Roberts took the oars. His massive, tattooed arms flexed effortlessly as he rowed us across the fierce, choppy currents of the dividing river. The slow rhythm of the boat gave me time to clear my mind and prepare for the diplomatic war ahead.
As we reached the opposite bank, the towering cliffs of Balan loomed over us. We left the boat tied to their crowded docks and began the grueling climb up a massive, winding stone staircase carved directly into the rock face.
When we finally reached the top, the grand wood gates of Balan village stood before us.
I was genuinely impressed. The sheer scale of the settlement easily justified its upcoming promotion to a city. It was bustling with life, fortified by high, sturdy stone walls. However, beneath the festive banners and vibrant decorations, I could almost smell the heavy, suffocating taxes Leonard squeezed from his people.
We approached the checkpoint. Two heavily armored guards eyed us suspiciously. They thoroughly checked us for weapons, sneering openly when Roberts stated where we came from.
"Is this the foreigner playing Chief in the dump across the river?" one guard muttered, refusing to look me in the eye.
"I cannot believe trash from the cursed land is allowed to walk here," a wealthy-looking merchant whispered to his wife right behind me.
I ignored them completely. I simply adjusted my purple pocket square, lifted my chin, and walked straight through the massive gates. Roberts followed closely, his intimidating frame acting as a perfect deterrent to any physical trouble.
I took the opportunity to analyze their economic infrastructure as we walked.
The layout was highly organized and completely centralized. A wide, paved cobblestone road stretched straight from the main gates, leading directly toward the central plaza and the Baron's sprawling mansion on the distant hill.
The sides of this main avenue were packed tightly with merchant stalls and colorful tents, designed to maximize economic activity right at the entrance. The residential districts were neatly tucked away behind the bustling market lines.
I casually browsed the stalls. There were exotic culinary treats, forged tools, and colorful fabrics. But one thing was glaringly obvious. Wheat was the absolute foundation of their entire economy. Every corner smelled of freshly baked bread or raw, unprocessed grain.
Since the grand festival had not officially started yet, I decided to kill some time and gather some ground-level intelligence.
I spotted a lively tavern near the edge of the plaza. The building was packed to the brim. The deafening sound of boisterous laughter, clinking wooden mugs, and terrible singing spilled out into the cobblestone street.
Roberts and I pushed our way through the swinging wooden doors.
The air inside was incredibly thick, smelling strongly of cheap ale, sweat, and roasted meat. I walked straight up to the sticky wooden counter, waving the busy bartender over.
"Two large beers," I ordered, sliding a few silver coins across the bar.
The bartender slammed two foaming, oversized mugs in front of us.
I looked down at the dark, bubbling liquid. Back on Earth, my overworked, stressed body would probably be heavily buzzed after just one of these massive glasses. But this new vessel? This young, handsome, blonde-haired body felt incredibly robust.
I picked up the heavy wooden mug, completely confident I could drink half this tavern under the table if the situation required it.
Roberts and I stood near the edge of the sticky wooden bar. I took a slow sip of my beer, letting the cold liquid wash down my throat while my ears tracked the conversations buzzing around us.
A few feet away, a table full of rowdy, scarred thugs was laughing boisterously.
"Did you see the fancy white suit on that new Chief?" one of the thugs sneered. He slammed his wooden mug against the table, spilling ale everywhere. "I bet that blonde pretty boy is going to drop to his knees tonight. He will be begging and crying at Baron Leonard's feet just to get a single sack of our wheat."
The entire table erupted into mocking, ugly laughter.
I kept my eyes on my drink. My face remained completely impassive. I did not need to react to the barking of stray dogs.
However, before the thugs could continue their insults, a deep, commanding voice cut through the noise.
"You filthy rats are underestimating him."
The laughter died instantly.
I glanced over my shoulder. Sitting alone at a nearby table was a massive, heavily built man. He was completely bald, and a thick black eyepatch covered his left eye. He held his drink with calloused, steady hands, staring down the group of thugs with his single, piercing eye.
"What did you just say, you one-eyed bastard?" The lead thug stood up aggressively, his face turning red with alcohol-fueled rage.
The bald man did not even blink. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his ale.
The disrespect was too much for the thug. He lunged forward with a furious roar, throwing a heavy, wild punch aimed straight for the bald man's jaw.
It never landed.
Without even looking up, the bald man raised his free hand. He caught the incoming fist in his open palm. The impact made a loud, meaty smack, but the bald man's arm did not budge a single inch. He gripped the thug's fist tightly, crushing the bones just enough to make the man whimper in sudden, agonizing pain.
"Gentlemen! Please, no violence in my establishment!"
The bartender rushed over, waving a dirty rag in pure panic. He pointed a shaking finger at the pale, sweating thug.
"Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea who you just attacked?" The bartender hissed, his eyes wide with fear. "That is Master Albert Harmlet! He is the Chief Architect of Balan. He designed the Baron's mansion!"
The color completely drained from the thug's face.
He realized his mistake instantly. Assaulting a high-ranking official on the Baron's payroll was a guaranteed death sentence. He frantically pulled his aching hand back and bowed repeatedly, stuttering pathetic apologies before scrambling out of the tavern with his friends trailing behind him.
Albert Harmlet simply grunted, adjusting his eyepatch before returning to his drink.
I smiled.
I set my mug down on the counter and walked casually over to his table. I extended my right hand, offering a polite, aristocratic nod.
"You are quite the formidable man, Master Albert," I said smoothly. "I appreciate you speaking up on my behalf."
Albert looked up, his single eye scanning my pristine white tuxedo and my calm demeanor. Several patrons in the tavern gasped, suddenly realizing that the infamous foreign Chief of the 'cursed land' was standing right in their midst.
A slow, approving smile spread across Albert's rugged face. He reached out and shook my hand with a firm, iron grip.
"You hold yourself well for a man walking into a snake's den," Albert rumbled softly. "I would very much like to speak with you in depth."
"Perhaps after the official ceremony concludes?" I suggested, tilting my head slightly.
Albert nodded. "I will find you."
Late afternoon melted into a vibrant, orange dusk.
The grand plaza of Balan was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with eager, cheering citizens. Banners fluttered in the wind. Torches were lit, casting a warm glow over the massive wooden stage erected specifically for the inauguration.