Chapter Eleven: How Many Silver Coins

When Carlos made Charles promise to send someone with a note before leaving, so he could bid him farewell, he declared the end of their brief midday fishing gathering.

As for their catch—

Due to the swift current beneath the Wooden Bear Bridge and the cunning fish in the freshwater river, among other interfering factors... Well, in short, the results were poor.

After Malt and Koman departed, only Carlos and Grant remained on the riverbank.

Carlos idly waited a while longer, hoping a fish might still bite. With the failure of their wild fishing, the anticipated grilled fish feast was no longer an option.

When Carlos’s stomach rumbled in protest, he lost the desire to torment his insides any further, stood up, stretched lazily, called out to the wary Uncle Grant at his side, and with little enthusiasm, headed home.

Since they were on the riverbank near the town market, the way home required first climbing a winding dirt slope behind them, then looping back to the Wooden Bear Bridge and crossing it.

But the man who had been lingering on the bridge had no intention of leaving.

It seemed he was waiting for Carlos. Knowing that such people were like dogskin plasters—once stuck, impossible to shake off—he wondered if he should have been more cautious before, or chosen a different way to solve the problem.

Carlos walked on, hesitating as he thought.

But when he raised his head again, the figure at the bridge became clearer, and he was startled, suddenly enlightened, his gaze growing resolute.

Alchemy was his pursuit—having chosen this path, there was no turning back. Since there was no retreat, why trouble himself with doubts?

Once he understood, all hesitation vanished.

A relaxed confidence returned to Carlos’s pale, well-defined features.

"Uncle, let’s go meet Anderson. If he’s sensible, fine. But if he tries anything..."

"Shall we kill him?" Grant asked, eyes wide.

"Can you?" Carlos replied, staring.

Grant pondered a moment, shook his head, then raised a thick brow and slowly drew a triangular blade from his sleeve, chuckling. "Doesn’t seem likely. But since young master takes an interest in him, keeping him alive shouldn’t be a problem."

It was hard to imagine that this honest-looking old man had once been a professional assassin for the Central Administrative Province’s Thieves’ Guild.

Carlos, carrying his fishing gear, continued ahead. Climbing upward, he happened to glance sideways and saw the gleaming triangular blade in Grant’s sleeve.

He suddenly recalled a matter he’d always been curious about, yet had forgotten.

A spark shot through his mind; he stopped and asked, puzzled, "Mother’s letter mentioned you once assassinated a black magician?"

Grant spread his hands. "That’s true."

"Was it difficult?"

Grant was clearly taken aback, then grumbled in a low voice—it was manageable.

He seemed unwilling to elaborate.

"Oh, but Uncle, why do you prefer cold weapons? Is the explosive shotgun not as powerful as your dagger?"

Grant shook his head. "Shotguns are good for clumsy, thick-skinned mutated beasts. Killing people is a swordsman’s specialty. Those bounty hunters, for all their firepower, are just moving targets when they meet a swordsman in the wild."

Carlos nodded thoughtfully.

Indeed, aside from their power, firearms seemed plagued with drawbacks—take the bounty hunters’ beloved explosive shotguns: even the most experienced hunters in the wild needed ten breaths to reload after a missed shot.

Such a fatal weakness made them of limited use in tight, fierce combat.

Still, for those untrained in martial arts, firearms remained the best choice, compensating for their lack of strength.

Even if only briefly, it could be deadly.

Carlos finally reached the top of the slope, standing on loose soil. Before him lay the bridgehead of the Wooden Bear Bridge—his old handiwork. The wooden bear still stood atop the bridge post, now weathered by wind and rain, rotting slightly. Through the gaps in the railings—

Carlos saw the increasingly distinct shadow and asked, "Are there formidable figures among the Black Hats?"

Grant stepped forward, eyeing the figure on the bridge and curling his lip.

"There are. The one before us is a tricky fellow."

Carlos murmured an acknowledgment and said no more, burying his head and moving forward.

A twelve-year-old youth, followed by an even more taciturn old servant, both silent, walked slowly ahead, yet radiated an unseen authority.

Carlos’s refined, handsome face, though lacking much flesh, was neatly composed; beneath a straight nose, his dark eyes were deep and intense.

The anticipated meeting arrived swiftly.

Carlos was blunt.

"How many silver coins will make you step aside?"

Black Hat Anderson wore a black suit faded from countless washes. A black cat perched on his shoulder; he looked gaunt, yet the cat’s wide eyes gleamed with sharpness and vigilance.

Anderson’s face was ordinary, covered in stubble. At Carlos’s excessively straightforward words, he froze, scratched his ear, and asked in confusion, "Silver coins?"

Carlos looked up calmly. "No need to investigate. The matter at Wooden Bear Bridge—how many silver coins will settle it?"

Anderson was livid. If it weren’t for Grant poised behind the boy, he’d have grabbed Carlos by the collar and slapped him hard.

"You think I need your paltry silver?"

Carlos sensed the man’s threatening expression and, for a moment, felt uneasy. But he had half expected it, so steadied himself quickly. Not yet fully grown, Carlos was a head shorter than Anderson, but his proud face was like that of a victorious general inspecting prisoners.

"You do. It’s been ages since you bought new clothes; your cat is starving to bones."

Carlos slowly approached Anderson, moving cautiously between him and the cat.

Being scrutinized by a child—the humiliation was unbearable for Anderson.

"I won’t betray my principles for silver," Anderson said coldly, clearly on the verge of exploding.

But what happened next was so abrupt that it left the seasoned Sword Pavilion follower incredulous. The noble youth circled behind him and, while Anderson was confused, suddenly bolted, swinging his arms and legs in a dash.

Carlos ran off quickly, shouting back, "Uncle, stall this bastard—I’m going for reinforcements!"

For a moment, Anderson’s face was a spectacle, staring dumbfounded at the vanishing boy, unable to utter a word.

Grant, the coachman, was unfazed, shrugged, and said earnestly to the humiliated Anderson, "Maybe you should have asked for more silver. Young master has quite a stash!"

Anderson turned, astonished, staring at Grant’s serious face. "You’re really going to block me here?"

Grant nodded.

"I’m a three-star swordsman; you’re a Sword Pavilion follower. We’re evenly matched."

Anderson felt that the oddities encountered today surpassed those of all previous years—a young noble with no sense of propriety, fleeing brazenly, and a reckless servant claiming to be a three-star swordsman, knowing full well Anderson’s status, yet daring to boast.

Madness.

Anderson realized that following the customs of Cyprus City in this rural backwater was truly unwise.