In the dim basement, one man cursed venomously, "The hell's wrong with Alaric's head, letting that old dog get away?"
Another spoke up, "Doesn't matter now. The real question is, why the hell didn’t he snap up our stuff?"
Just then, a servant rushed in and whispered urgently into the man's ear.
"Damn it, Barry's entire stock's been bought out, and he's selling his house to get the hell out of town."
"What?" a few shocked murmurs emerged from the crowd, "How'd he pull that off?"
"That backstabber wrote a letter of surrender to Alaric," the man said.
Silence fell heavy in the basement.
In the deathly quiet, someone shouted, "Well, write, damn it! What are we waiting for?"
A sudden flurry of activity followed.
"Give me paper and ink, for crying out loud!"
"Hey, stop shoving, you twits!"
"Who nicked my inkpot? In a hurry to kick the bucket?"
"Hang on, me too! It’s more sincere if we send 'em all together, right?"
---
By evening, a neat stack of beautifully wrapped letters lay on Alaric's desk.
"...Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—plus the one from this morning makes sixteen. Then there were yesterday’s three makes seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Looks like everyone’s accounted for."
Alaric was sick to the back teeth of sycophantic words. After tallying up, he tossed the whole pile of letters into the fireplace to burn.
The next morning, a swarm of Alaric's men set off in over a dozen groups towards the remaining merchants' shops.
Most of the barking dogs chose to watch passively as their shops were gutted, while others, mentally frail, didn't show at all.
Like before, Alaric snapped up all the remaining goods but this time, he offered only eighty percent of the cost price for this last batch of merchants.
While they fumed inside at such lowball offers, considering all factors—especially the 'muscle' one—they had no choice but to chew it up and swallow their pride.
When facing Alaric's men, they plastered on smiles so forced they might as well have shouted that having their goods lowballed was the luck of several lifetimes.
Once the deals were done and the dust had settled, the merchants hired some civilian guards from the Adventurers' Guild for a safe trek out and decided to hit the road that very day.
The last of the merchants had packed their lifetimes into wagons, seemingly reminiscing and saying their disingenuous goodbyes outside the north gate. All the "remember when I loaned you money" and "you came to my son's christening," that is until one question popped the bubble of forced cheeriness:
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"Anyone got a solid idea where to head off to?" inquired a merchant, inconveniently.
The ongoing chatter dwindled to silence, and after a long pause, someone asked, "Anyone knows where Ralf and his lot are off to?"
A reply came: "My man saw them heading southwest."
"Southwest? That leads to White Wolf City if that little town can even call itself a city."
Laughter erupted as the merchants found a common punchline.
Once the laughter died down, a merchant named Jacob, who was in the building supplies game, spoke up, drawing everyone's quiet anticipation, "Look, Ralf's got one foot in the grave, heading southwest for a cushy retirement. But we? We're all young. Starting afresh with what we've got isn't pie in the sky. I've heard the capital's not only safer but also wealthier than here. How about we all head up north and give it a whirl?"
"A drop in the ocean—our money won't even make a splash in the capital,” countered another.
Jacob retorted, "Sure, if we all do our own thing, we won't get far, but hear me out. How about we join forces, pool our funds for ventures up north. Everyone throws in their two cents on decisions, and we share the profits fair and square. What do you say?"
"Who's gonna run the show if we all go into business together?" someone in the crowd questioned.
"We'll go democratic—open votes on every decision, your share of the say equals your share of the stake. Sounds good?"
After a brief hush, a frail voice chimed in, "I'm in!"
The crowd turned to see Rafael, who somehow managed to push open the wagon door, shakily raising his hand.
"Count me in!"
"I'm on board too!"
"..."
---
After nearly three days of hustle, City of Gath finally turned into a one-shop town. The sole survivor was none other than the Council Chairman's City of Gath Department Store. Which led to an insignificant little problem—the Council was deserted.
With most of the members driven out, the once-bustling Council chambers now echoed with emptiness, only Alaric and some small-time traders remained.
To avoid Alaric becoming a one-man band, Murphy had a bright idea—lower the bar.
There's usually a bar to cross to join the Council—if there wasn’t, any old street vendor could claim a seat.
But Murphy's plan for Alaric was to make every greengrocer and snack peddler fully-fledged members. This way, organizing the merchants became a breeze, making communication a lot more efficient, thereby tidying up City of Gath's commercial system. Secondly, it allowed the handling of business disputes, ticking off another box from Alaric’s inaugural promises.
The next day, the Council’s new announcements were plastered in vendor-dense zones.
Alaric paid a few literate folks to read aloud the notices over and over to the vendors.
By dusk, every hawker in City of Gath knew they could register their business with the Council and receive a wooden badge signifying their membership, using it to resolve disputes with the backing of the Council’s staff.
The news was a hit among the hawkers. After all, in the southern district, business was tough and profits slim, compounded by the unpredictability of gang shakedowns. They believed that with a Council badge, those 'protection fees' would shrink a little.
Several days of registrations later, Murphy and Alaric's plan was in full swing. City of Gath regained its old peace, and the show had truly come to an end.
---
300 leagues north of City of Gath, Jacob and his caravan, en route to the northern capital on the kingdom highway, heard the sounds of galloping horses drawing near.
The cadence of the hoofbeats was heavy but orderly. Jacob and Rafael exchanged looks, recognizing the disciplined march of armored cavalry.
Swiftly, they pulled their wagons aside. Contesting the road with the military could see their wagons crashed or even find themselves beheaded on the spot.
Moments later, a unit of some thirty horsemen approached rapidly. Jacob squinted into the distance and knew—big news was afoot. Half the troop wielded long spears, clad in black scale armor that rustled with their steeds' movements; the rest were broadsword-bearing knights draped in white cloaks.
Jacob's pupils shrank as the names of these elite forces spilled from his lips unbidden: The Black Guard, Protectors of Faith.
The distinct black and white cavalry slowed and came to a halt before the merchant train. The Black Guard's leader called out, "Sir Bernard of the Holy Knights, is there an issue with this caravan?"
The man in white armor, his voice clipped and deliberate, replied, "General Doyle, they carry with them the scent of demonkind..."