Chapter 112 (Part 2): Winds of Commerce and the Black Pearl's Shadow
The Sky's Promise
The merchants of Roland Plains exchanged skeptical glances, though none dared voice their doubts aloud. Bennett's reputation as the Roland family's prodigal heir loomed like a stormcloud over their pragmatism. Two days to cross the plains? Even with swift horses, it takes a week!
Without ceremony, Bennett gestured to the anchored hot-air balloon. "Actions silence doubt. Who among you will test its wings?"
The fur merchant—a longtime collaborator who'd profited handsomely from Bennett's football ventures—stepped forward. "I'll stake my name on it, Lord Bennett! Your inventions never fail!"
Bennett rewarded the man with a nod. Loyalty deserves spectacle. "A full journey north to south would waste days. Instead, choose any town within two days' ride."
"Karka Town!" the fur trader declared. "A day's hard gallop from here. My warehouses there await inspection."
"Done." Bennett scribbled a letter bearing his seal. "Deliver this to Karka's magistrate. Return with his signed affidavit by noon, and let these good people witness truth firsthand."
The balloon's burner roared to life, its spell-stitched silk swelling like a dragon's breath. As the fur merchant clambered into the gondola—pale but resolute—Bennett's engineers released the tethers. The crowd gasped as the vessel ascended, the trader's yelps fading into the clouds.
"Will it truly return by midday?" George Bush muttered, his cavalry instincts distrustful of airborne gambits.
Bennett sipped tea beneath a shaded pavilion. "If I told you this contraption could dive beneath waves like a steel whale, would you believe that too?"
"At this point, my lord," George deadpanned, "I'd sooner doubt the sun's rise than your madness."
Proof in the Clouds
The square buzzed with nervous energy. Wine goblets sat untouched; pastries cooled uneaten. All eyes clung to the horizon.
At noon, a speck emerged—a silhouette swelling into the balloon's unmistakable form. Cheers erupted as it descended. The fur merchant stumbled out, clutching a parchment stamped with Karka's official seal. His face was ashen, yet pride gleamed brighter than mithril. "Two days' journey… conquered in mere hours!"
Bennett's servants later confessed the man had retched halfway to Karka. But now, validated by the magistrate's signature, he stood triumphant—a living testament to the skies' dominion.
The merchants' skepticism crumbled. Calculations flickered behind their eyes: No bandits. No tolls. No worn-out horses. Greed and awe intertwined like serpents.
Federal Express Takes Flight
Bennett seized the moment. "Behold the birth of Federal Express!" He dragged the fur trader onto a hastily erected stage, handing him silver shears for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. The man trembled, yet swelled with borrowed glory. This alliance will line my coffers for generations, he thought.
Rates were announced—cheaper than horse caravans, faster than homing falcons. Vouchers for discounted shipments flooded the crowd, each a golden thread binding merchants to Bennett's aerial web.
"Networks win wars," Bennett later told Mad, sprawled on a divan as summer's heat crept through open windows. "Their warehouses will serve as our waystations. Their greed, our foundation."
Within a month, Federal Express balloons numbered twenty, their shadows stretching beyond Roland Plains into the disputed borderlands of Halfhorn City—a place etched in Bennett's memory by bandit blood and smuggled treasures.
Tides of Change
Yet as coins clinked into vaults, Bennett's mind drifted to darker currents. The approaching summer solstice loomed—and with it, the cryptic rendezvous ordained by Gandolphus's will. Why hasn't Father summoned me? Does he still deem me the family's shame?
His musings shattered as George Bush barged in, boots echoing like war drums. "A visitor, my lord. Dressed like a vagabond pirate. Claims his name is Jack Sparrow, captain of the Black Pearl from the Maelstrom Fleet."
Bennett vaulted to his feet, scattering grapes. "Finally! But where's Rowena? Where's Captain Joanna?"
Epilogue: Shadows on the Horizon
The pirate lounged in Bennett's study, reeking of salt and deceit. His tricorn hat obscured one eye; a pistol hung at his belt like a lover's promise. "Your knight-captain sends regrets. The Silver Mermaid's anchored in… complications."
Bennett's smile turned glacial. "Complications you'll explain. Over brandy. Or blood."
Outside, Federal Express balloons dotted the sky—tangible symbols of a boy who'd traded family expectations for empires. But as Sparrow spun tales of naval blockades and enchanted whirlpools, Bennett sensed the game deepening.
The chessboard now spanned not just land and sky, but the untamed seas.
Chapter 113: The Pirate's Ledger and the Sea's Empty Coffers
A Captain's Humiliation
Jack Sparrow stood frozen beneath the shadow of Roland Castle's iron-clad gates, his flamboyant attire—scarlet headscarf, kohl-rimmed eyes, and a waxed mustache twisting like a sea serpent—drawing the ire of a dozen mounted knights. Their lances hovered inches from his throat, their expressions sharp enough to skewer his theatrical pride. This is what happens when you dress like a walking pirate flag, he cursed inwardly, though he knew the blame lay with Bennett. The young lord had personally designed this "captainly ensemble," insisting it would "inspire loyalty and dread." More like inspire crossbow bolts, Jack thought bitterly.
Only Rowena's engraved silver pendant—a token stamped with the Roland lion—kept him from being trussed up like a festival hog. Even so, the knights' distrust hung thicker than coastal fog.
"Ahoy, Captain!" Bennett's voice boomed across the courtyard as he strode through the gates, his grin fading at the sight of his prized pirate trembling under a forest of steel. "Release him. This scoundrel works for me."
The knights withdrew reluctantly, their commander muttering about "sea rats and bad omens." Bennett clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder, steering him toward the keep. "Took you long enough. Did the Black Pearl sink halfway here?"
Jack forced a laugh, sweat glistening beneath his kohl. "Smooth sailing, milord! Just… a few squalls to navigate."
Treasureless Tides
Bennett's study reeked of waxed oak and power. Jack gaped at the opulence—silver candelabras taller than ship masts, tapestries depicting Roland ancestors gutting sea monsters, and a tea set that likely cost more than his entire ship. He fumbled with a porcelain cup, half-expecting it to shatter and bankrupt him on the spot.
A flick of Bennett's wrist silenced the room with a spell. "Report."
Jack launched into a rehearsed spiel, fingers twitching as if tallying invisible coins. "Three months, nineteen islands purged! Rowena's blade turned dissenters into shark chum. We've netted thirty-two ships—one Sea King-class warship, six Stormhawks, the rest barely seaworthy tubs. Crews total four hundred twenty-one, though half look like they'd stab their mothers for a loaf of—"
Bennett raised a hand. "The Sea King. Explain."
"Rusted relic, milord! Some navy castoff sold to a merchant, then stolen by pirates. Hull's riddled with rot, but Rowena says it's salvageable. With enough gold, she'll have it slicing waves like a bride's knife through cake!"
Bennett's eyes narrowed. Sea King-class vessels—second only to the empire's mythic Sea God leviathans—were rare even in royal fleets. The fact that pirates had scavenged one spoke either of naval incompetence or corruption. Both possibilities intrigued him.
"And the spoils?"
Jack's bravado crumbled. "Spoils? Ha! We'd have richer plunder raiding a fishmonger's privy! These eastern pirates are paupers, milord! Their 'treasure'? Moldy grain, chipped axes, and one-eyed whores!"
The Ledger of Despair
Rowena's meticulous ledger—a battered journal stuffed with inked calculations—burned in Jack's hands as he recited their fiscal doom:
Ship Repairs: 3,000 gold marks (discounted timber secured through Roland influence).
Crew Wages: 600 marks (barely enough to stop mutiny).
Uniforms: 200 marks ("No one raids in rags under Roland colors!" Rowena had declared).
Bribes: 1,000 marks (erasing warrants for 212 wanted men, including Jack's own "misunderstandings").
Weapons: "Half these bilge rats fight with farming tools!"
Bennett massaged his temples. Four months of planning, and they return poorer than church mice. "And the Sea King's repairs?"
Jack winced. "Another 5,000… conservatively."
Silence choked the room. Somewhere beyond the study, a servant dropped a platter, the clang echoing like a funeral bell.
A Storm Brewing Ashore
Bennett rose, pacing before a window overlooking Roland River's merchant-laden docks. Federal Express balloons drift wealth into my coffers, yet the sea devours it faster than a kraken. His father's words haunted him: "The ocean giveth and taketh—mostly taketh."
He turned abruptly. "Where's the fleet now?"
"Moored at Port Wolk in Riel Province. Rowena's holding the crews together with threats and promises." Jack hesitated. "She also said to tell you… 'The storm has eyes.'"
Bennett stiffened. Medusa. The shadowy knight-templar hunting Rowena—and perhaps himself—still lurked. Naval debts were one thing; a holy war on his doorstep? Unacceptable.
"Return to Port Wolk. Tell Rowena to sell the six Stormhawks."
Jack choked on his tea. "Sell our best ships?!"
"To the navy," Bennett clarified, smile sharp as a cutlass. "My father's old comrades will pay triple for reclaimed vessels. Use the gold to fix the Sea King and arm the crews. And tell Rowena…" He scribbled a note sealed with crimson wax. "…to start recruiting smarter pirates."
Epilogue: The Admiral's Son
As Jack fled the castle—this time with a knightly escort—Bennett climbed to the highest tower. Moonlight bathed the river, where Roland trade ships flew banners stamped with his nascent crest: a lion gripping both sword and quill.
Father built an empire with cannons and conquest. I'll build mine with ledgers and loopholes.
But as dawn tinged the horizon blood-red, Bennett wondered which would drown him first: the sea's hunger, or his own ambition.
Chapter 114: The Lion's Gambit and the Serpent's Gaze
A Fleet on the Brink
Jack Sparrow's weathered hands trembled as he emptied his coin pouch onto Bennett's desk. "A thousand gold marks left, milord. That's all. And the fleet…" He trailed off, the unspoken truth heavier than an anchor.
Bennett leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. Moonlight through the study's leaded windows cast jagged shadows over charts of the Eastern Sea. "So. Thirty-two ships. Four hundred starving pirates. And zero profit."
"Worse than zero!" Jack's theatrical flair returned, arms flailing. "We're bleedin' gold faster than a galleon with a hull full of musket holes! Even docked at Port Wolk, the rats are grumbling. No ale, no women, no plunder—Rowena's had to break three jaws this week just to keep 'em from keelhauling me!"
Bennett's gaze drifted to the Roland lion crest above the hearth. A fleet built on stolen ships and borrowed time. He'd envisioned privateers draped in Roland colors, their cannons booming profit. Instead, he'd inherited a floating poorhouse.
"How long?"
"A month. Maybe less." Jack's voice dropped. "They'll mutiny. Or desert. Or both."
The Merchant's Calculus
Dawn found Bennett pacing the castle's frost-kissed battlements. Below, the Federal Express balloon swayed lazily—a taunting reminder of ventures that didn't hemorrhage coin.
Icebound Forests. Northern ports. Tenfold profits.
He'd scribbled the words hours ago, ink bleeding through parchment. The plan was sound: bypass the leeches masquerading as merchants, ship winter pelts and monster cores south via his fleet. But politics, not pirates, now barred his way.
"Milord?" George Bush materialized like a specter, his "presidential" title still absurd in Bennett's ears. The man's northern accent thickened with unease. "The Snow Wolf Mercenaries… their leader, Beynrich, is no fool. If we undercut his usual buyers…"
"When we undercut them," Bennett corrected, thrusting a sealed letter into Bush's hands. "Tell Beynrich Roland's coffers are deeper than the Frozen Depths. And remind him who saved his hide from those ice wraiths."
As Bush retreated, Bennett's smile faded. Roland's coffers. A fiction. The ten thousand gold marks he'd drained from his smuggling profits wouldn't last a season.
The Heir's Shadow
The summons arrived at dusk—a scroll stamped with his father's seal.
Summer Festival. Capital. Family honor.
Mad beamed as if Bennett had been knighted. "The Count recalls you! A reconciliation, surely!"
Bennett said nothing. The parchment crackled in his grip. Recall? More like a trap. The capital reeked of snakes: scheming nobles, temple inquisitors, mages probing for weakness. And then there was Medusa—Rowena's hunter, whose gaze could turn ambition to stone.
That night, beneath the skeletal branches of his private orchard, Bennett confronted his choices.
"You're mad to go," Houssein growled, sword gleaming like a shard of moonlight. "The capital's swarming with templars who'd sell their mothers to bag me."
"Which is why you're staying." Bennett tossed an apple to the disgruntled saint. "Keep an eye on Medusa. And her."
He nodded toward the tower where Medusa's namesake lounged—the snake-haired queen currently demanding imported silks for her "nest."
A Mage's Overture
The procession crossed Roland Bridge at noon, wagons creaking with Bennett's "inventions"—self-heating teapots, collapsible tents, and a crate ominously labeled Do Not Drop. Ahead, a lone figure blocked the path.
"Mage Clark," Bennett drawled, reining in his horse. The wizard's robes flapped like stormclouds. "Come to curse my luggage?"
Clark's smile could curdle milk. "Quite the opposite, Lord Bennett." With reverence better suited to holy relics, he unveiled a black robe embroidered with silver sigils. "The Arcane Syndicate's compliments. A… token for the capital."
Bennett ran a thumb over the fabric. Magic hummed beneath his touch—wards against blades, spells to cool summer heat. A gilded badge followed, its aura prickling his skin.
No free favors, he thought, slipping the robe on. The Syndicate's game was clear: dress the pawn, control the board.
"Convey my thanks to Chairman Yagudo," Bennett said, voice light. "And tell him I'll return this finery… unstained."
Clark's eye twitched.
Epilogue: The Lion's Den
As Roland Castle shrank behind the horizon, Bennett's entourage grew. Bush and Sparrow rode north, their banter masking unease. Qq perched on a wagon, squawking about "elegance" between fish gulps. Only Medusa's absence gnawed at Bennett's resolve.
That night, camped beneath the Swordspine Mountains, Bennett opened his father's letter again. Between the lines of duty and decorum, he glimpsed a challenge:
Come prove you're more than a smuggler in a borrowed crown.
He tossed the parchment into the fire. Flakes of ash swirled upward, mirroring the capital's distant spires.
Let them come, Bennett thought, the mage-robes cold against his skin. Let them all come.