Chapter 6 - The Deal and the Militia Captain

I made an agreement with Mayor Obles to trade coins on a weekly basis in exchange for my spicy chips. In return, I would supply them to the village’s militia, giving them a better chance of defending their home against goblin raids.

It was a weird deal for anyone in this world—one that would have sounded outright ridiculous for anyone in the mainland.

With the steady flow of coins, I could hire some of the villagers to work at the convenience store, maybe even bring in builders to improve the area around my shop. If I was going to stay here, I needed roots.

I chose Blake and Tessa as my first candidates to work for me and both gladly accepted it in an instant. They could be supplying and helping the village in a safer environment than going out to forage in the wilderness.

With Blake’s help, we began delivering the chips.

“Clerk, before we get there!”

Blake stops for a second before reaching our destination.

“What is it, Blake?”

“I just have to remind you that our Militia’s captain is kind of doubtful about our chips from what I heard before coming with you. He is kind of a scary guy. He made Tessa cry once from just shouting.”

“We will have to convince him somehow then, come on, let’s go.”

We reach to the militia grounds

The training yard was alive with noise and motion. Soldiers sparred with wooden weapons, their shouts punctuating the dull thud of blows. Arrows struck practice targets in steady rhythm, and commands echoed across the field as instructors barked corrections. Dust hung lightly in the air, disturbed by constant movement.

Our arrival disrupted the flow.

When the militiamen noticed we were hauling wooden crates of chips, several of them slowed to a stop. A few openly stared. One laughed under his breath. Another leaned toward his companion and whispered with a small snort after.

I didn’t need to hear them to know what they were thinking.

“I heard from the Mayor that these are just potatoes?”

“Really? Heh.”

Some of the soldiers looked amused. Others looked annoyed. None of them looked convinced.

At the center of the yard stood Markus, the captain of the militia.

He was a muscular man in his late thirties, broad-shouldered and solid, with a bald head that reflected the afternoon light. His face was weathered, marked by faint scars that spoke of battles fought and survived. His armor was scratched and dulled, repaired so many times it barely resembled its original form. Nothing about him suggested imagination or superstition. This was a man shaped by reality—by blood, steel, and hard decisions—not by stories meant to comfort children.

His eyes followed us as we approached.

Blake gave a polite nod. “Captain Markus.”

Markus didn’t return the greeting. His gaze dropped on the crates, then back to my face. “So,” he said flatly, “these are the miracle supplies the mayor’s been talking about.”

I swallowed. “Not miracles. Just… tools. They aren’t for eating!”

That earned a low hum of skepticism.

As we explained how the chips were meant to be used—how the powder could be applied to arrowheads—Markus listened without interrupting. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his posture rigid. When we finished, he exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to believe that these potatoes that are just sliced and spiced up with random herbs will make my arrows burn?”

“Yes,” Blake answered immediately, his voice steady.

Markus shook his head before Blake could say anything else. “I’ve been fighting goblins for over twenty years,” he said. “It takes about twenty arrows to defeat a single Goblin, that would be five arrows per archer in a group of four!”

“I’ve heard every tale there is. Legendary Trinkets. Blessed weapons. Secret tricks passed down by Legendary Outlanders.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “They’re all fairytales. Things people tell themselves when they’re scared.”

He gestured toward the training yard. “Fear gets men killed. False hope gets them killed faster.”

The surrounding soldiers had gone quiet, pretending not to listen while clearly listening anyway.

“My men don’t get second chances,” Markus continued. “If something goes wrong out there, they don’t walk it off. They don’t come back from the dead.” His gaze hardened. “I won’t risk their lives on rumors. Especially from an Outlander!”

This guy dislikes outlanders? I didn't care much that I completely forget about it in a few seconds.

For a moment, it felt like the conversation was over.

Still, Markus didn’t turn away.

Blake hesitated, then stepped forward. “Let me prove it to you.”

Markus looked at him sharply. “Prove it?”

“One shot,” Blake said. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

A long pause followed. Markus studied Blake’s face, then mine, as if searching for signs of deceit. His jaw tightened.

“This better not be a joke,” he muttered.

I could see the conflict on his face—pride warring with responsibility. Accepting meant admitting there was a chance he was wrong. Refusing meant walking away from something that might save lives.

He is tired of the goblins and all of the lives lost from them that he might give us a chance to prove him wrong.

Finally, Blake took a small pinch and coated the arrowhead.

“One shot,” Markus said firmly. “That’s it.”

Blake nodded and walked to the archery range.

The yard fell silent.

Blake drew the bowstring back, steady and controlled, and aimed at a distant wooden target. The release was clean.

The arrow flew.

The impact was immediate.

Flames erupted across the target, fire racing along the wood in seconds. Heat washed over us, sharp and unmistakable, and the scent of burning timber filled the air.

Several soldiers stumbled back in shock. Some jaws dropped all the way the ground hitting the floor.

Markus froze.

For a long moment, he didn’t move at all. His eyes were wide, fixed on the burning target. Then his gaze snapped to the chips we were hauling. Then to Blake. Then to me.

After a long moment, Markus let out a slow, heavy sigh. The tension drained from his shoulders, replaced by something quieter—and heavier.

“…Alright,” he said. “Seems this fairytale’s got teeth.”

He turned to me. “I’ll be the one paying on the mayor’s behalf, Outlander.”

From one of his pouches, Markus pulled out a bag of coins and placed it into my hands. It was heavier than I expected.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he added.

I nodded. “I won’t.”

Behind us, the soldiers stared at the still-burning target—no longer laughing. Some still with their jaws dropped to the ground.

The next day I heard news from the village that they were able to defeat a goblin with a single arrow.

The rate of wounded men by goblins during patrolling dropped to zero since then.

Trade deal successful!