, slack-jawed caravan masters," the merchant raged. "Sleeping in the sun, fucking off in taverns, lining their own pockets. I should gut them all and hire new ones. You hear me?! GUT THEM!"
The secretary’s voice cracked. "M-my lord—"
He whirled, pointing a fat finger at her. "Don’t just stand there shivering like a goat in the rain, Rinya! Get my advisor! Now! Before I throw you out the goddamn window!"
She stumbled a bow and fled down the stairs, clutching her clipboard tight. Inside, the merchant slumped into his chair, panting, sweat dripping down his nose. He slammed his meaty fists against the desk, rattling the empty cups, and let out a final, guttural roar. "Three weeks, and I’ll be fucking ruined if this keeps up! Someone is bleeding me dry — and I’ll find out who, or I’ll burn this whole market to the ground!"
The door creaked open. Rinya hurried back inside, her steps small and nervous, and behind her came the advisor.
A tall foxkin stepped into the office with measured grace. His coat was pressed, his spectacles gleamed, and in his hands he carried a slim book bound in neat leather. Where the Ramari merchant was sweat, spittle, and rage, the foxkin was quiet precision.
The merchant grabbed the nearest cup and hurled it across the room. The advisor caught it cleanly out of the air without flinching, set it on a cupboard, and bowed.
"My lord," he said evenly.
"Don’t ’my lord’ me, damn it!" the Ramari snapped, his voice hoarse from shouting. "Tell me why my wagons are coming back empty. Why my coffers look like a whore’s purse after payday. Three weeks of piss-poor returns! Explain it to me, or I’ll have your hide!"
The foxkin adjusted his glasses, opened his book, and began to read in a calm tone. "The compiled reports suggest that your caravans have failed to secure their usual quantities because the villagers are refusing your offers. The buying price you have set is... too low."
The merchant’s face flushed purple. "Too low? Too fucking low? They should be grateful I even pay them a bronze! Without me, they’d walk three days to sell their scraps at some backwater bazaar!"
The advisor turned another page. "Another finding is, the Rogina Merchant Company has increased their buying price by fifty-five percent. Their caravans have made steady purchases during the same period."
The Ramari slammed both fists on the desk so hard the inkpots toppled. "Fifty-five percent? Those flea-bitten mongrels were supposed to be dead last year. Rogina should’ve gone bankrupt! How in all nine hells are they still breathing?!" He jabbed a stubby finger at the foxkin. "Why didn’t I know of this sooner? Where were my information agents?"
The advisor, unshaken, flipped to the next line. "With respect, sir, you said yourself, and I quote: ’They’re just a lowly merchant company. They’re not even worth spending coin on some lowly agent.’"
The merchant froze, then let out a string of curses that would’ve made a sailor blush. He snatched up a quill and snapped it in two, ink splattering across the rug.
He paced, panting, then whirled back. "And now you’re telling me they’re outbidding me? Rogina? That scum-ridden pack of halfwits?!"
The foxkin’s eyes didn’t waver. "There is more. Reports confirm that the Rogina Company has partnered with an entity calling itself ’Necro Corporation.’"
The merchant barked a laugh, spittle flying. "Don’t you fucking lie to me. Undead are myths, ghost stories to scare brats. Skeletons don’t exist!! Much as well as run companies!"
The advisor looked up from the book, gaze calm but steady. "Our agents insist otherwise."
The merchant’s laugh cut short into a furious snarl. He grabbed an inkwell and hurled it at the wall, black splattering across his portrait. "This is bullshit! How could this happen under my nose?!"
The advisor’s tone remained the same, even as the Ramari raged. "Reports indicate that the Necro Corporation is purchasing grain at five times your price."
The merchant spun, eyes bulging, his voice cracking with fury. "Five times?! Five hundred fucking percent?! What do they plan to earn, one bronze a kilo?!" He stomped his foot like a child, pacing furiously. "They’re shitting gold, that’s what! Fucking undead are ruining me! That’s why, those sleaze-bag tits are selling their grains at some bone bastard who are not even alive!"
He wheezed, chest heaving, then stabbed his finger at the foxkin. "Fine. If they want war, they’ll have it. Commission the Black Poison. I want every Rogina caravan gutted and that corpse-shit freak of a Necro Corp burned to ash. Fifty gold for the job. Fifty! I can just earn that back, so long as they’re fucking buried to the ground!"
The Ramari leaned back in his chair, sweat glistening on his brow, a nasty grin spreading across his face. "Fifty gold. More than enough to get the job done. Rogina, Necro Corp... they’ll never see it coming." He slapped the desk with a meaty hand. "This city doesn’t belong to peasants and fairy-tale corpses. It belongs to me."
The advisor bowed again, silent, and left the office with quiet steps, his book tucked neatly under his arm.
That night beneath Stonehorn Crossing, torchlight flickered off damp stone, casting long shadows across a pit dug into the dirt floor. Dozens of bandits and mercenaries pressed around it, howling with laughter as two men beat each other bloody in the ring. One was a farmer taken hostage weeks ago, his ransom never paid. The other was a caravan guard who had been unlucky enough to be captured alive. Neither would see the sun again.
From the corners of the hall came other sounds — drunken jeers, the creak of beds, and the muffled cries of female foxkin, kobold and ramari taken as spoils, no matter their race, their fates far crueler than the men. The bandits paid no mind. Life in the Black Poison was ugly, and suffering was as common as drink.
Up above, on a raised wooden platform that overlooked the pit, a Lupen reclined in a chair with his boots propped up on the table. His fur was mottled with scars, one jagged line running across the blind eye that gave him his nickname: Garruk One-Eye. In his paw he rolled a knife lazily, grinning as the guard in the pit was knocked flat on his back. Beside him stood a kobold with a crooked snout and sharp little teeth. He leaned in, whispering into Garruk’s ear.
"A commission’s come through," the kobold hissed, clutching a slip of parchment like it was made of gold. "Merchant House Drexil—fifty gold to wreck Rogina’s caravans. And more than that... to burn out some new player. Calls itself Necro Corporation."
Garruk raised one brow, a sharp canine flashing in the torchlight. He sat forward, letting his boots drop to the wood with a heavy thump. "Necro Corporation, eh? I’ve heard the whispers. Skeletons serving drinks. Ice water in the desert. A market where peasants eat like lords." He chuckled, deep and cold. "We’ve been watching that place for days. Timing’s perfect."
He stood, towering over the pit, and walked to the edge of the boardwalk. Below, the crowd roared as the farmer slammed his opponent into the dirt. Garruk spread his arms wide, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Listen up, you bastards!"
The noise dipped. Dozens of eyes turned upward. Garruk smirked, letting the silence stretch before he barked again. "Merchant House Drexil just dropped fifty gold on our table! Fifty! To tear Rogina’s wagons to pieces and put this so-called ’Necro Corp’ into the fucking ground!"
For a moment, the cavern went still. Then the cheer hit like thunder — howls, stomps, fists on tables. Men and women bellowed in joy at the number alone. Fifty gold was enough to turn paupers into kings.
When the roar finally began to die down, Garruk lifted a hand. His grin spread, sharp and cruel. "But we’re not handing it to all of you greedy pigs. No, no. Fifty spots. That’s it. And I’ll be taking a share for myself and my crew." He jabbed his knife toward the pit, where the two battered men were still struggling. "So here’s how it goes. Every bastard here gets in that pit. Free-for-all. No killing — just fists, teeth, and whatever the gods gave you. When it’s done, forty-five of you still standing get the job."
The hall erupted again, half cheering, half jeering. Tankards were raised, blades clattered against shields, and some bandits leapt straight into the pit before Garruk had even finished speaking.
Garruk One-Eye watched them with a predator’s calm. He twirled his knife once, slid it into his belt, and leaned on the railing. "Fight well, boys and girls," he growled. "Fifty gold’s waiting. And Rogina’s not the only throat we’ll be cutting. Not that they have throats to begin with! YOHOHOHOHOHOH!"
The bandits below screamed as the first fists flew, bodies crashing together in a frenzy of violence. Garruk’s scarred eye gleamed with satisfaction.
The cavern swelled with noise, torches spitting smoke as the first brawlers hurled themselves into the pit. Dozens of bandits leapt in, fists swinging, teeth snapping, the dust kicking up as bodies slammed into one another. It was chaos — and it was entertainment.
"Break his teeth!" one shouted.
"Kick his ribs in!" another howled.
A roar went up when a burly frogkin slammed a kobold into the dirt headfirst.
Above them, Garruk One-Eye leaned on the railing, his single good eye gleaming. He watched like a king surveying his court, the blade still dangling casually from his fingers.
The noise was deafening. Tankards slammed against tables in rhythm. Bandits stomped their boots, howling every time someone went down in the dust. Some tossed coins on the ground, wagering on who would still be standing.
"Ten coppers says the goatfolk takes it!"
"Bah, he’s half-drunk already! Look at him wobble!"
"Ha! He’s still tougher than your mother!"
The pit swarmed like a nest of feral dogs. Blood sprayed as a fist broke a nose. Teeth skittered across the dirt floor. A lupen slammed a frogkin into the wall of the pit, only to be dragged down himself by two snarling kobolds. No one stopped to help. It was every beast for themselves.
Garruk’s grin widened as the dust rose higher. The fight was still a mess of limbs and curses, but already the weaker ones were crawling to the edges, spitting blood and dragging themselves out.
"Stand up, you cowards!" someone jeered.
"Keep going! Don’t stop ’til your bones snap!" another bellowed.
"Come on, you call that a punch? Hit him harder!"
A massive ramfolk bellowed and sent a kobold flying into three others, all four crumpling together in a heap. A chorus of cheers erupted. A foxkin ducked low and tripped a lupen, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. The crowd howled with laughter.
Coins changed hands as the chaos went on. Bets flew with every punch. Sweat and blood slicked the dirt floor until it was little more than a mud pit.
Above it all, Garruk raised his knife and shouted. "This is what fifty gold buys you! Prove you’re worth it! Fight like demons, or crawl back to your holes!"
The bandits screamed louder, some in the pit, some on the sidelines, as the fight raged on. The weaker ones kept dropping out, and slowly, the frenzy began to winnow the crowd toward the forty-five who’d stand when it was done.
Garruk watched with calm delight, his scarred eye glinting in the firelight. For him, this wasn’t just selection. It was celebration — proof that the Black Poison was strong, ruthless, and ready to earn its gold.