CHAPTER 70: The Blind Merchant

Unexpected Variable

“Norman, get the medic team nearby. Knights, help the man immediately. I know him,” Adrian said.

The gate knights fixed their posture at once.

The alarm did not vanish, but it changed form. Spears lowered from a killing angle to a defensive guard. Archers kept arrows drawn but shifted their aim toward the snow-covered road behind the wounded man rather than the man himself. The wall captain gave two sharp hand signals, and two knights moved toward the outer gate as the mechanism began to open. No one rushed foolishly. No one shouted unnecessary commands. The South had learned that urgency without structure only invited mistakes.

Beyond the wall, the injured man staggered another step.

Then another.

He had been walking on stubbornness long after strength should have failed him. The broken stick in his right hand scraped over the frozen road, slipped once, recovered, then slipped again. His cloak hung in torn strips. Blood had dried across his left shoulder and side in dark, stiff patches, while fresher stains marked the front of his shirt and the cloth tied clumsily around his eyes. One boot was missing. The other left a dragging mark through the thin snow. Every few breaths, his knees bent as though the weight of his own body had become too much to negotiate with.

The moment the two knights approached him, he seemed to understand that he had reached the wall.

His face lifted.

The cloth across his eyes was dark with blood.

Then his body finally surrendered.

He collapsed forward without a sound.

The first knight caught him before his head struck the stone. The second immediately turned outward, shield raised, scanning the road, the tree line, and the white slope for movement. On the wall, the archers remained steady. Near Adrian, Fredo muttered something under his breath. Sheila pressed one hand to her mouth but did not look away. Gilbert’s jaw tightened with miner’s anger, the kind that came from seeing a man survive long enough only because death had been delayed by cruelty.

Norman had already moved.

“Medic team to the lower gate,” he ordered. “Prepare a stretcher. Inform the hospital to open a priority room. No unnecessary staff near the entrance. Clear the corridor.”

A runner left immediately.

Adrian watched as the knights carried the wounded man through the outer gate and into the protected line. His expression did not change, but the air around him grew colder in a way unrelated to winter. The inspection group behind him remained silent. No one asked whether the wall devices could wait. No one asked if the meeting should continue. The South’s order moved to a new priority without requiring a dramatic announcement.

Norman stepped beside Adrian. “Young master, is he a noble?”

“No.”

“Someone you personally know?”

Adrian’s eyes remained on the wounded man being carried below. “Not personally. His name is Melo Varent. He recently became one of the certified members of the South Merchant Group.”

Norman’s face shifted at once.

Certified member.

The words changed the weight of the incident. A traveler might have been pitied. A merchant might have been compensated depending on the contract. A certified member of the South Merchant Group was not merely a passing visitor. He had entered into a recognized relationship with Valenhart’s system. He had been processed, accepted, documented, and permitted to carry a southern affiliation beyond the gate.

Adrian added, “He was likely ambushed by the rumored King of Bandits.”

The people behind him stiffened.

Fredo’s eyes hardened. Gilbert’s hand tightened around the edge of his report packet. Sheila looked down toward the gate with sudden fear, and one of the workshop assistants went pale. Even the knights closest to Adrian reacted despite their discipline. The name Arslov did not move through the kingdom like ordinary banditry. It carried stories of cut caravans, mutilated guards, burned route posts, and villages that paid tribute not because they had been conquered, but because they wanted to remain alive.

Norman’s voice lowered. “If Arslov is already moving near our routes…”

“Do not be afraid,” Adrian said.

The words were not gentle, but they steadied those close enough to hear them.

He turned from the lower gate at last and faced the group. “The King of Bandits is ruthless, not suicidal. He is not foolish enough to declare direct war against the South without instruction, advantage, or a larger scheme protecting him. Bandits will always think as bandits first. They strike where profit, fear, and escape intersect.”

Gilbert frowned. “Then this was a message.”

“Yes,” Adrian said. “A warning, a test, and bait.”

Fredo spat to the side, though not over the wall. “Coward’s method.”

“Effective methods are often cowardly,” Adrian replied. “That is why we do not dismiss them.”

That shut the anger into something more usable.

Adrian handed the papers back to Fredo, Gilbert, and Sheila one by one. “This incident does not cancel the wall project. It confirms its necessity. I want all outer walls to have MT-50013 coverage on every side of the vicinity.”

Fredo nodded immediately. “We’ll adjust production.”

“In the future,” Adrian continued, “if frame and channeling remain the issue, we will assign each gate tower as a proper housing point for larger mana stones. The stones will be connected through reinforced channels. A distributed structure is better than isolated devices.”

Sheila’s eyes sharpened despite the fear still in her face. “Like a linked defensive circuit?”

“Eventually,” Adrian said. “But not before stability is proven.”

Fredo’s thumb rubbed unconsciously over the corner of his report. “We’ll need stronger casing if the stones are larger.”

“Then test alloys and layered frames. Use mithril only where necessary. Do not waste rare material for pride.”

Fredo gave a rough nod. “Understood.”

Adrian turned to Gilbert. “The eleventh area remains restricted. Increase rotation, but avoid visible panic. Anyone asking too many questions near the mining routes is to be reported and delayed before being expelled.”

“Yes, young master.”

Adrian looked toward the inner side of the wall. “Another thing. I want a double defensive function prepared for the inner wall, not only the outer wall. Add heat and cold resistance for weather anticipation. Snow, frost, summer heat, fire attacks, and prolonged exposure must be considered. Defense that survives enemies but fails under weather is incompetence.”

Sheila wrote quickly on the back of her own paper.

“That is all for now,” Adrian said. “Dismissed. Thank you for your hard work.”

No one questioned him.

They moved at once.

Fredo gathered his assistants and began speaking in low, direct instructions about production priority, casing adjustment, and signal channels. Gilbert took his mining recorders aside and marked new security changes before leaving the wall. Sheila clutched her notes against her chest and walked quickly toward the alchemy tower, already turning Adrian’s future mana-stone housing concept into questions she could test. Norman remained with Adrian, waiting to see whether he would proceed to the hospital or return to the manor.

Adrian did not need to say it.

He walked toward the lower passage.

An hour later, Melo Varent opened his eyes and saw nothing.

At first, he did not panic.

That made the scene worse.

His breathing hitched once, then stopped as he forced himself to listen. The room was warm. He could tell by the softness of the air against his skin. He was lying on a bed, not on a stone or a road. Sheets touched his hands. Clean sheets. The smell of herbs, alcohol, linen, and healing salve surrounded him. Somewhere nearby, paper shifted. A chair gave the faintest wooden creak under someone’s weight. His own body throbbed in several places, but the deepest pain came from his face, from the bandaged darkness over his eyes.

Memory returned in pieces.

The road.

The horses are trembling.

The massive blade.

Blood.

Arslov looked down at him like a man amused by a crushed insect.

Melo’s hands began to shake.

Not violently at first. His fingers twitched against the blanket, then curled, then clenched so hard the knuckles went white. His lips parted, but no words came. The King of Bandits was not in the room, yet his presence lingered in Melo’s body. Fear had learned the shape of that man and refused to release it.

“Do not force yourself.”

The voice was calm.

Melo turned his head toward it.

“Young master?” His own voice sounded broken.

“Yes.”

Adrian sat near the bed, one leg crossed, reading another report paper as if the hospital room were no less suitable for work than an office. Norman stood a few steps behind him, silent and watchful. A medic waited near the cabinet, while a priest who had already attempted treatment stood with lowered eyes near the far side of the room. The priest’s expression was grim. Not helpless exactly, but deeply dissatisfied with the limits placed before him.

Norman spoke quietly. “I have already informed Garret. The report should have reached the elders and the Marquis by now.”

Adrian nodded without lifting his eyes from the paper. “Good.”

Melo tried to sit.

Pain struck him before he rose three inches.

His breath broke through his teeth. His body folded slightly, and the medic moved forward at once, but Adrian lifted one hand just enough to halt unnecessary fuss. Melo fell back against the pillow, sweating.

“Do not force yourself,” Adrian said again. “The doctor said you need proper recovery. Your body walked farther than it should have after a severe injury. That stubbornness kept you alive. It does not make you healed.”

Melo swallowed. “My carts…”

“We tracked them.”

His fingers tightened again.

Adrian placed the report down on his knee. “We found the dead bodies. Your courier. Your mercenary escorts. The horses. Several bandit traces. Most goods are taken. Some remains were recovered. Now I want to hear it directly from you. What happened on the road?”

Melo closed his useless eyes.

The bandage blocked light, but not memory.

He told them everything.

He began with the departure from the South gate, the inspection, the rechecking, and the cleaning process that had impressed him enough to make him think of future contracts. He described the first half hour of the road, the courier’s unease, the narrowing path, the bandits stepping from the slope, and the tree line. His merchant instincts had still been alive then. He had believed, foolishly perhaps but not irrationally, that payment could solve the matter. Most bandits wanted profit. Even ruthless ones often preferred coin over corpses if no larger message was needed.

Then Arslov appeared.

Melo’s voice trembled when he reached that part.

“He did not come to negotiate,” Melo said. “I knew it when the horses reacted. I have seen bandits. I have seen hungry men, desperate men, cruel men. This was different. It felt like the road itself had become smaller because he stood on it.”

Norman’s expression tightened.

Adrian remained still.

“I offered goods,” Melo continued. “I offered payment. Passage. Anything clean. He laughed. Then his hand moved. I threw myself down before I understood why. If I had delayed by half a breath, I would have died with the courier.”

He described the sword strike.

Not dramatically. He had no need. The truth carried enough brutality. The blade had come down and split man, horse, and road in one motion. The mercenaries barely fought. One died before drawing fully. One broke beneath the pressure. One fled and was shot. The last tried to strike a bandit and was dragged down by three men while Arslov watched.

“They robbed everything,” Melo said. “Not quickly. Not like men afraid of the patrol. They were laughing. One opened a crate and complained that the goods were boring. Another took my guild documents and asked whether Southern paper tasted different. Arslov told them to leave enough mess for the South to smell it.”

The medic’s jaw tightened.

Melo’s hand rose toward his bandaged face, stopped halfway, then dropped. “I tried to stay still. I thought if I played dead, they would go. But fear…” He gave a bitter, shaky breath. “Fear is not good at pretending.”

No one interrupted him.

“He saw me shaking. He came back. I thought he would kill me. Instead, he said someone needed to carry the message.”

His breathing turned shallow.

“Then he took my eyes.”

The priest lowered his head further.

Melo did not cry. Perhaps he had already spent what tears he had on the road. Perhaps terror had dried them before grief could use them.

“He punished us as entertainment,” Melo said. “That is what I cannot understand. Bandits steal. Bandits threaten. Bandits kill when there is a need or anger. But this…” His mouth twisted. “He wanted the story to walk back.”

Adrian’s expression remained cold. “He made you the message.”

“Yes.”

The room went silent.

Then Adrian said, “The doctor confirmed the damage to your eyes is severe. It is already surprising that you managed to reach the front of the gate.”

Melo gave a faint, broken laugh. “Profit motivates a merchant.”

No one smiled.

Adrian continued, “Healing magic is not working properly. The priest found curse damage in the wounds. It interferes with restoration. Ordinary healing will close flesh, reduce infection, and preserve life. It will not return your sight under current conditions.”

Melo absorbed the words.

His body had known before his mind wanted confirmation.

Still, hearing it shaped the loss.

“I see,” he said.

The phrase was bitter enough that even Norman looked away briefly.

Melo turned his head toward Adrian’s voice. “Thank you, young master. For treating me. Being alive as a merchant is still more profitable than losing both eyes and dying on the road.”

It was a desperate joke. One made by a man standing at the edge of ruin and trying to prove he still owned his tongue.

Adrian did not indulge it with false comfort.

“You received certification as a valid member of the South Merchant Group,” he said. “Therefore, Valenhart will compensate you for our failure to fulfill the expected safety of the route tied to the southern affiliation. For the time being, you will be cared for under VIP authority. Your medical costs, housing, food, and immediate recovery needs will be handled by the South.”

Melo turned his head slightly as if he had not heard correctly. “Young master, I left the wall.”

“You departed under recognized affiliation.”

“That is still outside your direct gate.”

“The route was tied to Southern Trust.”

Melo’s lips pressed together.

He had dealt with nobles before. Most would have used the distance as a shield. Some would have claimed sympathy while paying nothing. Others would have twisted the matter into his own negligence and charged his family for retrieving the bodies. Adrian spoke as if responsibility were not a feeling, but a structural conclusion.

“Thank you,” Melo said again, quieter this time.

Then his face shifted.

“But even with compensation, I probably cannot sell again.” His fingers brushed the bandage and stopped. “A merchant’s eyes must see the truth behind profits and scams. Mine cannot even see whether a man smiles honestly while lying.”

The room held the pain of the sentence.

Adrian placed the report aside fully.

“There is still a way.”

Norman looked at him.

Melo went still.

“What?” the merchant whispered.

“There is still a way,” Adrian repeated.

Norman could not hide his surprise. “Young master?”

Melo’s breathing changed. Hope was dangerous when offered to a ruined man. It could either lift him or break him harder if withdrawn too quickly. He turned toward Adrian with blind urgency.

“How?”

Adrian did not answer the method immediately.

Melo clenched the blanket. “Why?”

That question came first after all.

Adrian watched him.

Melo’s voice roughened. “Why are you doing all of this? I am not a noble. I am not your family. I am not even a long-serving merchant of the South. I came, traded, received certification, and left. The attack happened outside the wall. Most lords would say I accepted the road’s risk.”

“Most lords are administratively convenient cowards,” Adrian said.

Norman lowered his eyes, but the corner of his mouth nearly moved.

Melo swallowed.

Adrian leaned back slightly. “I cannot help you get your eyes back to normal.”

The words cut through whatever fragile hope had started forming.

Melo’s jaw tightened.

“But,” Adrian continued, “there is a path I can offer you. It will never be easy.”

The merchant turned his face fully toward him now.

“If you are asking why I am helping you,” Adrian said, “the answer is simple. The moment you received certification, you were no longer an outsider. You became part of the South.”

Melo did not move.

Adrian’s voice remained calm, but something in it pressed deeper than comfort.

“So do not be concerned. Anyone in the South will be treated this way, no matter who they are.”