CHAPTER 25: RECRUITING

The bartender, stepping over the bodies of thugs sprawled across his tavern floor, made his way to the unconscious form of Twicher, who lay slumped across a table. Taking a bowl of water, he overturned it onto the man’s face.

Twicher shot up with a gasp, choking as though he had been drowning. Blinking rapidly, he looked around—the broken bodies of his comrades, the ruin of the tavern—and then his eyes locked onto Aric, seated calmly in a chair by the bar. His gaze shifted again, landing on Borag, who was drinking leisurely, a pint of beer in hand.

"Good. You’re awake," Aric said evenly. "I do apologize for knocking you out. It was important you didn’t intervene."

Twicher’s confusion lingered, but Aric knew it was necessary. Twicher was nothing like the others. If Aric had given him the chance to fight, the situation might have become far more troublesome.

The men Aric had felled so easily were not martial artists. Becoming a cultivator was no common feat; fewer than twenty percent of the world’s population were even born with the ability to harness ki. Those who did were guaranteed a place in the imperial army, and with strength, they could rise swiftly, gaining wealth and fame beyond imagination.

That was why true martial artists had little reason to waste their lives as petty thieves. Most thugs were simply ordinary men. But Borag and Twicher were not ordinary. They were exceptions.

When Aric had first crossed paths with them in his last life, both were already Martial Knights. Yet, despite all that their talent could have afforded them, they had chosen the life of brigands and cutthroats, leading bands of criminals. Why they chose that path, Aric neither knew nor cared. Their reasons were irrelevant. What mattered to him was their usefulness.

"Now, Mr....?" Borag dragged the word out, waiting for Aric to finish it.

"V," the fourth prince replied, withholding his true name.

"Mr. V." Borag leaned forward slightly, his tone curious. "Please, then, do tell us what business you have with us. You’ve certainly piqued my interest."

This red-haired man did not carry himself like a bandit. His mannerisms, his way of speaking—all suggested something more dangerous. Aric recognized that immediately.

"I already told the others," Aric said, glancing at the groaning men on the floor, none of whom were in any state to rise. "But I doubt they’ll be able to pass on my message anytime soon."

He straightened, his voice firm with command. "I plan to take leadership of your... organization. From now on, you and your men answer to me."

Borag chuckled softly. "And why would we do something like that? Oh—" he gestured toward the unconscious thugs, "to avoid ending up like them?"

"No." Aric shook his head. "You’ll do it because it’s worth far more than your petty thefts."

From thin air, he produced two heavy pouches, prepared in advance and drawn from his inventory. He tossed one to Borag, the other to Twicher.

"Thirty thousand gold... each."

The pouches hit their palms with a satisfying weight. "More than you’ve ever made stealing. Consider it a welcome incentive. Complete my orders, and you’ll earn even more."

For a long moment, silence hung in the tavern.

Then both men broke into laughter. They glanced at each other, then back at Aric.

"Oh, sire," Twicher said, loosening the pouch and peeking inside. The gleam of coins nearly blinded him. "If you wanted these fools disciplined, you need only have asked me. I’d have done it for you."

"Just give us a name," Borag added with a booming laugh. "Whoever it is, they’ll be dead in two hours."

Aric sighed, rising from his chair. With a nod, he gestured to Lerai, who tossed him a rune stone he had crafted himself. Aric caught it, then threw it lightly toward Borag.

"Keep this with you. I’ll be in touch soon."

He knew full well that gold never bought loyalty. It only borrowed it. But fear—fear endured.

With measured steps, his boots tracking blood across the floorboards, Aric walked toward the exit. He paused at the door, turning back one last time.

"These men will wake afraid," he said quietly, his words cutting through the air. "Afraid of the consequences of defying me. Today, they learned a fear greater than the respect they had for you. I don’t need to offer them anything else. But I will allow you to lead them—by my name."

His eyes narrowed on Borag and Twicher before he finally turned away. He left a few coins on the counter for the shaken bartender, then stepped into the night.

For Borag and Twicher, the gold was reason enough to obey. But the memory of what Aric had done—the fear of sharing their men’s fate—was the reason they would never dare betray him.

Unlike gold, fear never forgets. And in that tavern, Aric had carved it into every soul present.