The grand hall of the inn, which had been a buzzing hive of panicked speculation, slowly settled as the high-ranking officer departed and the city-wide alarm was silenced. But the tension did not dissipate. It congealed, becoming a thick, heavy dread that hung in the frozen air. The Seventh Princess had played her hand, and the Third Prince's faction was reeling from a devastating, self-inflicted blow.
In the quiet of their private dining hall, Fat Pig looked at the soldier from the Prince's personal guard, his cheerful, merchant's expression now a mask of sober, calculating thought. "A private audience?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"His Highness insists, Vice Guild Master," the soldier replied, his own voice tight with a nervous urgency. "It is a matter of the utmost importance to the future of the empire."
Fat Pig exchanged a look with Li Yu. The message was clear. A prince on the verge of losing a war was a desperate, and therefore dangerous, animal. This was not a meeting to be taken lightly.
"Very well," Fat Pig said, his decision made. "We will attend His Highness. Lead the way."
As the soldier departed to make the arrangements, Li Yu turned to his companions. "Fat Pig, this meeting is your stage. You are the face of the Guild. But you will not go alone." He looked at Cyra, then sent a silent command into his sanctuary. The ancient, parchment-skinned human form of Spine materialized silently in the room. "Cyra, Spine. You will accompany him. Your role is protection. Do not act unless directly threatened, but if a threat appears, eliminate it."
"As you command, Master," Cyra said with a graceful bow. Spine simply offered a slow, silent nod, his presence an unshakeable mountain of quiet power.
"Wise Host, you are not coming?" Fat Pig asked, a flicker of his nervousness showing through.
"No," Li Yu replied, his expression calm. "My presence would complicate things. This is a negotiation between a Prince and a Guild Master. That is the role we must play. My role, for now, is to be a simple tourist." He offered a reassuring smile. "Do not worry. Kui has taught you well. You know what to do."
With his orders given, the group prepared for their respective roles. A short while later, Fat Pig, flanked by the elegant, serene Cyra and the ancient, unnerving Spine, was led from the guesthouse. They did not enter a grand carriage, but were guided on foot through a series of winding, unmarked alleyways to a discreet exit on the city's northern side. There, a simple, unmarked beast-drawn carriage awaited them. The journey took them several miles out of the city, deep into the stark, frozen wilderness of the surrounding mountains.
Their destination was a remote, wind-swept pavilion, built on the edge of a lonely, frozen cliff that overlooked a vast, snow-covered forest. It was a place of stark, isolated beauty, and a perfect location for a secret meeting where no one could be overheard.
Li Yu, meanwhile, spent the next few hours simply wandering. He left the grand avenues and the opulent merchant districts and made his way to the heart of the city: the military barracks, the training grounds, the forges. Here, the true spirit of Frostgate City was on full display. He saw the grim, exhausted faces of the soldiers, their morale clearly low from all the fighting. He saw the frantic, desperate work of the blacksmiths, their cold-forges working day and night to repair damaged armor and forge new weapons, a city desperately trying to patch the holes in a sinking ship.
He saw the tension between the imperial soldiers and the cultivators from the allied sects. The soldiers, proud and disciplined, looked with contempt upon the more chaotic, individualistic sect warriors. The sect warriors, in turn, sneered at the soldiers' rigid formations, their pride stung by the losses their own leaders had suffered. It was an army that was not just losing a war, but was beginning to tear itself apart from the inside. He was not just a tourist; he was a doctor, observing the symptoms of a dying patient.
Meanwhile, in the secret mountain pavilion, Fat Pig and his two silent guardians were brought before the Third Prince.
The pavilion was not an opulent hall, but a stark, military war room, its walls covered in maps and strategic markers. The Third Prince stood before a great, sand-filled table, his handsome face a mask of pale, desperate fury.
He was no longer the arrogant, confident ruler of a mighty legion; he was a cornered beast. Beside him stood his chief advisor, the old, scholarly Jian, his face a grim, weary mask. And on his other side stood General Kaelen, the 6th-level Core Formation expert, his hulking frame a volcano of barely contained rage and humiliation.
"Vice Guild Master Zhu," the Third Prince began, his voice tight, forgoing all pleasantries. "I will be direct. I am losing this war. My sister, with the backing of that old dog, the Imperial Guardian, has seized the momentum. My forces are in disarray."
He looked at Fat Pig, his eyes burning with a desperate, feverish light. "But it is not over. I still have the loyalty of the main imperial legions. I still have the resources of the eastern territories. All I lack is a single, decisive force to shatter their front lines. A power that can match the Imperial Guardian himself." His gaze was now sharp, pleading. "Your Guild has such a power."
He took a step forward, his hands spread wide in a gesture of absolute, desperate offering. "Join me. Swear your allegiance to my cause. Help me crush my sister and that traitorous old guardian. And when I sit on the Frost-Throne, the Golden Shell Guild will have wealth and power beyond your wildest dreams.
I will make you the sole, exclusive merchant house of the entire empire. You will control all trade, all resources. I will grant you titles, territories, whatever you desire. I will give you everything."
It was the offer of a lifetime, a prize that would have made any other merchant in the world weep with avarice.
Fat Pig, however, simply maintained his calm, cheerful smile. He had been tempted by a similar, though lesser, offer from the Princess's envoy, and he had learned his lesson well. He bowed deeply, his expression one of profound, regretful sympathy.
"Your Highness is too generous," he said, his voice a perfect blend of respect and unwavering resolve. "The Golden Shell Guild is deeply moved by your trust and your magnificent offer. But, as I explained to your esteemed steward, and to the envoy of the Seventh Princess, we are merchants, not warriors. Our only allegiance is to profit, and to the stability that allows that profit to flow."
He shook his head sadly. "To take sides in a war of succession would be to betray the very foundation upon which our Guild is built: absolute neutrality. We cannot accept your offer. However," he added, his smile brightening, "we would be more than happy to continue our business arrangement, to sell your forces the vital supplies they need to continue their… noble efforts."
He had not just refused the Prince; he had tried to sell him something.
The sheer, mercantile audacity of it was the final straw.
For General Kaelen, who had been standing silently, his entire body a knot of furious, humiliated rage, this was too much. He had been forced to stand by as his Prince was humiliated by a backwater sect. He had been forced to watch as their allies were picked off one by one. And now, this fat, smiling merchant was refusing a gift from the gods and then trying to haggle with them.
"You insolent pig!" he roared, his control finally shattering. "You think you can mock us?!"
"General, no!" the advisor, Jian, cried out, his face a mask of pure, horrified panic.
But it was too late. Kaelen, in a blind rage, unleashed his attack. He did not draw his weapon. He simply threw a punch, a blow infused with the full, terrifying power of a 6th-level Core Formation expert, aimed to turn Fat Pig's smiling face into a red mist.
He was a mighty warrior, a general of an empire. But he was attacking in a room that contained two beings whose power was as far beyond his own.
The attack never landed.
Spine, who had been a silent, frail-looking old man, moved. He did not use a complex technique. He simply met force with greater force. He raised a single, withered hand, his movements slow and deliberate, and met the General's furious, world-shaking punch with his open palm.
The collision was a dull, sickening THUD. There was no shockwave, no explosion of energy. Kaelen's furious, charging form was stopped dead, as if he had punched a mountain made of unyielding, absolute reality. A look of pure, uncomprehending shock appeared on his face as he felt the force of his own blow, magnified, surge back up his arm. A series of sickening cracks echoed in the silent pavilion as every bone in his arm, from his knuckles to his shoulder, shattered into a thousand pieces. He was sent stumbling backward, his arm a mangled, useless ruin, his spiritual energy thrown into chaos.
At the exact same instant, Cyra acted. From her side, a single, shimmering, translucent tentacle of pure, silvery light, a phantom limb of her true form, lashed out with the speed of a thought. It was not a brutish attack, but a precise, surgical strike. It wrapped around Kaelen's other arm, and with a single, sharp, whip-like crack, it severed the limb cleanly at the shoulder.
The arm, still encased in its masterwork armor, fell to the floor with a heavy, metallic clang.
General Kaelen stared at his own, severed arm lying on the floor, then at the shattered, useless ruin of his other, and a single, agonized, disbelieving scream tore from his throat.
The advisor, Jian, could only stare, his face as white as a sheet, his mind a complete blank.
Fat Pig, however, was no longer smiling. His face, which had been a mask of cheerful commerce, was now a thunderous visage of pure, tyrannical fury. He, the Vice Guild Master of the Golden Shell Guild, had been attacked during a peaceful negotiation. The insult was absolute.
"How dare you attack me!" he roared, his voice a guttural snarl that was a terrifying echo of his Bandit King days. He charged forward, not waiting for orders, his own 1st-level Core Formation aura exploding outwards.
General Kaelen, his mind reeling from pain and shock, his body crippled, his spirit in chaos, looked up just in time to see the portly merchant's fist, now swollen with a thick, earthy-yellow demonic energy, slam into his leg.
There was a sickening crunch of bone and armor, and the General's remaining leg was shattered, his body collapsing to the floor in a broken, screaming heap. He would not have lost to Fat Pig in a fair fight, not in a hundred years. But he had been struck first by a 7th-level and an 8th-level sovereign. He was no longer a mighty general; he was just a broken man.
"ENOUGH!" the advisor, Jian, finally found his voice, a shriek of pure, unadulterated panic. He rushed forward, placing himself between the enraged Fat Pig and the crippled general, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.
"A thousand apologies, Vice Guild Master! A million apologies!" he cried, his voice trembling. "The General was overwrought! He was not in his right mind! Please, for the sake of the partnership between us, spare his miserable life!"
Fat Pig stood over his vanquished foe, his chest heaving, his face still a mask of cold, murderous rage. He was about to deliver the final, killing blow.
It was Cyra's calm, melodic voice that stopped him. "He is finished, Vice Guild Master," she said, placing a gentle, cool hand on his shoulder. The touch was like a splash of clear, cold water on a raging fire. "Look at him. He is a cripple. His cultivation is in chaos, his body is broken. He is no longer a threat. To kill him now would be… inefficient."
Fat Pig looked down at the whimpering, broken general, then at the terrified, pleading advisor, and finally at the serene, calm face of Cyra. His rage slowly subsided, replaced by the cold, calculating mind of a merchant. She was right. The general was as good as dead. But a living, crippled enemy general was a far greater insult to him than him dying.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and straightened his robes, his cheerful, merchant's smile slowly, chillingly, returning to his face.
"You are right, Lady Cyra. A most astute observation." He looked down at the terrified advisor. "Very well. We will spare his life. But this… this attack has caused my organization profound spiritual and emotional damages. The price for this insult will be… steep."
The Prince, who had been a frozen statue of shock throughout the entire, horrifying exchange, could only nod his head in a dazed, numb agreement. His gamble had failed in the most catastrophic way imaginable. He had not just failed to gain a new ally; his forces had once again offended the terrifyingly powerful, and deeply vindictive enemy. He would have been enraged before but now that his forces were all but eliminated he knew he couldn't win the throne anymore.