CHAPTER 73: CHAPTER 73

Bravus, still slightly drunk, didn’t realize that a group of people was speaking to him. He remained fixated on the direction Clayton had gone, as if lost in deep thought.

Smack!

A sharp slap echoed through the air.

Bravus stumbled and fell, stunned by the sudden strike. His face flushed, eyes dazed, he glared up at the group of tough-looking men in front of him with the fiercest expression he could muster.

But his scowl only made them angrier.

"What the hell’s that look?! Got a problem?! Want me to gouge your eyes out?!"

Smack!

Another slap landed on his face. This time, the shock sobered him up enough to recognize who stood before him.

The alcohol had dulled his senses—he could only recognize people whose faces were burned into his memory, like Clayton. Now, with his vision clearing, he saw their smug expressions and immediately understood the situation.

Bravus wanted to fight back. Every part of him screamed for it. But he was alone, and they weren’t. He quickly swapped his glare for the sycophantic grin he wore whenever he was in trouble.

"Heh... Brother Jones! What a surprise! What an honor it is to chat with me today!"

"Chat, my ass!" Jones barked, grabbing him by the collar. "I’m here to ask when the hell you’re paying me back!"

Bravus tensed—scared, but also irritated. Still, he forced a smile and spoke in a soft, oily tone.

"Come on, Brother Jones... it’s not that I won’t pay, but times are tough. You saw what happened—locusts everywhere. I’m barely scraping together enough for the wheat tax. If not for the swarm, I’d have paid you already."

He continued, grinning slyly, "How about this? Lend me a bit more, and I promise I’ll pay it all back next year. You know I’ve got syndicate backing, right?"

Jones stared at him coldly. He knew Bravus was in trouble, but he couldn’t afford to let this drag on. His own crew had suffered heavy losses from the locust outbreak—they needed cash, now.

"No chance. More loans? You haven’t even paid the last one! I want my money—today."

Bravus scoffed internally, but kept up the charm. He understood mob psychology well enough—he’d spent more time networking than farming or hunting lately.

Truth was, Bravus was at the brink. Failed hunts, neglected fields, and a hedonistic lifestyle had all caught up to him. The only thing keeping him from panicking completely... was his magic perfume. Or rather, his belief that it made him still worth something.

But this time, he was cornered. No way out.

As he scrambled for a solution—

Smack!

Another blow struck his face.

"What, cat got your tongue? You playing dumb now?!" Jones shouted.

Bravus clenched his fists, rage bubbling beneath the surface. But he swallowed it down. For now.

"N-no, Brother Jones, I just—"

"Just what?! Don’t even bother with the excuses!" Jones snapped.

Bravus was reaching his breaking point. Then suddenly, a spark of inspiration hit him.

"I really can’t pay you right now... but I do know how you can make a lot of money. Fast."

Jones raised an eyebrow, skeptical. But he was desperate enough to listen.

"Alright. Talk. But if you’re lying, you’re dead."

Bravus grinned eagerly. "No worries, Brother. Here’s the deal... I’ve got this neighbor. Everyone calls him the best farmer in the district. His wheat harvest was massive—especially with a season this rough..."

As Bravus went on, his excitement grew. But Jones cut him off.

"Skip to the damn point!"

Bravus leaned in and smirked.

"The point is... he’s loaded. So why not rob him?"

Jones blinked. "You’re suggesting we rob someone?"

"Not suggesting," Bravus replied with a chuckle. "You are. I’m just pointing out a golden opportunity. He’s just a farmer. No noble ties. No guards. But probably sitting on a mountain of grain and coin."

Jones stared at him, stunned that Bravus would suggest something like that so openly.

To be fair, Jones had considered robbing people before. But they usually avoided the rich—too dangerous—and the poor—too pointless. But someone rich and unprotected? That was a fat lamb.

Now he was interested. He glanced around, then grabbed Bravus and pulled him into a nearby alley.

"Alright. Spill the details."

Bravus grinned wider as he outlined his plan, eyes gleaming.

...

Meanwhile

Clayton continued strolling toward the tax payment center, completely unaware that a new threat was taking shape behind him.

When he arrived, the atmosphere was heavy. People were crying, complaining, and seething with frustration. Apparently, the tax rates hadn’t changed from last year—despite the much harsher conditions due to the locust plague.

Clayton felt a pang of sympathy, but there wasn’t much he could do. Even with his excellent harvest, it was hard to feel celebratory in this mood.

After a long wait, it was finally his turn. He pulled out 21 sacks of wheat from his spatial bag. The tax officer inspected them with little interest.

Everything was going smoothly—until another staff member approached and whispered something in the officer’s ear, glancing at Clayton repeatedly.

Clayton narrowed his eyes.

As expected, the tax officer returned with a sterner expression and gave the sacks another once-over.

"I’m sorry, sir, but it appears you’ll need to pay extra. The quality of your wheat is below average."

Clayton was stunned.

He’d expected they might try to pull something shady—but not this. His wheat was some of the best in the region, thanks to his cultivation system, hard work, and assistance from the skeletons.

"Excuse me? That must be a mistake. My wheat is far above average. I guarantee you won’t find better quality anywhere nearby."

Whispers broke out among the farmers waiting in line. Some even peered into the sacks themselves—only to confirm Clayton’s claim. The wheat was excellent.

The officer, irritated at being challenged, raised his voice.

"Sir, if I say it’s low-quality, then it’s low-quality! If you don’t accept that, then I won’t accept your tax!"

Clayton’s gaze turned cold.

"Oh, so this is how Sunlight City’s tax office works now? Making up reasons to extort citizens? Did you forget your job is to serve the people?"

He turned to the crowd.

"Everyone, today I’m the target. Tomorrow, it could be you. If we keep quiet, they’ll keep bleeding us dry!"

The crowd stirred. Many of the farmers felt Clayton’s words hit home. Murmurs turned into grumbles. People began gathering closer, ready to speak up.

The tax officer started to panic. This could turn into a riot.

Just as the tension reached its breaking point—

A calm but authoritative voice cut through the noise:

"What’s going on here?"

And the crowd fell instantly silent.