One must admit that Alaric looked particularly convincing today, his rousing speech dovetailing beautifully with the old Bishop's purification ritual, capturing the hearts of the townsfolk.
As the crowd dispersed following the speech, chatter about the new mega store buzzed through the air.
The striking merchants, locked in their houses, remained oblivious to it all.
While Alaric didn't have the clout to mobilize the city watch for personal errands, it didn't stop them from making a pretty penny on the side.
Forty gold a day—painfully steep, but a price they willingly paid after a middleman smoothed things over, ensuring not a soul could move in or out of the merchants' houses. Forty off-duty guards appeased for today, and additional troops secured for days to come.
To the town's dismay, the city watch boldly flaunted this deed, shamelessly hammering "Sealed by Order of the Guild" onto the merchants' doors, broadcasting their lockdown without an ounce of subtlety.
Two highly trained guards now watched over each merchant's residence, a testament to the guild's commitment to its decree—no one in, no one out.
Nearby, Murphy watched from a rooftop as Alaric concluded his impassioned speech, asking Pepe, "What do you reckon about him as a clergyman?"
"What's a clergyman do?" Pepe inquired.
"They're a rung below a bishop, mostly chanting and leading people on."
"Well then, he's a perfect fit."
---
Inside Ralf's living room.
A servant lamented as if mourning a death, "Sir, we truly can't leave."
"Two guards, weapons in hand, stand right outside the door, and heaven knows how many lurk in the shadows."
Ralf slammed his cup to the floor, "That son of a gun, Alaric! He's really gone to the extremes, hasn't he?"
Yet Ralf wasn't the most frantic; two loyal merchants, neither of whom had drafted a complaint against Alaric, were in more of a stir.
Confined in Ralf's abode, what started as a strategy session had muddled into involuntary confinement.
One merchant, face etched with worry, paced tirelessly, while the other, short-tempered, snapped, "Stop pacing! Will you ever cease?"
The anxious merchant shot back, "Easy for you to say, you've no family to fret over! My wife and kids, I've no clue how they fare!"
"Bang!"
A palm slammed on the table, "Who are you calling family-less?" His threat to overturn the table loomed.
"Enough bickering! Either get home if you can, or sit tight if you can't!" Ralf commanded, silencing them like a mute spell.
Moments later, the restless merchant asked, "Mr. Ralf, is there any recourse now?"
Ralf shook his head, "It's tough. We had a chance if we stood united, but spineless every one of them. Now we can only pray Alaric can't muster enough goods to pacify the public. If we conserve resources, we might yet turn the tide."
The merchant protested, "Sir, I don’t get it. Are we to share territory with that Alaric?"
Ralf let out a bitter laugh, "Share? On what ground do we share with him? Brace for impact, be grateful if any of us keeps a single shop standing."
His words left a sour taste among those gathered.
The hot-headed merchant quenched his fury, sinking into helplessness, "I just don't get it. Based on the morning news, there was a huge purification this afternoon. How on earth does Alaric get to call the shots with the church folks?"
---
The Victory Goddess Church's reception room in the City of Gath hadn't entertained guests for over a decade, yet today it welcomed two patrons.
Seated across a modest, immaculate table were the venerable Bishop and Alaric.
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"Allow me to express my gratitude once more, Mr. Alaric. Your notable donation has showcased your impeccable character for all to witness," the Bishop said earnestly, hands clasped before him.
"It's nothing, Your Excellency. As a devout follower of the Goddess, contributing is part of expressing my faith," Alaric replied, sipping his tea.
Looking up with a smile, the Bishop shared, "The Goddess's scripture says we should act with victory in our hearts, never mind the external show or others' opinions."
Setting down his cup, Alaric responded, "Your Excellency, the scripture also says when no one else stands for victory, you must lead by example."
The Bishop chuckled softly, stroking his white beard, "You are truly devout, Mr. Alaric. The people have known peace for so long, their faith isn't as fervent as in times of war—apparent from the church's collection box."
"That's why we, sir, must lead by example," Alaric replied sincerely.
Both the afternoon ceremony and their meeting had been secured with a thousand gold coins.
The Church didn't usually fixate on money, and holy cities rarely demanded all of the faithful's donations.
However, with the peace treaty nearing expiration, the current Pope was consciously expanding the Holy Guard—a significant expense.
The crown wouldn't foot the bill in Heracles, a kingdom of church-state separation, where roles were strictly defined. Apart from the Pope personally seeking a loan, the treasury wouldn't bear the cost.
Moreover, the king was already expanding his personal guards and army in preparation for war. With the kingdom's finances stretched thin, even landlords were feeling the squeeze.
For this little-known reason, the Count Reed's church had gone five years without repairs, even missing a few stained-glass pieces. Hence, Alaric's donation earned him a rather warm reception.
As the Bishop and Alaric's conversation deepened, the time came for Alaric to bid goodbye.
A handshake later, a crease formed in the Bishop's brow.
"Mr. Alaric, why... why do I detect the aura of demons about you?"
Alaric's pulse skipped—he knew why. His recent company had either been demonkind or their close associates.
But as a seasoned businessman and a con man enriched through trickery, Alaric quickly devised a plan.
"Such worry, Your Excellency. You must've heard about the former guild president Joel's attempt on my life?"
"I've caught wind," the Bishop admitted, hinting at his preparedness for this meeting.
"In truth, 'hired assassins' is what we told the public. The actual attack was far more severe, downplayed to avoid panic. They called it a high-level adventurer's assault."
"You're saying, Mr. Alaric, that demons pursued you?" The Bishop's frown deepened.
"Exactly. In the ensuing chaos, it wasn't just the hired swords but skeletals relentless in their pursuit."
"I see. Sympathizers of demons are indeed worthy of death," the Bishop said, his amiable face hardening with anger.
"Please, take a seat, Mr. Alaric. I shall conduct a deep purification just for you," the Bishop gestured, gently easing Alaric back into his chair.
A warm glow filled the room, cleansing Alaric body and soul.
Minutes later, Alaric, feeling better than ever, opened his eyes.
"Thank you, Your Excellency," he said earnestly.
"It's quite alright. Let me show you out."
---
The final night before opening, goods from afar had reached the City of Gath, with carts lining up in Alaric's yard.
As for the store, skeletal builders were adding the final touch: installing shelves.
By dawn, the work was complete, and Murphy etched "City of Gath Emporium" onto a custom, pale plank.
Daybreak unveiled the store, fences and tarps removed, revealing a unified, tidy interior—a sight that made the neighboring shops pale in comparison. The only snag—its shelves were devoid of goods.
City of Gath gatekeepers were busy as caravans from neighboring regions streamed into the city, unchecked and unfettered upon showing Alaric's credential—no searches, no tolls.
The wagons proceeded to the Emporium in the West District, unloading goods, collecting their pay, and being directed to the best lodgings in working district or red-light area.
The influx of goods continued until noon. Except for the envoys turned away by the Western Duke, all accomplished their task, ensuring the store stocked ample merchandise.
Civilians, reassured by the rapidly filling store, quieted their doubts.
By midday, bolstered by Murphy's propaganda, the curious and serious alike flocked near the store to witness Alaric's grand opening.
At the stroke of afternoon, dapper Alaric emerged, declaring his new venture open and leading the throng into the shop—a dry sponge now sated by a ceaseless stream.
Considering the abysmally low literacy rate among commoners, Alaric had recruited a vast number of guides to assist the patrons.
Most folks were initially reluctant to accept this new shop style, but it was the only store in the City of Gath with a variety of goods still for sale.
After experiencing the convenience of variety, citizens began to relish the joy brought by this convenience and stellar service.
The merchants, still confined to their homes, grew frantic like overstuffed pigs on New Year’s Eve, caught off guard by Alaric's audacity. Their pledge amounts may have been fluffed, but the gold was real, and Alaric's move to seal them in had left them deaf and blind. The strike rolled on, yet these keen noses sniffed out a hint of disaster.
As the Emporium thrived, the three days vanished in a flash—at least for Alaric. For the cloistered merchants, it felt like three agonizing years.
At last, the sun rose on the day they'd been awaiting. Three days of isolation had passed without illness or death, prompting the guild to lift the quarantine.
The merchants, free at last, scrambled for updates, only to find Alaric's store was doing frighteningly well.
The anxious merchant bolted home to family.
The bewildered loner mused, "Mr. Ralf, it seems our plan didn’t quite pan out."
Confusion gripped Ralf. It made no sense—fixed customers wouldn’t abandon their merchants in just a few days. The notion hit him: substitution. Alaric's store was merely a stopgap; their old clientele would surely return once they reopened.
Yet, a freshly dispatched scout broke grim news on return.
This scout’s findings concerned product pricing.
"Sir, items in that store are much cheaper than ours. Considerably so."
Ralf's countenance collapsed—City of Gath, no paltry city, had its markets cornered by one or two merchants per product. Yet now, Alaric had snared all trades with prices barely above cost, slapping their faces hard with this show of force.
Ralf, eyes hollow, muttered, "It’s over, all over..."