The next day, the squad from Blackstaff Tower, along with the mercenaries they had contracted, arrived at the headquarters of the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers, almost back-to-back. The Blackstaff troops were few in number, well-organized, well-equipped, disciplined, and even brought their own rations—no need for anyone to feed them.
The mercenary mob, by contrast, arrived in a surging horde of hobgoblins, goblins, orcs, and more—a mixed bunch, discipline all over the place, gear thrown together from who-knows-where, and a few ogres in the mix with appetites as big as their problems. Every one of them looked like trouble on legs.
Yet, despite this dramatic contrast, the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers treated the two parties in completely opposite ways: the small, elite, well-disciplined Blackstaff Tower team was met with indifference or even cold shoulders, while the unruly mercenary mob was welcomed with open arms—honored and hosted like family.
Charles noticed all these differences. He couldn't help but sigh inwardly: the tension between these groups couldn't be fixed by a single covenant. The Mountain Purifiers still saw their fellow mountain folk as their own, but remained resistant to the people of Liberl Port.
Breaking down those walls would take years of deeper cooperation, not just some alliance on paper.
For now?
He'd settle for uneasy cooperation. The real problems could wait until after the demons were dealt with.
All Charles really wanted was to get through this stretch without more friction.
What worried him most right now was the question: Where was Montport's army? How much time remained before they attacked the Mountain Purifiers' headquarters?
Trouble, unfortunately, never cares about your plans.
On the second day after the hobgoblin mercenaries arrived, even though much of the snow from the previous days hadn't melted yet, the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers, the mercenary group, Blackstaff Tower, and Charles's own company—four different factions—rushed into a joint training exercise.
With enemies ready to attack at any moment, they didn't have much time to learn to work together.
It was during this drill that Charles finally found some confidence in Krammer, the hobgoblin warlord. Turned out, the guy had an extradimensional bag packed with a few ballistae and catapults.
With gear like that, even a mob could get some work done on the battlefield.
When training broke up, Charles headed back to his tent to study maps. He hadn't even settled in before commotion erupted outside—a woman shouting, loud and angry.
He rushed out, just in time to see, in a nearby clearing, one of the storm nuns—her plate armor off, dressed in a stark black robe striped with simple blue dragon lines—standing over a goblin she'd just flattened, one foot grinding his face into the dirt.
She was shouting at the goblin for being suicidal.
The goblin's twisted face looked torn between agony and… maybe enjoyment?
People gathered quickly, forming a big crowd. Charles knew all too well the temperament of goblins and could already guess what happened.
Steeling his face, he pushed through the crowd and stood tall in the center. "What's going on? Winnie, why are you beating up one of our allies?"
The storm nun looked up, furious. "This creep can't keep his hands to himself—he'll grab anything! By our rules, that gets his whole hand chopped off!"
Of course.
Charles understood instantly, but didn't jump to an answer. He glanced around—there were plenty of witnesses who hadn't gone far after training. Torun, Luger, Danche, and leaders from the hobgoblin mercenaries were all heading over.
Krammer, the red-skinned, black-haired hobgoblin, was nowhere in sight—probably completely used to incidents like this and happy to keep his head down.
This time, an elderly goblin with a long white beard squeezed through, eyes wide in alarm. He quickly tried to mediate. "Oh, it's just a misunderstanding! Doro is a good boy—he never steals! He's just clumsy, that's all."
The storm nun's eyebrow arched. "You call grabbing my ass 'clumsy'? Was it just an accident his hand ended up there?"
The old goblin chuckled apologetically. "He's just a kid, can't we let it go this once?"
The storm nun said nothing more, just turned to look at Charles. Charles, in turn, nodded at Torun and the others. "Torun, brothers, I don't know the ways of the mountain folk. What's your take—what's the punishment for theft or harassing women when you're caught red-handed?"
Danche spoke up. "Normally, the woman decides—so long as you don't kill him, anything goes."
Charles turned to the storm nun, who flashed a vicious smile. "Then I'll just cut him—turn him into a eunuch, see how brave he acts next time!"
The old goblin went gray. "No, please, that's too much! He didn't actually steal anything, just copped a feel—he didn't hurt you…"
The storm nun bared her teeth. "Fine, then I'll take his hand—keep it as a talisman!"
They argued back and forth, while Charles weighed the situation. Technically, these goblins were Blackstaff Tower's responsibility, but it was clear they saw the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers as true kin. The Purifiers felt likewise.
Rather than get the Blackstaff Tower contacts involved and make things awkward, better to push this decision onto the locals…
With that, Charles turned to Torun. "What do you think, brother?"
Let's see—does a goblin's fate matter more, or does keeping faith with the dwarves?
Torun knew he had to take a stand.
"Take his pinky," he said. "That'll mark him forever—let everyone know he got caught stealing and lost a finger for it."
He drew a scimitar from his hip and offered it to the storm nun. "You do the honors."
The storm nun grinned, took the blade, and in the terrified goblin's eyes, chopped off his little finger.
That was the end of it.
The old goblin led the wounded thief away for bandaging. Winnie, the storm nun, satisfied, marched back to her own camp.
The gawkers drifted off. Charles was about to go back to work on his maps when Torun called for him: "Charles, hang on a second."
Charles stopped, puzzled, and waited for Torun to approach.
Torun looked uncertain. "Brother, just wondering—were you satisfied with what happened today?"
Charles beamed. "Of course. The punishment wasn't too harsh, but it gets the message across and keeps my nuns happy."
Cutting off a pinky counts as a minor injury, not a major one—it wouldn't cripple the goblin for life.
But it did leave him marked for good—unless he somehow redeems himself, he'll be living with that shame forever.
Charles and the storm nun were both satisfied.
Hearing this, Torun breathed a sigh of relief. Then, in a slightly fawning tone, he ventured, "So… mind doing me a small favor? You saw at today's drill, our tribe's got plenty of warriors, but none of them have quality steel weapons…"
What he wanted was help making a deal with the dwarves—using Charles's connections to buy steel weapons for the minotaurs.
Charles couldn't help but laugh inwardly. Clearly, making friends paid off—Torun really saw him as an ally now, trusting him to mediate with the dwarves.
They say a fox borrows a tiger's might—guess I'm the fox using dwarven clout.
Still, Charles thought, better to send Torun himself to meet a dwarven friend, let him explain in person…
But for now, he clapped his chest, happy to promise: "No problem, I'll get in touch—I'll put in the order for a few hundred steel greataxes right away!"
Torun's face lit up. "Then thanks, Charles!"
...
After chatting with Torun, Charles went back to his tent and hadn't even looked at his maps for two minutes before the door flap burst open and Anno stormed in.
"Charles!" she cried urgently. "Bad news—Montport's main force has been heading our way for days!"
His expression changed in an instant. "Go notify Matriarch Willo right now—we need a war council, fast!"
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