The Gene of the Ancients (Rogue Merchant Book #2): LitRPG Series

by Roman Prokofiev

  Overall, before my coming, the process of supplying the clan was fair to middling. For the last few months, Green had been seriously slacking off. The clan warehouses were in chaos. Damian, one of the Keepers, occasionally tried to sort them out, as he had been chosen by the Council for that thankless task. I couldn’t say that the Condor vaults were empty. Indeed, they were full of junk: loot, various crafted items, ore, bullions, and other stuff. What was lacking were various consumables. Having rolled up my sleeves and obtained the Council’s blessing, I set to cleaning the Augean stables. The optimization took up almost two weeks and ten trips to the Bazaar and back. Over that period, I had also pulled off my personal trade battles with the Reds and arranged the attacks on the Eyrian borderlands.

  But now, I was finally content. Scrolls, elixirs, potions, ritual ingredients, Growth Techniques, Skillbooks, armor and weapons — the castle storage was stuffed to the brim with everything listed by Damian. The order was immaculate, too: all items were sorted by type and by properties. The Watchers could start an all-out war without a single worry about supplies: that stock was enough for seven or eight mass raids. Merciless sale of old stuff brought us a lot of money, and six-digit numbers appeared in the clan accounts.

  Noticing how savvy I was with this whole deal, the other clans of Northern Alliance started making orders with me, too, as trade wasn’t exactly their strong suit. It made sense, as the very concept of PvP-oriented clans was at odds with developing the Trade skill. There weren’t any local traders there, either, as people didn’t hold it in high regard — and too bad. Money ruled the world, both this one and the other one.

  As for Cat... Well, Cat was always ready to help, especially for a small percentage. The leadership of the clan should be happy with me — the results, as they say, were there for all to see.

  The week of terrorizing trade routes bore fruits, too. Dozens of caravans had been destroyed, and hundreds of kills had appeared in the kill rating, glowing vicious red, with loot worth more than half a million. The cherry on top was a downed astral nave, a monstrous overtonnaged vessel that had risked the life and limb of its sailors to take the cargo from the region I had targeted. Gossip spread in an instant. Fish of that size didn’t swim often in our waters, and even in the whole of Sphere, astral naves weren’t destroyed every day. The best thing, however, was that no captain of a flying ship would dare wander into such an infamous place anymore.

  Quite right, too. Why would I need competition?

  As I finished typing the letter to be mass-mailed to the alliance, informing them of new terms and regulations of the logistics, I thoughtfully re-read it and then, forwarded it to Alex, so he could check it with fresh eyes.

  “Hmm. An interesting plan. I think it’s quite easy to understand,” he said. “I have only one question: how did you get Komtur to agree to that?”

  * * *

  “...I don’t even know what to do with you. Do you even realize that you’ve placed the reputation of the whole clan into jeopardy? The Watchers’ honor?”

  I chose to keep quiet. Reputation, honor, integrity — those were melodramatic words that had nothing to do with business. Still, arguing was pointless. Komtur, to whom I was now talking one-on-one, was more than a little bit furious. He also seemed determined to give me a good dressing-down. I understood him well; he had to show who ran the house. A cat might look at a king, but Cat certainly had no right to look down on his clan leader.

  “If push comes to shove, and the truth comes to light, no tenant will want anything to do with us,” Komtur said flatly. “Can you even imagine the money we could lose?”

  I could. Around a million and a half of net profit for the Watchers only. Half of those funds was spent on the upkeep and development of the clan, while the rest of the money got moved around to the clan accounts I had no access to, some of it going into storage, and some of it most likely converted into real life by the Council. Aside from that income, the Watchers had other contributing sources, even if smaller ones: a mithril mine in their own province, a dribble of masterwork items crafted by clan artisans, and the epics deposited into the clan warehouse. Still, rent was by far the biggest factor.

  However, Komtur was overdoing it. The carebears had nowhere to run. Implementing my plan required assistance from certain members of the Council of Keepers, or it would fail. I was able to bring Olaf and Abel over to my side. Both of them in unison claimed that our alliance had the best conditions for carebears in all of Dorsa, if not Sphere itself. The north was carebear heaven: lots of space, nobody to push them around, great loot, and in-demand resources. Therefore, Komtur’s words were all bluster, intended to impress me. Nobody would move away for ten or fifteen percent of the Bazaar’s price, while many would, in fact, be glad if we took logistics and selling off their hands.

  “So here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll kick you out for good and start killing your buddies at resp points, slowly and painfully,” said Komtur, squinting. “How long do you think they’ll last without you feeding them information?”

  “Go on, then. It’s your right,” I nodded. “But you won’t touch the guys.”

  “Really? And why’s that?”

  “You owe me. For those hundred souls, remember? One wish.”

  For the next few seconds, the clan leader was silent, a confused look on his face. Then he narrowed his eyes.

  “I see it’s unwise to borrow from you. You charge a hell of an interest rate!”

  “That’s me, yeah,” I smirked.

  You won’t kick anybody, I thought to myself. Olaf and Abel had already set the stage, and the clan’s financial performance in less than a month of my work had broken the all-time high. I had made a whole lot of money by selling the trash piled up in our storage facilities like dead weight. The warehouses were full of armor sets, elixirs, scrolls, and consumables, while clan accounts had an excess of two hundred thousand gold, and that’s despite the purchases. The third Keeper, Damian, was thrilled with my achievements, as I had released him from routine work.

  “Take a look at this before making a decision,” I said, sending Komtur three files — the result of my labors. Several tables showed the estimated profits from centralized procurement of resources, our own logistics, and alliance orders.

  As a leader and a strategist, he must have realized that combat strength first and foremost depended on economic power. And that right that very instant, he was offered an income stream that had the potential to become one of the main sources of revenue.

  “You’re sitting on a goldmine, but let others do the digging,” I continued. “Or, rather, you did. Isn’t it frustrating for you that Phoenix gets all the profits?”

  “Actually, Phoenix is the least of my worries,” Komtur chuckled, studying the files I had sent. “They’ve been a major pain in my neck. It’s good that you pushed them out, they’ve grown too bold, putting their feelers out everywhere at once. We might be friends, but even friendship has an limit — “

  He stopped short, as if he had just slipped too much. All of a sudden, I realized that his anger wasn’t caused by my operation per se: he was mad because I had pulled it off without his knowledge. Essentially, we shared a lot of our goals: increase the revenue, shake down the carebears to get a few PvP players out of their ranks, and improve the standing and the influence of the Watchers.

  “Then it’s a good thing it was done by a random guy,” I smirked.

  “A random guy!” Komtur snorted. “We’re summoning the Council because of that random guy! Phoenix has talked my ears off because of him. Tao himself dances to this random guy’s tune! By the way, what was his price?”

  “He owes me, too.”

  “Do you work for the Golden Hamster, perchance? Are the Pandas in your debt, too?”

  “Not yet,” I confessed. “But we’re working on it.”

  “Well, well, well. I looked at your files. So, a half?”

  “No less,” I said firmly. “I’m doing all the work. You
just need to stand aside and get the money. I hope you can imagine the volume?”

  “Yeah, that’s a lot of fussing. All right! One thing I don’t get is where would you find manned cargo ships to set up such a large-scale logistics system? You must realize you’ll need a lot of vessels. Will you pull it off?”

  It was strange for me to hear that. Would I pull it off? In Sphere, cargo delivery was a profitable venture. Finding transporters wasn’t an issue, as long I was willing to pay. All I had to do was to make an effort. Controlling the acquisitions and logistics of a quarter of the continent was a tasty morsel that was worth all the pains.

  “Don’t you worry about that. I’ve already found the ships and the people.”

  * * *

  The Mercenary Guild of the Bazaar was a far cry from the quiet tavern in Dan-na-Eyre. It looked like a classical amphitheater: an entire complex with a colonnade erected around an arena. Inside, like everywhere in the Bazaar, it was crowded. A bunch of fat, foppish tieflings, the stewards of the Guild, were poring over their tomes, quills in hand. Before them stood a long line of players and NPCs wishing to rent themselves out.

  The arena below was used to show off the best fighters while also serving as a battleground. Creatures of various shapes and sizes scurried around.

  While I was standing in line, I got two offers to make a bet; buy some water, wine, or a Scroll of Teleportation (to any world of the Sphere, cheaper than in the premium store...yeah, right); got almost knocked off my feet by a miniature winged quickling flying past; and was scanned by the blinding eye of a golem patrol that wanted to check my trustworthiness. Maybe I looked suspicious due to the hooded cloak that hid my nickname and status that I took to wearing to avoid chance meetings.

  A long list of NPC names in the virtual interface of the Mercenary Guild slowly scrolled down before my eyes. The navigation system was asinine. Why couldn’t I filter by three skills and the price at the same time? Tired of the futile search, I put the list away, and it materialized as a thick yellow scroll. I coughed to draw the attention of one of the Guild’s administrators currently on duty.

  A delicate “ahem” didn’t produce any results, unlike a shining gold coin that spun on the table and immediately found its place behind a clerk’s cuff.

  “How can I help you, good sir?”

  “I’m interested in mercenaries with the Navigation, Control Flying Ships, and Control Cargo Ships skills of at least rank four, capable of flying a ship. Only good reputation, no pirates or spies of pirate clans! Preferably long-term.”

  “So you’re looking for a captain of a cargo ship...” The administrator scratched his chin. “It’s not that rare of a specialization, but it’s hard to find a decent sort.”

  I guessed the reason for his hesitation and accidentally dropped a few more coins into the open ledger. The tiefling immediately turned the page and beckoned me over, whispering in my ear.

  “Second room, seventh level. But hurry up, they’re fresh. Might be taken fast.”

  The second room on the seventh level was small and dark. Six NPCs were set around a dusty stone table in various poses: three girls and three guys.

  “What do you want?” One of the men raised his head from his crossed arms. He was a blond hunk with bloodshot eyes. I noticed several empty flasks on the table and underneath. A red-haired girl sitting next him, thin as a needle, jabbed her elbow into his side. I heard her whispering, “Quiet, Nosquire. I think he might be hiring.”

  “We only work together,” another guy said. He was an elf with a strange device on the left side of his face, a cross between goggles and a small spyglass with a collimator.

  “All six of you?” I asked in surprise, sitting down and removing my hood. “And what’s the price?”

  “Five a day. Unlimited contract. You pay for upkeep.”

  I whistled. That was a lot of money! Five thousand a day, eight hundred per head, was the price for elite mercenaries with at least seventy or eighty thousand skill points; true professionals.

  “So what can you do? I’m hiring a crew for a flying ship.”

  The blond guy gave out a contemptuous whistle.

  “Cargo ships? We can do everything, and more.”

  “I’m a technician, engineer, and navigator,” the elf said, focusing his eye device on me. “Nosk drives anything up to an astral nave. Impie is the best scout and seeker in all of Sphere.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Astr!” The redheaded girl elbowed him as well, smiling sheepishly.

  “And that sleepyhead,” they said, pointing at a fair-haired girl curled up in a ball on a bench next to the wall, “is Ellaria, first mate. She can...”

  I had already seen what Ellaria could do. Yes, that team of pawns were top rate, but they cost too much. I had to try and negotiate with their employer, someone named Keith Borland. That sounded familiar. How much Leadership could he have if he had six henchmen? Seven hundred, eight hundred? A real octopus!

  * * *

  Keith the Octopus was almost at peace. The world around him shrunk down to a small part of table with a tall glass, above which flickered the neck of a square-shaped dark bottle. Even the loathsome tavern noises — voices, screams, the clatter of plates — merged into a distant pleasant hum.

  Light brown alcohol filled a quarter of a glass with almost no sound, followed by a silvery rectangular chunk of ice that caused a sputter of drops. With a hiss, translucent soda, seething with bubbles, splashed down into the glass from above. The next step was to shake, but avoid mixing. Which one was it, the seventh? The eight? Ah, whatever.

  “Keith Borland?”

  Pulled out of the alcoholic haze, the Octopus raised his unfocused eyes at a stranger wearing a dark blue cloak of disguise.

  “Yes, I’m Keith! What do you want?”

  Without the slightest hesitation, the man sat next to him and discarded his hood. Empty glasses quietly clinked. For a second, the silver hilt of a sword flashed on his belt, but was immediately covered by the cloak. A player, human, someone called HotCat from some clan named Watchers... Borland didn’t know him or his clan.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Keith,” HotCat said with a smile. “Will you allow me to drink with you? My treat.”

  He produced a square-shaped black bottle with a fancy triangular label decorated with sails and anchors. “Captain’s Rum,” Octopus’ favorite.

  Thirty minutes later, half of the bottle was gone, and HotCat and Borland were chatting like old friends. Even if everything around them — the noisy tavern, the scurrying patrons, the waiters, and even the alcohol itself — was nothing more than a titillation of neural receptors, they still succeeded in getting drunk.

  “You’ll never build another one like it!” Keith hit the table with the bottom of his glass. “Pour. Why? You’re asking me why? Half of the equipment is faction modules. I’ve spent half a year scrounging up the Crabstrocity, get it? And... Doh!”

  He sighed sorrowfully, emptied the glass, sneakily wiped a tear with his sleeve, and continued.

  “It’s my fault, anyway. I broke the main rule of Sphere. Really, you don’t know it? Seriously? Don’t fly something that you can’t afford to lose! Remember it, Cat, or one day, you’ll get hurt as much as I did. What, you say it’s unfair? My friend, words like “fair fight” don’t mean anything in Sphere! It’s the battle that matters, not the circumstances. When you press ‘Log in,’ you automatically agree to PvP.”

  “So what will I do? I want to take a break from all of that. I just need to find two or three hundred thousand somewhere, rent out the pawns for a few months. A discount? Hey, don’t get cocky. They’re my heart and soul, it’s a pain losing them. They’re a great crew, get it? Is your right hand all right? Pour!”

  “No, not everything’s gone. Only the frame is destroyed, the equipment can be salvaged. Look in the kill rating, it’s all there. No, do it yourself. It’s hard for me to even open that.”

  “What?! Seriously? What do you mean you’ll
settle it with them? It’s PROJECT HELL, bro, the real deal. Haven’t you heard of them? And they aren’t idiots. They won’t trade faction equipment for pocket change.”

  “Well, if it plays out, I’ll be damned! But what’s the deal? Don’t play tricks on me, we both know that if something looks too good, there must be a catch. So what is it?”

  “A contract? Three months? With the crew? Well, to repair the Crabstrocity... Jeez, I can’t believe there’s no catch. It’s like I’m being cheated, but I don’t know how. Who are you, really? Is it a serious offer or just some drunk talk?”

  * * *

  The meeting with Tao took place in the evening, at the Fairs, on neutral territory in the temple of Eless. It guaranteed safety for both of us. Drawing weapons inside the shrine of a deity of light in a kingdom meant suicide. The leader of HELL was waiting next to the altar, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a cloak of disguise similar to mine. That was odd. He wasn’t red and had blue karma; why take such precautions?